The train was late, but Foster enjoyed the pipe he lighted.  It was ten years since he landed at Montreal, a raw lad without friends or money, and learned what hard work was in a lumber camp.  Since then he had prospered, and the strenuous life he led for the first few years had not left much mark on him.  Now he thought he had earned a holiday, and all arrangements for his visit to England were made.  Featherstone, his partner, was going with him.  Their sawmill, which was run by water-power, had closed for the winter, when building material was not wanted, and the development of a mineral claim they owned would be stopped by the frost.  They had planned to put in a steam engine at the mill, but the Hulton Company had delayed a contract that would have kept the saws running until the river thawed.

Foster, however, did not regret this.  Except on Sundays, he had seldom had an hour’s leisure for the last few years.  Gardner’s Crossing, which was raw and new, had few amusements to offer its inhabitants; he was young, and now he could relax his efforts, felt that he was getting stale with monotonous toil.  But he was a little anxious about Featherstone, who had gone to see a doctor in Toronto.

A whistle rang through the roar of the rapid and a fan-shaped beam of light swung round a bend in the track.  Then the locomotive bell began to toll, and Foster walked past the cars as they rolled into the station.  He found Featherstone putting on a fur coat at a vestibule door, and gave him a keen glance as he came down the steps.  He thought his comrade looked graver than usual.

“Well,” he said, “how did you get on?”

“I’ll tell you later.  Let’s get home, but stop at Cameron’s drug store for a minute.”

Foster took his bag and put it in a small American car.  He drove slowly across the bridge and up the main street of the town, because there was some traffic and light wagons stood in front of the stores.  Then as he turned in towards the sidewalk, ready to pull up, he saw a man stop and fix his eyes on the car.  The fellow did not live at the Crossing, but visited it now and then, and Foster had met him once when he called at the sawmill.

“Drive on,” said Featherstone, touching his arm.

Although he was somewhat surprised, Foster did as he was told, and when they had passed a few blocks Featherstone resumed:  “I can send down the prescription to-morrow.  That was Daly on the sidewalk and I didn’t want to meet him.”

A minute later Foster stopped to avoid a horse that was kicking and plunging outside a livery stable while a crowd encouraged its driver 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.