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 was used to hardship, he sickened with influenza, perhaps in consequence of digging in heavy rain and sleeping in wet clothes.  As he was nothing of a valetudinarian he made light of the attack, but did not get better as soon as he expected on his return, and went to see the Toronto doctor, when Foster urged him.

The latter lighted his pipe and looked about the room.  It was warm and well lighted, and the furniture, which was plain but good, had been bought, piece by piece, to replace ruder articles they had made at the mill.  One or two handsome skins lay upon the uncovered floor, and the walls were made of varnished cedar boards.  A gun-rack occupied a corner, and the books on a shelf indicated that their owners had some literary taste, though there were works on mining and forestry.  Above the shelf, the huge head of a moose, shot on a prospecting Journey to the North, hung between the smaller heads of bear and caribou.

Foster, who had hitherto lived in tents and shacks, remembered his misgivings when they built the house.  Indeed, he had grumbled that it might prove a dangerous locking up of capital that was needed for the enlargement of the mill.  Featherstone, however, insisted, and since most of the money was his, Foster gave in; but they had prospered since then.  They were good friends, and had learned to allow for each other’s point of view during several years of strenuous toil and stern economy.  Still, Foster admitted that their success was not altogether due to their own efforts, because once or twice, when they had to face a financial crisis, the situation was saved by a check Featherstone got from home.  By and by the latter turned to his comrade.