with ironical shouts. Looking round, he thought he saw Daly following
them, but a man ran to the horse's head and Foster seized the
opportunity of getting past.

"What did the doctor tell you?" he asked.

"He was rather disappointing," Featherstone replied, and turned up the
deep collar of his coat.

Foster, who saw that his comrade did not want to talk, imagined that he
had got something of a shock. When they left the town, however, the
jolting of the car made questions difficult and he was forced to mind
his steering while the glare of the headlamps flickered across deep
holes and ruts. Few of the dirt roads leading to the new Canadian
cities are good, but the one they followed, though roughly graded, was
worse than usual and broke down into a wagon trail when it ran into
thick bush. For a time, the car lurched and labored like a ship at sea
up and down hillocks and through soft patches, and Foster durst not
lift his eyes until a cluster of lights twinkled among the trees. Then
with a sigh of relief he ran into the yard of a silent sawmill and they
were at home.

Supper was waiting, and although Foster opened a letter he found upon
the table, neither of the men said anything of importance during the
meal. When it was over, Featherstone sat down in a big chair by the
stove, for the nights were getting cold. He was about thirty years of
age, strongly built, and dressed in city clothes, but his face was
pinched. For part of the summer, he and Foster had camped upon their
new mineral claim in the bush and worked hard to prove the vein. June,
as often happens in Canada, was a wet month, and although Featherstone