"I am glad you do," continued Tommy, "for it is bad enough to write copy without having to speak it. Well, the war began, some in favour of the scheme, some against, but all hopeless in view of the present state of finances. Better wait a little, and that sort of talk. Then, let's see what happened. Oh, yes. The question of the man came up. Who was the man? The Superintendent was ready for 'em. It was Macgregor of some place. Frog Lake? No, Loon Lake. Then the opposition thought they had him with a half-nelson. Old Dr. Macfarren jumped on to the chief with both feet. His man was no good, a flat failure in his field, no tact.

Beg your pardon, Miss Fairbanks. What did you say?"

"Oh, never mind," said Helen. "Go on."

"He appealed for corroboration to his friend, the chap up at Park Church, you know, that sleek, kid-gloved fellow."

"Burns?" asked Brown, innocently, delighted in the reporter's description of Lloyd and desiring more of it.

"No. You know that orator chap, liquid eyes, mellifluous voice, and all the rest of it."

"Oh, Lloyd."

"Yes. Well, he took a whirl and backed up Macfarren. Evidently didn't think much of the Superintendent's choice. Remarked about his being a Highlander, a man of visions and that sort of thing."

"What else did he say?" inquired Brown, who was in a particularly happy mood.

"Oh, a lot of stuff, in his most lordly, patronizing tone. Macgregor was a very good, earnest fellow, but he should judge him to be lacking in tact or adaptability, fine sensibilities, and that sort of rot. But never mind. Didn't he catch it! Oh, no. My Sally Ann! Boiling lard and blue vitriol, and all in the chief's most sweet-scented lavender style, though all the time I could see the danger lights burning through his port-holes. I tell you I've had my diminished moments, but I don't think I was ever reduced to such a shade as the Park Church chap when the Superintendent was through with him. Serve him right, too."

"What did the Superintendent say?" continued Brown, delighted to find somebody who would express his own sentiments with more force and fulness than he could command.

"Say! Well, I wish I could tell you. 'Mr. Lloyd says he is a Highlander. Yes, he is, thank G.o.d. So am I. He is a man of visions.

Yes, he has vision beyond the limits of his own congregation and of his own native cross-roads, vision for what lies beyond the horizon, vision for those men in the mountains who are going to the devil.' A quotation, Miss Fairbanks, I a.s.sure you. 'These miners and lumbermen, forgotten by all but their mothers, and G.o.d.' Say, it was great. If I could reproduce it there would be a European trip in it. Then he turned on Dr. Macfarren. It seems that Macgregor somehow had to quit some place in the West on the plea that he was not adaptable, and that sort of thing. 'Dr. Macfarren says he was a failure,' went on the old chief, using at least five r's, 'Mr. Lloyd says he is not adaptable, he is lacking in fine sensibilities. It is true G.o.d did not make him with sleek hair'--which, by Jove, was true enough--'and dainty fingers. And a good thing it was, else our church at Loon Lake, built by his own hands, the logs cut, shaped and set in place, sir, by his own hands, would never have existed. He was a failure at the Fort, we are told.

Why? I made inquiries concerning that. I was told by a gentleman who calls himself a Presbyterian--I need not mention his name--that he was not suitable to the peculiarly select and high-toned society of that place. No, sir, our missionary could not bow and sc.r.a.pe, he was a failure at tennis, he did not shine at card parties,' and here you could smell things sizzling. 'He could not smile upon l.u.s.t. No, thank G.o.d!' and the old chap's voice began to quiver and shake. 'In all this he was a failure, and would to G.o.d we had more of the same kind!'

'Amen,' 'Thank G.o.d,' 'That's true,' the men around the table cried. I thought I had struck a Methodist revival meeting."

"What else did he say?" said Brown, who could hardly contain himself for sheer delight.

"Well, he went on then to yarn about Macgregor's work--how a church and club house had been built in one place, and a hospital and all that sort of thing, in another, and then he told us stories of the different chaps who had been apparently s.n.a.t.c.hed from the mouth of h.e.l.l by Macgregor, and were ready to lie down and let him walk over them. It was great. There was an Irishman and a Frenchman, I remember, both Roman Catholics, but both ready to swallow the Confession of Faith if the Prospector ordered them. Yes, that was another point. Macgregor, it seems, was a regular fiend for hunting up fellows and rooting them out to church, and so they dubbed him 'the Prospector.' The old chief stuck that in, I tell you. Then there was a doctor and, oh, a lot of chaps,--a cowboy fellow named Ike, who was particularly good copy if one could reproduce him. And then--" here Tommy hesitated--"well, it's worth while telling. There was a girl who had gone wrong, and had been brought back. To hear the chief tell that yarn was pretty fine. I don't turn the waterworks on without considerable pressure, but I tell you my tanks came pretty near overflowing when he talked about that poor girl.

And then, at the most dramatic moment--that old chap knows his business--he brought on Macgregor, announcing him as 'the Prospector of Frog Lake, no, Loon Lake.' Well, he was not much to look at. His hair was not slick, and his beard looked a little like a paint brush, his pants ran up on his boots, and bagged at the knees."

"He had just come off the train," hastily interposed Brown, "He hadn't a moment to dress himself."

"Well, as I say, he wasn't pretty to look at, and they gave him a kind of frosty reception, too."

"Well, what happened?" inquired Brown, anxious to get over this part of the description.

"Well, they began firing questions at him hot and fast. He was a little rattled for a while, but after a bit he got into his stride, put down his map, laid out his country and began pouring in his facts, till when they let him out they looked for all the world like a lot of men who had been struck by a whirlwind and were trying to get back their breath and other belongings."

"Well, what did they do then?"

"Oh, the thing pa.s.sed, I guess. I left 'em and went after the man from the West. I thought I had struck oil. I had visions too."

"Well, did you get him?"

"I did, but there was not any oil. It was rock, hard, cold Scotch granite. I'm something of a borer, but I tell you what, he turned my edge. It was no use. He wouldn't talk."

"Good by. Come around and see your man at my rooms," said Brown heartily. "I'll pump him for you, and you can catch the oil."

"You will, eh? All right, set a mug for me."

"Great boy, that Tommy," said Brown, who was smitten with a sudden enthusiastic admiration for the reporter. "Clever chap. He'll make his mark yet."

Helen walked for some distance in silence. "Is--is he--is Mr. Macgregor with you?" she inquired at length.

"Yes, Mr. Macgregor is with me," mimicked Brown. "Will you send him a card?"

"Now, Brownie, stop," said Helen in distress. "He has not been home yet, has he?"

"No. Why?"

"Could you keep him away till about eleven tomorrow?"

"Yes, I suppose I might. He has got to get some clothes and get some of the wool off him. But why do you ask?"

"Well, I thought I would just run in and dust, and put some flowers up, and, you know, make it a little more homelike."

"Helen, you're a brick. I had decided to drop you because I didn't love you, but I am changing my mind."

"Well, do not let him go before eleven. Everything will be right by that time."

"Good!" said Brown, with an ebullition of rapture, which he immediately suppressed as Helen's eyes were turned inquiringly upon him. "You see,"

he explained hurriedly, "he has been in the West and will need to get a lot of things, and that will give you plenty of time. There's my car.

Good-by. We have had a happy afternoon, eh?"

"Oh, yes, very happy, thank you," said Helen, but she could not quite suppress a little sigh.

"Well, good-by," said Brown, and he went off, jubilant to his car.

He sat down in a corner, and thought hard till he came to his street.

"If he'll only play up we'll win, sure thing. But will he, confound him, will he? Well, the kick-off will be to-morrow."

He found Shock waiting in his rooms, with a face so grave and so sad that Brown's heart grew sore for him.

"Come on, old chap, we'll go to grub. But first I am going to groom you a bit. We'll take a foot or two off your hair since the football season is over; and I think," examining him critically, "we can spare that beard, unless you are very fond of it."

Shock protested that he had no particular love for his beard; it was better for the cold weather, and it was not always convenient for him to shave.

When the barber had finished with Shock, Brown regarded him with admiration.

"You are all right, old chap. I say, you've got thin, haven't you?"

"No, I am pretty much in my playing form."

"Well, there is something different." And there was. The boyish lines of his face had given place to those that come to men with the cares and griefs and responsibilities of life. And as Brown looked over Shock's hard, lean face, he said again, with emphasis, "You'll do."

After dinner Shock wandered about the rooms uneasily for a time, and finally said, "I say, Brown, I would like to go up home, if you don't mind." They had not yet spoken of what each knew was uppermost in the other's mind.

"All right, Shock. But wouldn't it be better in the morning?"