The whole colony was thrown into a ferment of indignation by the news that Kalman had been robbed of his mine.  But the agents of Rosenblatt and Sprink were busy among the people.  Feast days were made hilarious through their lavish gifts of beer.  Large promises in connection with the development of the mine awakened hopes of wealth in many hearts.  After all, what could they hope from a young man without capital, without backing, without experience?  True, it was a pity he should lose his mine, but men soon forget the losses and injuries of others under the exhilaration of their own ambitions and dreams of success.  Kalman’s claims and Kalman’s wrongs were soon obliterated.  He had been found guilty of the unpardonable crime of failure.  The new firm went vigorously to work.  Cabins were erected at the mine, a wagon road cut to the Saskatchewan.  In three weeks the whole face of the ravine was changed.

It was in the end of April before French returned from his tie camp, with nothing for his three months’ toil but battered teams and empty pockets, a worn and ill-favoured body, and with a heart sick with the sense of failure and of self-scorn.  Kalman, reading at a glance the whole sordid and heart-breaking story, met him with warm and cheery welcome.  It was for French, more than for himself, that he grieved over the loss of the mine.  Kalman was busy with his preparations for the spring seeding.  He was planning a large crop of everything the ranch would grow, for the coming market.

“And the mine, Kalman?” enquired French.

“I’ve quit mining.  The ranch for me,” exclaimed Kalman, with cheerful enthusiasm.

“But what’s up?” said French, with a touch of impatience.

“Jack, we have lost the mine,” said Kalman quietly.  And he told the story.

As he concluded the tale, French’s listlessness vanished.  He was his own man again.

“We will ride down and see Brown,” he said with decision.

“No use,” said Kalman, wishing to save him further pain.  “Brown saw the entry at the Land Office, and the agent plainly told him nothing could be done.”

“Well, we won’t just lie down yet, boy,” said Jack.  “Come along—­or—­well, perhaps I’d better go alone.  You saddle my horse.”

In half an hour French appeared clean shaven, dressed in his “civilization clothes,” and looking his old self again.

“You’re fine, Jack,” said Kalman in admiration.  “We have got each other yet.”

“Yes, boy,” said Jack, gripping his hand, “and that is the best.  But we’ll get the mine, too, or I’m a Dutchman.”  All the old, easy, lazy air was gone.  In every line of his handsome face, in every movement of his body, there showed vigour and determination.  The old English fighting spirit was roused, whose tradition it was to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat and despair.