Phil turned to run.

Another great crash and the whole door and its fastenings tumbled outward, and that giant piece of infuriated humanity stood looking about him, framed in the broken woodwork.

Phil heard a warning shout, as he rushed headlong.

But his toe caught on an iron girder and he came down heavily on his face. As he sprang to his feet again he heard further shouting all about him. He turned his head. Hanson was springing toward him and making on him with a speed Phil could not realise in a man so weighty; a speed he could not begin to emulate.

The great hairy hands were almost on his coat, when something happened.

He staggered, balanced himself and stood up sheepishly.

Hanson was on the ground, struggling, cursing and kicking viciously at a rope which Royce Pederstone had cast smartly round his left foot.

Pederstone tugged with all his strength, and his horse lent her weight, but together they could do no more than hold their own with the fallen Vulcan. Hanson brought out a clasp-knife from his clothes, opened it and slashed at the rope. He had it almost cut through, when Brenchfield, who had been sitting on his horse an inactive and silent spectator--in response to Pederstone's urgent call, whirled his rope around his head several times and dropped it deftly over Hanson's shoulders, pinning his arms helplessly to his side.

Brenchfield then tugged in one direction and Royce Pederstone in the other, each tying the end of his rope tightly to a stake at his side of the yard, with the result that the madman was half hamstrung and reduced to impotence.

Langford came round the side of the building with fresh ropes. These were quickly bound round Hanson, until he was unable to move hand or foot, although he still struggled violently, the veins in his neck and head standing out in blue knots, the perspiration running over his shapely forehead and the frothy slither again oozing from his lips.

"Say, Graham!--what went wrong? Why didn't you rope him? Thought you said you would take first throw."

"Did I?" asked Brenchfield calmly.

"Sure you did! It might have been a serious accident. It isn't often you make a forget like that, old man."

"Oh, pshaw!--what's the odds anyway? Everything was all right."

"Was--yes! But it might have been all day with the new man."

"No chance! I had that cinched. Anyway, he had no right dawdling at the window as long as he did."

"Here, you two sc.r.a.pping schoolboys--forget it!" interposed Langford.

"I fancy Phil knows how to look after himself without either of you."

On the instructions of Pederstone, the four men carried the trussed Hanson into a nearby stable, where they made him fast with fresh ropes to some heavy stanchions.

When all was secure, Hanson was left to regain his normal, Pederstone turning the key in the lock for further security.

"Guess that's all this time, Ped," said Brenchfield.

"All through--thanks, Graham!" returned Pederstone, and Brenchfield rode off in deep thought. As a blacksmith, the Mayor felt that Phil was easy and safe for him, although he did not like the intimacy that seemed to have sprung up so soon between Phil and Jim Langford, for Langford was a strange composite, capable of anything or nothing; clever; altogether an unknown quant.i.ty, but one well worth the watching closely.

"Do you want Phil to-day now this has happened?" asked Jim of Royce Pederstone.

"Sure thing!--if he hasn't changed his mind about working?"

"Not me!" answered Phil.

"All right!" said Jim. "Me for the Court House. I'm only a couple of hours late now. See you later, Phil!"

Royce Pederstone went into the forge, doffed his coat, rolled up his sleeves and put on his leather ap.r.o.n.

Phil followed suit with an ap.r.o.n of Hanson's, and soon the doors were wide open, the fires blowing and the anvil ringing, drowning the groans and shouts that came from Hanson as he lay like a trussed fowl in the adjoining stable.

"I'm sorry this has taken place on the first day of your apprenticeship, young man, but it has been pending for some time. After this is over, you won't be afraid to be left with Hanson, I hope. He'll be all right in a few hours, and very much ashamed of himself you will find him."

"I'm not afraid," said Phil. "I am just beginning to discover that fear is the greatest devil we have to contend with and that the less we worry about it the less real and the more a mere bogey it becomes."

"True for you, Phil. And the older you grow the more you'll realise the wisdom of what you say.

"Well, it is just a year since Hanson had his last drinking bout. I was beginning to think he had got completely over it. He is not likely to break out again for ever so long."

"What is it exactly that gets him?" asked Phil.

"Oh,--likes drink once in a while, but drink doesn't like him;--that's all. It goes to his brain somehow. Do you think you could manage him if he took you unawares?"

"I could try," answered Phil.

"That's the way to talk. And you've got the frame to work on, too. Can you throw a rope?"

"I used to when I was a kid. I guess, with a little practice, I still could do it pretty well."

"Well,--practise in your spare time. It is handy to be able to throw a rope in this Valley. And it doesn't cost anything carrying the ability about with you. Can you use your fists?"

"Yes!--tolerably well."

"Good for you! Now all you need is to be able to use your head and everything will be O. K."

All that day, Royce Pederstone worked like the real village blacksmith he was; shoeing horses, repairing farm implements, bolting, riveting and welding; showing Phil all he could in the short time he had with him, telling him--because it was uppermost in his mind--just a little of his electioneering plans and what he intended doing for the Okanagan Valley in the way of irrigation, railroads and public buildings; instilling in his apprentice an enthusiasm for his new work and making for himself at the same time another friend and political booster; for Phil was quick to appreciate the kindliness of this st.u.r.dy, pioneering type of man and he felt drawn to him by that strange, attractive sub-conscious essence which flows from all who are born to lead, an hypnotic current which is one of the first essentials of all men who can ever hope successfully to carry out any good or big undertaking for, or with, their fellow men; the ability with the triple qualities--to interest, to attract, to hold,--making one feel that it is good to be within the dominant influence, if only for a time.

And all day long, in the barn at the rear of the smithy, Wildman Hanson kept up his groaning, and moaning, and cursing; shouting at the top of his voice that he was being murdered, and threatening a separate strangling to half a dozen men whom he called by name, talking to them as if they were by his side.

Towards closing time, a brilliant burst of evening sunshine flooded the smithy, and with it came one whose radiating charm made the sun for a moment slide back to second place.

"Hullo, dad!" she cried. "I thought you weren't going to work here any more?"

"Hullo, Eilie! I thought so, too, but----Oh, Eileen, this is Phil."

Eileen Pederstone looked in admonishing surprise at her father.

"I beg pardon! Mr. Ralston, our new man,--my daughter, Miss Eileen!"

The young lady bowed sedately to Phil, who was standing a mere dark silhouette against the glare of the furnace fire. But Eileen was in the full glow of the flames and, as Phil looked into her face, he gasped for breath and his heart commenced to thump under his open shirt.

It was the face of the good samaritan, the good fairy that had of late so often been pictured in his mind in the day-time, the face that smiled to him at night through his dreams.

In a flash, he saw himself again; bearded, unkempt, ragged, faint and hunted, groping for support against the wall of the little kitchen in the bungalow up on the hill; the sweet vision of the fearless maid whose heart had opened in practical sympathy to his broken appeal for succour, her ready response and----