Hervey had followed his host to the stable. A strange-looking little creature came from the obscurity within. He was an undersized man with a small face, which seemed somehow to have shrivelled up like a dead leaf. He had a pair of the smallest eyes Hervey had ever seen, and not a vestige of hair on his face. His head was covered with a crown of bristly grey hair that seemed to grow in patches, and his feet were both turned in one direction--to the right.

"Take this plug and give him a rub down, Chintz," said Iredale. "When he's cool, water and feed him. Mr. Malling won't need him until about eight o'clock."

Then he turned towards the house.

"He don't waste words," observed Hervey, indicating the man, who had silently disappeared into the stable, taking the horse with him.

"No; he's dumb," replied Iredale. "He's my head boy."

"Boy?"

"Yes. Sixty-two."

The two men pa.s.sed into Iredale's sitting-room. It was plainly but comfortably furnished in a typical bachelor manner. There were more signs of the owner's sporting propensities in the room than anything else, the walls being arranged with gun-racks, fishing-tackle, and trophies of the chase.

"We'll draw the bush on the other side of the Front Hill, otherwise known as the 'Haunted Hill,'" said Iredale, pointing to a gun-rack.

"Select your weapon. I should take a mixed bore--ten and twelve. We may need both. There are some geese in a swamp over that way. The cartridges are in the bookcase; help yourself to a good supply, and one of those haversacks."

Hervey did as his host suggested.

"Why 'Haunted Hill'?" he asked curiously.

Iredale shrugged.

"By reason of a little graveyard on the side of it. Evidently where the early settlers buried their dead. It is a local name given, I suppose, by the prairie folk of your neighbourhood. Come on."

The two men set out. Nor did they return until six o'clock. Their shoot was productive of a splendid bag--prairie chicken and geese.

Both men were excellent shots. Iredale was perhaps the better of the two, at least his bag numbered two brace more than that of his companion; but then, as Hervey told himself, he was using a strange gun, whilst Iredale was using the weapon he most favoured. Supper was prepared by the time they returned to the house. Iredale, healthily hungry and calmly contented, sat down to the meal; Hervey, famished by his unusual exercise, joined him in the loudest of good spirits.

Towards the close of the meal, when the whisky-and-water Hervey had liberally primed himself with had had due effect, he broached the subject that was ever uppermost in his thoughts. He began expansively--

"You know, George,"--he had already adopted the familiarity, and Iredale had not troubled to show disapproval, probably he remembered the relationship between this man and Prudence,--"I'm sick of farming. It's too monotonous. Not only that; so long as mother lives I am little better than a hired man. Of course she's very good," he went on, as he noted a sudden lowering of his companion's eyelids; "does no end for me, and all that sort of thing; but my salary goes nowhere with a man who has--well--who has. .h.i.therto had considerable resources.

It's no easy thing under the circ.u.mstances to keep my expenses down.

It seems such nonsense, when one comes to think of it, that I, who will eventually own the farm, subject, of course, to some provision for Prue, have to put up with a trifling allowance doled out to me every month; it's really monstrous. Who ever heard of a fellow living on one hundred dollars a month! That's what I'm getting. Why, I owe more than five months' wages at the Northern Union Hotel in Winnipeg.

It can't be done; that's all about it."

Iredale looked over at the dark face opposite him. Nor could he help drawing a comparison between the man and the two ladies who owned him, one as brother, the other as son. How utterly unlike them he was in every way. There was not the smallest resemblance in mind, face, or figure. His thoughts reverted to Silas Malling, and here they paused.

Here was the resemblance of outward form; and he wondered what unfathomed depths had lain in the nature of the old farmer which could have communicated themselves in such developed form to the son. It was inconceivable that this indolent, selfish spendthrift could have inherited his nature from Silas Malling. No; he felt sure that some former ancestor must have been responsible for it. He understood the drift of Hervey's words in a twinkling. He had experienced this sort of thing before from other men. Now he did not discourage it.

"A hundred a month on the prairie should be a princely--er--wage," he said in his grave way. "Of course it might be different in a city."

"It is," said Hervey decidedly. "I don't know, I'm sure," he went on, after a moment's pause. "I suppose I must weather through somehow."

He looked across at Iredale in such a definitely meaning way that the latter had no hesitation in speaking plainly. He knew it was money, and this was Prudence's brother.

"Got into a--mess?" he suggested encouragingly.

Hervey felt that he had an easy victim, but he smoked pensively for a moment before he spoke, keeping his great eyes turned well down upon the table-cover.

"Um--I lost a lot of money at poker the last time I was in the city. I was in an awful streak of bad luck; could do nothing right. Generally it's the other way about. Now they're pressing me to redeem the I.O.U.s. When they owe me I notice they're not so eager about it."

"That's bad; I'm sorry to hear it." Iredale's eyes were smiling, whilst in their depths there was the faintest suspicion of irony. He was in no way imposed upon by the breadth of the fabrication. It was the old story. He, too, lit his pipe and leant back in his chair. "I hope the amount is not too overwhelming. If I can--er--be----"

Hervey interrupted him eagerly. He brought his hand down heavily upon the table.

"By Jove! you are a good sort, George. If you could--just a loan, of course--you see I can offer you security on my certain inheritance of the farm----"

But Iredale had no wish to hear anything about his future possibilities of inheritance. He interrupted him sharply, and his tone was unusually icy.

"Tut--tut, man. Never mind about that. In spite of your need of money, I hope it will be many a year before your mother leaves our farming world."

"I trust so," murmured Hervey, without enthusiasm.

"How much will appease your creditors?"

Iredale spoke with such indifference about the amount that Hervey promptly decided to double the sum he originally intended to ask for.

"Five thousand dollars," he said, with some show of diffidence, but with eyes that gazed hungrily towards this man who treated the loaning of a large amount in such a careless manner.

Iredale offered no comment. He merely rose from his seat, and opening a drawer in his bookcase, produced a cheque-book and a pen and ink. He made out a cheque for the amount named, and pa.s.sed it across the table. His only remark was--

"Your luck may change. Pay me when you like. No, don't bother about a receipt."

Hervey seized upon the piece of paper. He was almost too staggered to tender his thanks. Iredale in his quiet way was watching, nor was any movement on his companion's part lost to his observant eyes. He had "sized" this man up, from the soles of his boots to the crown of his head, and his contempt for him was profound. But he gave no sign. His cordiality was apparently perfect. The five thousand dollars were nothing to him, and he felt that the giving of that cheque might save those at Loon d.y.k.e Farm from a world of anxiety and trouble. Somehow behind that impa.s.sive face he may have had some thoughts of the coming of a future time when he would be able to deal with this man's mode of life with that firmness which only relationship could ent.i.tle him to--when he could personally relieve Hephzibah of the responsibility and wearing anxiety of her worthless son's doings. In the meantime, like the seafaring man, he would just "stand by."

"I can't thank you enough, George," said Hervey at last. "You have got me out of an awkward situation. If I can do you a good turn, I will."

Iredale detected a meaning emphasis in the last remark which he resented. "Some day," the man went on; "but there--I will say no more."

"No, I shouldn't say anything. These things happen in the course of a lifetime, and one mustn't say too much about them." The two men then smoked on in silence.

Presently Hervey rose to go. It was nearly eight o'clock.

"Well," said Iredale, as he prepared to bid his guest good-bye, "we have had a good afternoon's sport. Now you know my coverts you must come over again. Come whenever you like. If I am unable to go with you, you are welcome to shoot over the land by yourself. There are some grand antelope about the place."

"Thanks. I shall certainly come again. And--well, when are you coming over to us again? I can't offer you any shooting."

"Don't trouble," smiled Iredale.

Hervey saw the "boy" Chintz leading his horse round.

"You might tell your mother," the rancher went on, "that I'll come to-morrow to read over that fencing contract she spoke about for her."

Hervey leered round upon him.

"Will it do if I tell Prue instead?"

"Certainly not." Iredale's face was quite expressionless at that moment. "You will please do as I ask."

Hervey gulped down his chagrin; but his eyes were alight with the anger from which his lips refrained. He mounted his horse.