in the adventure--I came up seeking opportunity. I didn't dream
then--"

Whittemore paused, and a flash of his old smile passed over his
face.

"I didn't dream that fate had decreed me to stir up what I'm going
to tell you about, Greggy. I followed the line of the proposed
railroad, looking for chances. All Canada was asleep, or too much
interested in its west, and gave me no competition. I was alone
west of the surveyed line; east of it steel-corporation men had
optioned mountains of iron and another interest had a grip on
coal-fields. Six months I spent among the Indians, French, and
half-breeds. I lived with them, trapped and hunted with them, and
picked up a little Cree and French. The life suited me. I became a
northerner in heart and soul, if not quite yet in full experience.
Clubs and balls and cities grew to be only memories. You know how
I have always hated that hothouse sort of existence, and you know
that same world of clubs and balls and cities has gripped at my
throat, downing me again and again, as though it returned my
sentiment with interest. Up here I learned to hate it more than
ever. I was completely happy. And then--"

He had refolded the map, and drew another from the bundle of
papers. It was drawn in pencil.

"And then, Greggy," he went on, smoothing out this map where the
other had been, "I struck my chance. It fairly clubbed me into
recognizing it. It came in the middle of the night, and I sat up
with a camp-fire laughing at me through the flap in my tent,