Phil smiled in an embarra.s.sed kind of way.

"Don't mind me," continued Langford. "You'll get on to my way after a bit. What's your line of trade?"

"Well, to be honest," said Phil, "I haven't any. I came out here to try anything. I'm an M.A. of Toronto University; have subst.i.tuted in school; can clear land if I get my own time to it; have a pretty fair knowledge of accounting; but haven't done much of anything so far. I used to be a good athlete."

It was Langford's turn to smile.

"Another poor, hand-fed chicken out of the University incubator, who can do everything but what he is meant to do--lay eggs, golden ones.

Say, Ralston, the world is full of us and we're little or no d.a.m.ned good. We know too much, or think we do, to be contented with the pick and shovel game, and we don't know enough--because we think we know it all already--to get down to the steady grind year in and year out, at some business that might ultimately bring us to an armchair job. So we go along with our noses to the ground snuffing for a convenient hole to crawl into.

"Oh, well!" he exploded, "who the devil wants to be tied up body and soul to some corporation all his life, for the sake of making a little money that somebody else is going to go to the dogs over after you have gone?"

CHAPTER V

The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

Far enough up the hill to view the blossoming orchards all over the Valley and the distant blue of the lake between the hills, Langford stopped at a large, two-storied dwelling house set in expansive grounds and almost hidden among shade trees.

He walked right in, and Phil followed him.

A matronly woman, of portly dimensions, met them in the hallway.

"Mrs. Clunie," cried Langford, "I've caught you a new, live lodger fresh off the train to-day. He will just fit the spare room over the way from mine."

Mrs. Clunie looked her prospective tenant over critically.

"Mrs. Clunie,--Mr. Ralston," continued Langford.

Phil bowed, and Mrs. Clunie nodded in a strictly non-committal way.

"His father is Lord Athelhurst-Ralston of Ecclefechan, Mrs. Clunie. He has come out here for his health."

"Mr. Langford,--that'll do," said the landlady severely. "There was no' a Ralston in the whole o' Ecclefechan let alone a Lord What-ye-call-him Ralston, when I left twenty years syne, and I ha'e my doots if there's one there noo. Don't be makin' a fool o'

the young man.

"Where do ye come frae, laddie?"

"I come from Campbeltown, Mrs. Clunie."

"What?--Campbeltown on the Mull o' Kintyre,--then you must ha'e left there before you were shortened," she returned quickly.

"Campbeltown, Ontario!" corrected Phil.

"Oh,--ahee!--You're sober, respectable, law-abiding, and attentive to your work?"

"I hope so."

"As upright as Mr. Langford?"

"Oh, yes!" laughed Phil, remembering Langford's autobiography as he had heard it a short time ago.

"I hope so," she returned pointedly, repeating Phil's own words.

"And he can say the Shorter Catechism and repeat the Psalms of David by heart," put in Langford sonorously.

"Mr. Langford,--that'll do. Scotsmen shouldna be flippant ower such serious subjects," the goodly Mrs. Clunie chided.

"Come up stairs and I'll show ye your room."

She showed Phil into a comfortable little place, fixed a price that suited his scanty purse, collected a month's rent on the spot--lest haply Phil might run into temptation by having that much more money in his possession--and left the newcomer to his own devices.

Half an hour later, Langford shouted to him from the hallway.

"Come on over, Ralston, if you're awake."

Phil obeyed.

"We've all had to go through what you did," said Langford, "but Mrs.

Clunie is worth it;--she's a crackerjack. How do you like the lay-out?"

Phil was busy taking in the physical features of Langford's room.

But for the bed and the bureau, the room was more like a study than a bedroom. It contained bookcases from floor to ceiling, packed with literary treasures.

"My pals," said Langford, pointing to two of them containing the cla.s.sics of fiction, poetry and essays.

"My enemies," he continued, nodding at the third bookcase, packed with books on law.

"Friends of mine," he went on, pointing to a pen and inkwell on a small writing table.

He went over to one of the trunks that graced the window as seats. He raised the lid. It was filled to overflowing with rolls of paper, loose sheets and sc.r.a.ps, all closely written upon.

"My babies," he laughed. "Behold in me the most prolific mother in all literature!"

"What are they?" inquired Phil.

"The offsprings of fancy," returned Langford, grandiloquently; "essays, short stories, dramas, poems--all of no financial value. Dime novels worth fifty dollars a time, but all cashed. Advice to the Love Sick--five dollars a column--alas also unconvertible."

Phil stood before him a little nonplussed, while Langford grinned and smoked on.

"I suffer continually the mental pangs of literary childbirth."

He sat in a chair and lounged dreamily as he puffed out clouds of smoke, his long legs sprawling out in front of him.

"You're lucky to have such a talent," put in Phil at last.