questioned Moran.

Bethune looked thoughtful.

"He may wish to drive us out of the country; but I'm more inclined to believe he means to wear us out, and then make some proposition when he thinks we're tame enough."

"He'll be badly disappointed if he expects we'll come to terms!" Jimmy strode up and down, his face flushed with anger. "Anyway, I can't believe that Aynsley knows anything about this."

"He doesn't." Bethune smiled grimly. "I know by experience how the scapegrace son tries to conceal his escapades from his respectable relatives, but I rather think the unprincipled parent who doesn't want his children to find him out is more ingenious. All this, however, isn't much to the purpose; we'll have the boys down on us unless we clear the lumber from the saws."

They left the mill the next morning and tramped back to Vancouver in a generally dejected mood.

"What's to be done now?" asked Jimmy as they reached the outskirts of the city.

"How about going down into the States and trying our luck?" Bethune suggested. "We'd at least be out of Clay's reach-anywhere but Seattle."

"What-run!" Jimmy exclaimed indignantly. "I stay right here!"

"Me too!" grunted Moran.

Bethune laughed.

"Well, how about turning and charging the enemy? I'll admit that I'd enjoy a good fight right now-physical or verbal."

"Won't do," objected Moran; "we won't be well armed until we know just what those other boxes in the strong-room contain. Before we get a chance to find out, I've an idea our enemy himself will make a move."

And he did.

CHAPTER XXI-JIMMY'S EMBARRa.s.sMENT

Jimmy's courage had fallen very low, dragging with it the last remnants of hope and ambition. Every loophole of escape from poverty seemed closed against him. For days he had tramped the streets of Vancouver, making the rounds of the wharves and mills in search of work, and had found nothing. He loathed the dreary patrol of the wet streets; he abhorred his comfortless quarters in the third-rate hotel; and the curt refusals that followed his application for a humble post were utterly disheartening. Worse than all, he felt that he had drifted very far from the girl who was constantly in his thoughts. He had almost lost hope of the salvage scheme's succeeding, but he was pledged to his comrades, and they meant to try again if they could finance another venture with Jaques' a.s.sistance. They must pick up a living somehow, and, if possible, save a few dollars before the time to start arrived.

One gloomy afternoon Jimmy stood outside an employment bureau among a group of shabbily dressed, dejected men, some of whom were of distinctly unprepossessing appearance. One had roughly pushed him away from the window; but he did not rouse himself to resent it. He felt listless and low-spirited, and to wait a little would pa.s.s the time. Besides, he thought he had read all the notices about men required which the agent displayed, and had offered himself for several of the posts without success. He got his turn at the window at last, and left it moodily; but when he reached the edge of the sidewalk he stopped suddenly and the blood rushed to his face. Ruth Osborne was crossing the street toward him.

Jimmy looked around desperately, but it was too late to escape; he could only hope that Miss...o...b..rne would pa.s.s without recognizing him. He did not want her to see him among the group of shabby loungers. His own clothes were the worse for wear, and he knew that he had a broken-down appearance. The employment bureau's sign suggested what he was doing there, and he would not have the girl know how low he had fallen. He had turned his back toward her and pulled his shabby hat low down over his eyes, when her voice reached him.

"Mr. Farquhar!"

Jimmy turned, thrilled but embarra.s.sed, and Ruth smiled at him.

"I can't compliment you upon your memory," she said.

Jimmy saw that the other men were regarding them curiously. He was not surprised, for Ruth had a well-bred air and her dress indicated wealth and refinement, while his appearance was greatly against him; but it was insufferable that those fellows should speculate about her, and he moved slowly forward.

"I think my memory's pretty good," he answered with a steady glance.

"That makes your behavior worse, because it looks as if you meant to avoid me."

"I'll confess that I did; but I'm not sure that you can blame me. No doubt you saw how I was employed?"

Ruth's eyes sparkled and there was more color than usual in her face.

"I do blame you; it's no excuse. Did you think I was mean enough to let that prevent me from speaking to you?"

"Since you have asked the question, I can't imagine your being mean in any way at all," Jimmy answered boldly. "I'm afraid I was indulging in false sentiment, but perhaps that wasn't unnatural. We all have our weaknesses."

"That's true; mine's a quick temper, and you nearly made me angry. I feel slighted when people I know run away from me."

"One wouldn't imagine it often happens. Anyhow, I've pleaded guilty."

"Then, as a punishment, you must come with me to our hotel and tell us of your voyage to the North. My father will not be back until late, but I think you'll like my aunt."

Jimmy looked surprised.

"You knew I was in the North?"

"Yes," she answered, smiling. "Does that seem very strange? Perhaps you find it easy to let a pleasant acquaintance drop."

"I found it very hard," Jimmy said with some warmth.

Then he pulled himself up, remembering that this was not the line he ought to take. "After all," he added, "it doesn't follow that a friendship made on a voyage can be kept up ash.o.r.e. A steamboat officer's privileges end when he reaches land."

"Where he seems to lose his confidence in himself. You're either unusually modest or unfairly bitter."

"It's not that. I hope I'm not a fool."

Ruth felt half impatient and half compa.s.sionate. She understood why he had made no attempt to follow up their acquaintance; but she thought he insisted too much upon the difference between their positions in the social scale.

"I suppose your father learned where I had gone?"

"No; it was Aynsley Clay who told me. My father certainly asked one of the _Empress_ mates what had become of you, but learned only that you had left the ship. You must remember Aynsley, the yachtsman you met on the island."

"Yes," said Jimmy incautiously. "My partners and I worked in his mill until a week or two ago. Then we were turned out."

"Turned out? Why? I can't imagine Aynsley's being a hard master."

"He isn't. We got on very well. I don't believe we owe our dismissal to him."

Ruth started. She was keen-witted and quick to jump to conclusions.

Jimmy's statement bore out certain troublesome suspicions, and she remembered that she had forced Aynsley to speak about him in Clay's presence. Perhaps she was responsible for his misfortunes; she felt guilty.

"Then whatever you were doing in the North was not a success?" she suggested.

"It was not," Jimmy answered with some grimness.

Ruth studied him with un.o.btrusive interest. It was obvious that he was not prospering, and he looked worn. This roused her compa.s.sion, though she realized that there was nothing that she could do. The man's pride stood between them.