“That’s where I’m going,” said Philip.  “Is Thorpe at home?”

“Just leaving.  There he is now!”

At MacDougall’s whistle Thorpe turned and waited for Philip.

“Goin’ over?” he asked, pleasantly, when Philip came up.

“Yes.  I want to see how your men work without a leader,” replied Philip.  He paused for a moment to light his pipe, and pointed to a group of men down on the lake shore.  “See that gang?” he asked.  “They’re building a scow.  Take away their foreman and they wouldn’t be worth their grub.  They’re men we brought up from Winnipeg.”

Thorpe was rolling a cigarette.  Under his arm he held a pair of light gloves.

“Mine are different,” he laughed, quietly.

“I know that,” rejoined Philip, watching the skill of his long white fingers.  “That’s why I want to see them in action, when you’re away.”

“My policy is to know to a cubic foot what a certain number of men are capable of doing in a certain time,” explained Thorpe, as they walked toward the plain.  “My next move is to secure the men who will achieve the result, whether I am present or not.  That done, my work is done.  Simple, isn’t it?”

There was something likable about Thorpe.  Even in his present mood Philip could not but concede that.  He was surprised in Thorpe, in more ways than one.  His voice was low, and filled with a certain companionable quality that gave one confidence in him immediately.  He was apparently a man of education and of some little culture, in spite of his vocation, which usually possesses a vocabulary of its own as hard as rock.  But Philip’s greatest surprise came when he regarded Thorpe’s personal appearance.  He judged that he was past forty, perhaps forty-five, and the thought made him shudder inwardly.  He was twice—­almost three times—­as old as Jeanne.  And yet there was about him something irresistibly attractive, a fascination which had its influence upon Philip himself.  His nails dug into tie flesh of his hands when he thought of this man—­and Jeanne.

Thorpe’s gang was hard at work when they came to the end of the rock-bed.  Scarcely a man seemed to take notice when he appeared.  There was one exception, a wiry, red-faced little man who raised a hand to his cap when he saw the foreman.

“That’s the sub-foreman,” explained Thorpe.  “He answers to me.”  The little man had given a signal, and Thorpe added, “Excuse me for a moment.  He’s got something on his mind.”

He drew a few steps aside, and Philip walked along the line of laboring-men.  He grinned and nodded to them, one after another.  MacDougall was right.  They were the toughest lot of men he had ever seen in one gang.

Loud voices turned him about, and he saw that Thorpe and the sub-foreman had approached a huge, heavy-shouldered man, with whom they seemed to be in serious altercation.  Two or three of the workmen had drawn near, and Thorpe’s voice rang out clear and vibrant.