stout and stocky, with bushy side whiskers flanking around a rubicund
face, out of which stared two prominent blue eyes.

"Oh, I reckon he is, Mr. Boggs. I have no word agin Hayes," replied
Nathan Pilley, a North Ontario man, who, abandoning a rocky farm in
Muskoka, had strayed to this far west country in search of better
fortune. "I have no word agin Mr. Hayes, Mr. Boggs," he reiterated. "In
fact, I think he ought to be highly commended for his beneficent work."

"But he does like to hear himself giving out orders, all the same,"
persisted the young man addressed as Ewen.

"Yes, he seems to sorter enjoy that, too, Ewen," agreed Nathan, who was
never known to oppose any man's opinion.

"He's doin' his best," insisted Mr. Boggs, rather sullenly.

"Yes, he is that, Mr. Boggs, he is that," said Nathan.

"But he likes to be the big toad in the puddle," said Ewen.

"Well, he certainly seems to, he does indeed, Ewen."

Clear over the droning there arose at this point another sound, a chorus
of childish laughter.

"That's the preacher's class," said Boggs. "Quare sort o' Sunday School
where the kids carry on like that."

"Seems rather peculiar," agreed Nathan, "peculiar in Sunday School, it