"Well, I think I know a gentleman when I see one."

Mr. Denman was not to be appeased.

"Well, let me tell you, young man, it would have been a mighty unhealthy thing for you to have cut up any such shine in this office. I have done some Rugby in my day, my boy, if you know what that means."

"I have done a little, too," said Cameron, with slightly heightened colour.

"You have, eh! Where?"

"The Scottish International, Sir."

"By Jove! You don't tell me!" replied Mr. Denman, his tone expressing a new admiration and respect. "When? This year?"

"No, last year, Sir--against Wales!"

"By Jove!" cried Mr. Denman again; "give me your hand, boy! Any man who has made the Scottish Internationals is not called to stand any cheek from a cad like Bates."

Mr. Denman shook Cameron warmly by the hand.

"Tell us about it!" he cried. "It must have been rare sport. If Bates only knew it, he ought to count it an honour to have been knocked down by a Scottish International."

"I didn't knock him down, Sir!" said Cameron, apologetically; "he is only a little chap; I just gave him a bit of a shake," and Cameron proceeded to recount the proceedings of the previous morning.

Mr. Denman was hugely delighted.

"Serves the little beast b.l.o.o.d.y well right!" he cried enthusiastically.

"But what's to do now? They will be afraid to let you into their offices in this city."

"I think, Sir, I am done with offices; I mean to try the land."

"Farm, eh?" mused Mr. Denman. "Well, so be it! It will probably be safer for you there--possibly for some others as well."

CHAPTER II

A MAN'S JOB

Cameron slept heavily and long into the day, but as he awoke he was conscious of a delightful exhilaration possessing him. For the first time in his life he was a free man, ungoverned and unguided. For four dreary weeks he had waited in Montreal for answers to his enquiries concerning positions with farmers, but apparently the Canadian farmers were not attracted by the qualifications and experience Cameron had to offer. At length he had accepted the advice of Martin's uncle in Montreal, who a.s.sured him with local pride that, if he desired a position on a farm, the district of which the little city of London was the centre was the very garden of Canada. He was glad now to remember that he had declined a letter of introduction. He was now entirely on his own. Neither in this city nor in the country round about was there a soul with whom he had the remotest acquaintance. The ways of life led out from his feet, all untried, all unknown. Which he should choose he knew not, but with a thrill of exultation he thanked his stars the choosing was his own concern. A feeling of adventure was upon him, a new courage was rising in his heart. The failure that had hitherto dogged his past essays in life did not dampen his confidence, for they had been made under other auspices than his own. He had not fitted into his former positions, but they had not been of his own choosing. He would now find a place for himself and if he failed again he was prepared to accept the responsibility. One bit of philosophy he carried with him from Mr. Denman's farewell interview--"Now, young man, rememer," that gentleman had said after he had bidden him farewell, "this world is pretty much made already; success consists in adjustment. Don't try to make your world, adjust yourself to it. Don't fight the world, serve it till you master it." Cameron determined he would study adjustments; his fighting tendency, which had brought him little success in the past, he would control.

At this point the throb of a band broke in upon his meditations and summoned him from his bed. He sprang to the window. It was circus day and the morning parade, in all its mingled and cosmopolitan glory, was slowly evolving its animated length to the strains of bands of music.

There were bands on horses and bands on chariots, and at the tail of the procession a fearful and wonderful instrument bearing the euphonious and cla.s.sic name of the "calliope," whose chief function seemed to be that of terrifying the farmers' horses into frantic and determined attempts to escape from these horrid alarms of the city to the peaceful haunts of their rural solitudes.

Cameron was still boy enough to hurry through his morning duties in order that he might mix with the crowd and share the perennial delights which a circus affords. The stable yard attached to his hotel was lined three deep with buggies, carriages, and lumber waggons, which had borne in the crowds of farmers from the country. The hotel was thronged with st.u.r.dy red-faced farm lads, looking hot and uncomfortable in their unaccustomed Sunday suits, gorgeous in their rainbow ties, and rakish with their hats set at all angles upon their elaborately brushed heads.

Older men, too, bearded and staid, moved with silent and self-respecting dignity through the crowds, gazing with quiet and observant eyes upon the shifting phantasmagoria that filled the circus grounds and the streets nearby. With these, too, there mingled a few of both old and young who, with baccha.n.a.lian enthusiasm, were swaggering their way through the crowds, each followed by a company of friends good-naturedly tolerant or solicitously careful.

Cameron's eyes, roving over the mult.i.tude, fell upon a little group that held his attention, the princ.i.p.al figure of which was a tall middle aged man with a good-natured face, adorned with a rugged grey chin whisker, who was loudly declaiming to a younger companion with a hard face and very wide awake, "My name's Tom Haley; ye can't come over me."

"Ye bet yer life they can't. Ye ain't no chicken!" exclaimed his hard-faced friend. "Say, let's liquor up once more before we go to see the elephant."

With these two followed a boy of some thirteen years, freckled faced and solemn, slim and wiry of body, who was anxiously striving to drag his father away from one of the drinking booths that dotted the circus grounds, and towards the big tent; but the father had been already a too frequent visitor at the booth to be quite amenable to his son's pleading. He, in a glorious mood of self-appreciation, kept announcing to the public generally and to his hard-faced friend in particular--

"My name's Tom Haley; ye can't come over me!"

"Come on, father," pleaded Tim.

"No hurry, Timmy, me boy," said his father. "The elephants won't run away with the monkeys and the clowns can't git out of the ring."

"Oh, come on, dad, I'm sure the show's begun."

"Cheese it, young feller," said the young man, "yer dad's able to take care of himself."

"Aw, you shut yer mouth!" replied Tim fiercely. "I know what you're suckin' round for."

"Good boy, Tim," laughed his father; "ye giv' 'im one that time. Guess we'll go. So long, Sam, if that's yer name. Ye see I've jist got ter take in this 'ere show this morning with Tim 'ere, and then we have got some groceries to git for the old woman. See there," he drew a paper from his pocket, "wouldn't dare show up without 'em, ye bet, eh, Tim!

Why, it's her egg and b.u.t.ter money and she wants value fer it, she does.

Well, so long, Sam, see ye later," and with the triumphant Tim he made for the big tent, leaving a wrathful and disappointed man behind him.

Cameron spent the rest of the day partly in "taking in" the circus and partly in conversing with the farmers who seemed to have taken possession of the town; but in answer to his most diligent and careful enquiries he could hear of no position on a farm for which he could honestly offer himself. The farmers wanted mowers, or cradlers, or good smart turnip hands, and Cameron sorrowfully had to confess he was none of these. There apparently was no single bit of work in the farmer's life that Cameron felt himself qualified to perform.

It was wearing towards evening when Cameron once more came across Tim.

He was standing outside the bar room door, big tears silently coursing down his pale and freckled cheeks.

"h.e.l.lo!" cried Cameron, "what's up old chap? Where's your dad, and has he got his groceries yet?"

"No," said Tim, hastily wiping away his tears and looking up somewhat shyly and sullenly into Cameron's face. What he saw there apparently won his confidence.

"He's in yonder," he continued, "and I can't git him out. They won't let him come. They're jist making 'im full so he can't do anything, and we ought to be startin' fer home right away, too!"

"Well, let's go in anyway and see what they are doing," said Cameron cheerfully, to whom the pale tear-stained face made strong appeal.

"They won't let us," said Tim. "There's a feller there that chucks me out."

"Won't, eh? We'll see about that! Come along!"

Cameron entered the bar room, with Tim following, and looked about him.

The room was crowded to the door with noisy excited men, many of whom were partially intoxicated. At the bar, two deep, stood a line of men with gla.s.ses in their hands, or waiting to be served. In the farthest corner of the room stood Tim's father, considerably the worse of his day's experiences, and lovingly embracing the hard-faced young man, to whom he was at intervals announcing, "My name's Tom Haley! Ye can't git over me!"

As Cameron began to push through the crowd, a man with a very red face, obviously on the watch for Tim, cried out--

"Say, sonny, git out of here! This is no place fer you!"

Tim drew back, but Cameron, turning to him, said,

"Come along, Tim. He's with me," he added, addressing the man. "He wants his father."

"His father's not here. He left half an hour ago. I told him so."