"I agree with you, sir, and I guess my puny opinion does not carry much weight, but the unfortunate thing is that we are beginning to produce the fruit here in the Valley and the harvest is becoming greater and greater every year, but Mr. Apple Grower has not created an outlet for his production; he has no great organisation to market for him; no central control for his prices;—and the result is that for years—unless he wakes up—he is going to get a miserable pittance for his crop from travelling jobbers, or it is going to rot on his hands. He is going to suffer loss and possible bankruptcy if we can't hold up until he co-operates, unionises, and makes his own market and prices from a central control."

"All in due season, son, when the time comes. But that is away from buying and selling of land. Personally, I raise cattle, pigs, horses;—I never have any trouble finding a market.

"And trust me, when you see me getting quietly from under, follow suit and you won't go far wrong. I am not in Victoria with both eyes shut. The upgrade is absolutely good for three more years and the big prices will be next year. Get in when you can and make what you can. It is a great life!

"However, this doesn't interest Eileen a bit."

"Oh, yes it does!" she put in quickly.

"Well,—it is business, and we fellows oughtn't to talk shop in a lady's company.

"Phil,—you won't rob me of my little girl for a while yet? I require her badly when the House is sitting at Victoria. I'd like to have her with me next session at any rate."

"We had thought of eighteen months from now, daddy dear. Will that do?" inquired Eileen.

The old man's eyes brightened up and his ruddy cheeks curved in a smile.

"That will be just fine! I'll have eighteen months of you in which to get used to doing without you. And, who knows, maybe that is all the time I shall want."

"Now, daddy, don't say that. Besides, you won't be losing me; you'll just be finding Phil."

John Royce Pederstone put one arm on Phil's shoulder and the other round his daughter's slight waist, as he turned with them toward the house.

"Well, we'll have dinner and a glass of wine over it, anyway."



CHAPTER XXIV

The Landslide

The apple blossoms fell like flakes of snow; the sunflowers faded and were no more; the sun blazed on in all its radiant glory; the lakes stood in a glassy calm;—and still the rush and scramble went on—buying at a price and selling for more—still came the cry for more money on mortgage to cover up and extend, pulling conservative men into the gamble—their money providing the stake with no chance for them to win more than their seven or eight per cent. Prices soared; everyone lived within a multi-coloured bubble of prosperity.

The Langford-Ralston Financial Corporation became a corporation indeed. To do business with them was the rage of the Valley, for their work from end to end was business-like and honest. And even the thief and the crook like to do business with honest men.

Then came the Valley's harvest; the greatest harvest it had ever known; but, alas for the rancher, there was no market in which to place his produce. He was at the mercy of the jobber, the kerb-stone broker, the pedlar in fruit. He could not sell—he had to forward his merchandise on consignment to the nearest large centre and, in consequence, he often lost his entire shipment. Not only that, but at times was saddled with storage and freight charges to boot.

Little wonder he grew tired; little wonder he grumbled. Who, after all, could blame him for fathering thoughts that ranching was not all it was supposed to be?

Yet the land was the best in the country; the conditions for fruit growing—with a proper system of irrigation—unsurpassed in the Province; the climate, the surroundings for home-making, ideal.

It was simply the lull time in the era of progress; simply the time in between small things and things of magnitude; the time when the little man was liable to be forced to the wall and the big man would have to cling on despairingly; the time when organisation and brains would have to step in and take the reins.

Autumn faded and early winter promised with its damp fogs which, in the night time, froze quickly, covering houses, trees and fences with a white crystalline hoar which dropped like snow at the first faint blush of the next morning's sun. But oblivious of winter and without forebodings, men continued to buy at a price and sell for more.

The winter came, with its snow fence-high, and its cold north wind compressing the thermometer to twenty below and binding the earth as with an iron crust; the winter came with its days of dazzling sunshine and its cloudless skies over a pall of white; with its nights when great fleecy clouds scudded across the face of a brilliant moon, causing long shadows and streaks of pale light to chase each other across the white, frozen fields and over the undulating ranges;—but the majority of the men who lived by buying and selling heeded it not nor did they admire its beauties. Some were browsing in the warmer clime of California and those who remained behind sat in the comfort of their clubs, still buying at a price and selling for more, or planning their early spring campaigns.

Graham Brenchfield was in Los Angeles. John Royce Pederstone held office in Victoria, and Eileen—but for an occasional flying visit—remained with her father.

Phil and Jim—no longer the Swede's apprentice and the irresponsible, occasional drunk, but men whose opinions counted, whose lead was worth following, whose actions carried force—continued to paddle quietly and cautiously down the Stream of Conditions toward the Cataract of Consequences. Far away they could hear the roar of the rushing, falling waters which, so far, others failed or refused to hear.

With the first blink of spring, the old frenzy of the previous few years reasserted itself, and business in land and ranches and town property showed early signs of breaking all previous records.

The Langford-Ralston Company were in almost every transaction; but it was not until the blossoms were again on the trees that someone suddenly realised a strange fact.

The private-exchange girl in the L.-R. Company switched the call to Phil's desk.

"Hullo! Brixton talking. That you, Jim?"

"No, Pete! Jim's out. This is Ralston."

"Well,—I guess you'll do. Say!—what's the matter with that outfit of yours, anyway?"

"Don't know, Peter. Tell me, and I'll try to fix it."

"Oh, no, you won't! But why the devil don't you fellows buy some real-estate once in a while?"

"What have you got, Pete? Any snaps?"

"Come off the perch, Phil! You know what I'm gettin' at. Are you fellows trying to create a slump or some such damned thing?"

"No,—certainly not! That would be poor business for a real-estate agent."

"Well,—why the devil are you the bear in every transaction you put through? It didn't used to be that way. Every broker in town's been buying from you fellows all this year."

"Somebody's got to sell, if there's to be any buying. Now,—don't get rattled, Pete. It is up to you. Sell if you want to. Nobody will stop you."

Peter Brixton's voice grew more conciliatory.

"What do you fellows know, anyway? You might let me in on it. We've done lots of business together."

"We don't know a thing, Peter; just surmise. And everyone knows it, for we haven't hidden anything."

"That there's going to be a tightening up for a while?"

"Yes!"

"That it is coming soon?"

"No!"

"What then?"

"That it has come."

Peter laughed a little hilariously, then his laugh ended with a touch of nervousness.

"Say!—is that straight goods, Phil?"

"Just our private opinion, Pete!"

"Well,—I think you're about two years out in your guess, but I'm going to try a little selling just to be in the fashion. Thanks, old man!"

"You'd better hurry up then, Peter."

Phil had hardly hung up the receiver, when Jim rushed in, his rugged face full of excitement.

"Read that!" he shouted, thrusting a cablegram under Phil's nose. "By gad!—but we've been lucky; every client of ours has had a chance to sell. If he wouldn't do it, he has only himself to blame now."

The message was in code, with the interpretation scrawled underneath by Jim. It was from Jim's father's firm, Langford & Macdonald of Edinburgh.

"Extend no more loans in behalf this firm meantime. Informed Canadian Banks about to cease practice of extending credit on security of realty purchases. Letter follows."

Phil rose slowly and extended his hand to his partner.

"Jim, you're a wonder—a blooming wizard."

Jim grinned, but he was well pleased.

"If it hadn't been for your opinion, rammed well down my throat morning, noon and night, I guess the Langford-Ralston Financial Corporation would not be quite so well thought of after this comes out, as it will be in the light of the quiet but persistent advice it has given its clients. And to think of it—your father wires as if he were the absolute and only detector of this information, while it was your letter of six months ago that set him on the hunt for it and started him on his conservatism regarding loans in general."

Jim laughed.

"That's just my old dad's way, Phil. He knows who put him on to it and what's more, he knows we know. You never heard of a Scots business man admitting that his son knew anything he didn't—at least, admitting it to his son.

"How much money have we in the bank?"

Phil beckoned the accountant, who brought the desired information.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand, six hundred and twenty dollars."

"Great Scotland Yard! And all straight commissions on realty and loans. Isn't it a corker though, how it grows?

"Well,—it represents a turn-over of over six million dollars one way and another. That's something any two-year-old firm might be proud of."

"And two years ago I was——You know what, Jim!"

"And two years ago I was Captain Mayne Plunkett of dime novel repute—or disrepute—with glazed pants and a celluloid collar."

"And Aunt Christina of 'Love Notes' fame," Phil reminded.

Jim put up his hand. "Hush! Let the dead bury their dead.

"But it beats the Dutch all the same how offers keep coming in on a man when he doesn't require them; yet, when he's nearly down and out, he can't even get a political speech to report."

"That's simple enough too, Jim. You know the reason; you have preached it in this business long enough.

"Think failure and you bring every brooding failure carrion-crow in the Universe to roost on the top rail of your iron bedstead. Think success, look success, live success,—and success walks in at your front door, while everyone helps you along the same way with each thought he gives your apparent success, even if his thought be simply one of envy."

"Yes!—and as you are aware, my one object in life when I was slightly younger was to be a successful novelist. But no publisher would look at me. Then I got my nose in on this penny-a-line Deadwood Dick stuff—which I shall never despise, for many a square meal I have had to fill a round hole off the fifty dollars a book they netted me.

"To-day I have a letter from the publishers of these same paper 'Horribles,' enclosing six of my poor, starved, mental offsprings. They are the pick of fifty which they say I have written."

Jim took off his hat and passed his fingers through his hair.

"Lord! I didn't know, Phil,—honest to goodness!—I didn't know I had written so many.

"They say these six, with a little toning up in language, a little toning down in cold-blooded murder and exclamatory remarks, would make ideal, cloth-bound books for boys, for Sunday School prizes and junior libraries. They offer me royalties on each if I execute the work for them under my real name."

"Aren't you going to take it on? I really think you should. It would give you a certain amount of literary permanency. I've told you all along that you ought to be doing nobler work in that line than ten-cent 'hair-raisers.'"

"Me? No, thanks! Captain Mayne Plunkett is as dead a deader as Aunt Christina. Requiescat in pace."

He waved his hand in dismissal of the subject.

"'On with the dance—let joy be unconfined.'"

"Phil," said Jim seriously, half an hour afterwards, "Royce Pederstone is going to come a terrible cropper over this business. He is mortgaged up to the neck and, singly or with some of the political gang, he is in almost every realty proposition we hear of."

"I know it. I've tried my best to make him see it, but he says if he doesn't have faith in the Valley, who will."

"But this isn't a question of faith;—it is a shortage of money and a tightening up of foreign capital chiefly."

"I've told him. I am worried sick over it. But he refuses to move."

"Let's send him a wire now," suggested Jim.

In five minutes the message in cipher was on the way.

"Definite information banks closing down immediately with loans on realty. Mortgagees not renewing. Advise prompt sale. Wire lowest prices."

The reply came in an hour and a half.

"Think information canard. Sell Remington Ranch eighty thousand dollars, Pedloe Ranch fifty thousand dollars, Bonnington Ranch forty thousand dollars."

Phil and Jim scoured the town, but there were no buyers at the figures, for they were rocket-high.

They wired again, quoting best offers, but no answer came that afternoon.

On the day following, Graham Brenchfield, stout and prosperous-looking as ever, stepped inside the office for the first time, as bold as brass too.

"Nice day, boys!" he shouted familiarly. "Would like to see you two for a minute."

To Phil's inquiring eyes, he appeared slightly flustered.

"Come in here!" said Jim, beckoning him to the inner office, where Phil followed, closing the door behind him.

"You fellows have a pretty fine lay-out here," the Mayor began, chewing at his cigar.

"Pretty fine!"

"Guess you've got us all skinned now, Phil. Wouldn't like to take me in on that old fifty-fifty proposition?" he inquired sarcastically.

"If you have come in on any funny stuff," answered Phil, rising, "then you'd better get outside. We haven't the time for it."

"Shucks! Don't get sore! I don't want to make you mad to-day. I've had a scrap with the bank this morning and I'm going to make them sit up for a while and guess."

"That is quite a big proposition."

"All the better! I hear you folks have lots of money to loan?" he queried.

"Yes!—and what?" put in Jim.

"I wish to borrow some."

"Yes!"

"I'm paying eight percent, with first-class security."

"Ugh-huh!"

"I want forty thousand dollars for two years."

"Ay!"

"Can I have it?"

"No!"

Brenchfield looked sidelong at Jim, then at Phil; and back again at Jim.

"Good Lord! You can have the best ranch in the country as security."

"On second mortgage?"

"Sure! Why not? The first mortgage don't amount to a hill of beans. You could buy it out any old time."

"No, thanks! Not to-day! Man, but you've got your nerve! What do you think we are, anyway?—a charity institution?" growled Jim.

Brenchfield flushed, but he swallowed his anger.

"Would the bank loan you on second mortgage?" pursued Jim.

"No!—guess not!"

"Well,—neither will the Langford-Ralston Company."

"I'll give you ten percent."

"Not if you made it twenty percent."

Brenchfield sat in silence for a moment. Suddenly he seemed to make a resolve.

"Will you lend me forty thousand dollars on first mortgage on my Redmans Ranch?"

Jim gasped, and Phil sucked with his lips, for the Redmans Ranch was Brenchfield's one best bet; it was one of the finest and largest ranches on that side of the Okanagan Lake.

Jim winked to Phil.

"Would the bank lend you forty thousand dollars on it?" asked Phil.

"Sure!" braved the Mayor. "They'd be tickled to death to do it."

Phil got up.

"I guess you'd better make friends with them and get their loan. We haven't any desire for the name of Graham Brenchfield on our books;—it wouldn't look good."

The Mayor jumped up, his face livid.

"What's that?" he cried. "You—you would say that to me who could squeeze you like this——"

"No good! You tried hard to do it several times, but it wouldn't work."

"Haven't you got a say in this, Langford?"

"Yes!—and my say's the same as Phil's."

"By God! I'll fix both of you good and plenty before I'm through. You—you pair of Real Estate sharks!"

Jim pounced on him and pinned him against the door before he could say another word. Brenchfield was impotent.

"Another word o' that, and I'll bang your heid through the panel," exclaimed Jim, rising as usual in his anger to his beloved native tongue.

Brenchfield quieted down, lamblike, and Jim released him.

He spoke to Jim and pointed his finger at Phil.

"You wouldn't feel so mighty bad about what I say, if you knew you had a ticket-of-leave jailbird for a partner."

"Yes, you dirty, black-mailing thief!" answered Jim. "I know—and if you open your trap here or anywhere else, I'll put you where you belong, whether Phil agrees to it or not,—see!

"You're broke, Brenchfield. The bank has got you, and got you good. They'll show you what squeezing is; damn you for what you are!

"Here's your hat! Get out! And, by Heck!—as I open the door for you,—smile; for heaven's sake, smile, and delude the staff that we've had a nice, genial, conversational love-feast."

But Mayor Brenchfield's jaunty air had departed. He tried hard to appear unconcerned as he hurried away, but the smile was frozen at the tap and refused to turn on.

"Things are getting lively," remarked Jim. "Here are some more!"

The outer office was filled with inquirers.

All morning Phil and Jim were kept busy turning prospective money buyers down.

The news of the banks' new attitude regarding the advancing of money on the security of realty had spread quickly. Property values flopped like a house of cards and interest rates soared sky-high.

At the end of the week, Eileen's father telegraphed his acceptance of the offers made for his property the previous Monday. But these offers were already withdrawn, and even ridiculous prices were hard to get, as everyone was keen on selling and no one at all anxious to purchase.

It was the old story, which had repeated itself time and again in almost every new town and settlement on the American Continent. Someone had to bear the burden of it at the finish. No one was particularly anxious to be that one. All were scrambling to get out from under. Mother Earth and Father Money had put their feet down, as they always do, sooner or later.

In the midst of the excitement, Phil and Jim had a strange visitor. For the first time to their knowledge, he was Canadianised in appearance. His slippers were substituted for boots, his loose-fitting clothes were in the discard for a second-hand suit of European model, several sizes too big for him, and he was minus his pig-tail.

At first glance, Jim was unable to recognise him, then he laughed.

"Good land, Phil! See what the breeze has blown in. Ah Sing!

"How-do, Ah,—or is it, Sing!"

"Ya! You lemember me,—Ah Sing! Me allee same Canadian."

The Chinaman was brazen as brass. But evidently he had something on his mind.

"Me no work any more lanch. Bossee man no likee Chinaman!"

"I don't blame him!" answered Jim, across the polished counter.

"Me go back next week my old job. Me go back work in big bank. Me be janitor. Me washee window, washee floor; watchman allee night-time,—see!"

"You be heap scared, Sing! Devil he get you in bank."

"No,—me no scared! Me bling three, four black cat. Me losem pig-tail,—me Canadian,—me no scared no more."

"Canadian,—but still hanging on to the black cat theory,—eh! That's just typical of what we have to suffer, Phil, in this country.

"Well, the bank has a lot to answer for. Man, Phil, but it would serve them rightly if they got let in some day, employing that kind of labour when they could get decent white if only they cared to pay the price.

"Sing!—what you want? We heap busy."

"I catchem letter my uncle,—see!"

He handed a paper to Jim which was brushed over with black Chinese characters.

"Maybe you are a Canuck, Sing, but I'm no blooming Chinaman. What does this say?"

"I catchem this letter from China to-day. He say allee place my wifee and my mama live, rain come down allee time. No come down water."

Ah Sing's face was solemn as a priest's.

"It come down blood—pigs' hair, too; one, two feet deep, all over. Heap bad! I want catchem money send my uncle so he, and my wifee, my mama, all go away other place.

"If I no send, they die,—see! I need one hundled dollar. I no have him. You give me one hundled dollar. I pay back one, two, thlee month after I work bank."

Jim shook his head.

"Yes!—you givem me. I pay back, sure!"

"No, siree,—not a darned cent! Your uncle, he fool you, Sing."

Sing paid no attention to the remark.

"You no givem?"

"No!"

"All lightee. I guess me tly Mayor Blenchfield. He know me heap good. Maybe he lendem."

And off he went.

"A fat chance he has of getting a hundred dollars from Brenchfield at this stage of the game," exclaimed Jim.

"But what's the crazy lunatic's idea, anyway?" asked Phil.

"Oh, this raining pigs' hair and blood stuff is an old gag. Something like the Spanish prisoner business. It is just a put-up job by relatives in China to get money out of their superstitious friends over here. They play on one another's credulity for a fare-you-well.

"And he fancies he is now a Canadian. Gee!—but we're the easy marks in this country:—Chinks, Japs, Hindoos, Doukhobors, niggers and God only knows what else. It sure is the melting pot. But some of them will have a great time melting,—believe me!"

Phil went back to his desk and opened up the day's mail. In it there was a letter from Eileen, full of love, but overloaded with sorrow, for it contained the disquieting news that her father had been taken suddenly ill in the House and had had to be conveyed home. The doctors at Victoria had recommended a speedy return to the Valley, and Eileen and her father were taking that advice and following by the next day's train.

Phil drove down to meet them on arrival, and he was terribly shocked to see the change that had come over the recently hale, hearty, healthy, ruddy-complexioned old rancher and politician. He seemed absolutely broken down and full of anxiety to be in his own home. He talked all the way there in a most disjointed manner regarding his property and his business affairs, which to Phil was anything but reassuring, for John Royce Pederstone, although careless in regard to many things, was for the most part shrewd and at all times polished, connected and logical in his speech and argument.

Poor little Eileen was broken-hearted. Phil tried hard to make light of her father's condition, but she remained inconsolable; he endeavoured to convince her that business affairs might really not be half so bad as they seemed, but it was against his own personal opinion, consequently it was unconvincing, and Eileen was not deceived.

"It isn't any good, boy!" she remarked sadly, as they sat together. "It is just as bad as it can be. Everything he has is held as security by the bank. He is in it also with property in Vancouver, Victoria, New Westminster and Prince Rupert. I have gone through it—and it is absolutely hopeless. There is nothing left for him in honour to do but to assign everything. This house and ranch is all that will be left, because it was made over to me over a year ago—but it will have to go, too."

"Oh, no, it won't! They can't touch it if it is yours."

"Phil, boy!—do you think I would hold it if daddy owed a cent? Shame for you!"

"But I tell you, dearie, it would be madness to throw this place in. It wouldn't save your dad any, for it isn't nearly enough."

Eileen simply shook her head sadly.

"It is no good! If I let this go, it will mean so much less that poor daddy will owe. And that will be something, after all.

"Eileen Pederstone means to be able to hold her head up, and she could never do it if she clung on to this."

"Have you any idea how much he would require to tide things over, Eileen?"

"I am not sure, but with this place sold even at a sacrifice, maybe a hundred thousand dollars more might stop the gap till the pendulum swings back a little. And—it might not! It might simply be throwing good money after bad."

"Eileen,—Jim and I have made two hundred and fifty thousand dollars between us in cold cash. It is in the bank, thanks to you and the promise you got me to make when we started in. Half of that money is mine. I don't require it. Won't you let me come into this; it means you and me anyway in the finish. Your father can secure me in any way he likes. My money would satisfy the bank's claim and steady his holdings. Won't you let me do this for you and your father?"

"And leave you with a lot of unsaleable property instead of hard cash? No, Phil,—absolutely no! And if you make this offer to my dad, it will mean the end for you and me, for I could never feel otherwise towards you than that I had in some way been bought."

"Eileen!" remonstrated Phil, hurt at her words.

She burst into tears and hid her face on his shoulder.

"Oh,—I just can't bear it. I hardly know what I have been saying. I didn't mean it quite that way, Phil. But you must not suggest putting your money into this. People would never finish talking over it."

"Yet you were willing to take me, Eileen, when your father's position looked secure as the country itself and I had hardly one nickel to rub against another."

"But you had ambition. You were brimming over with it. Nothing could ever have stopped you from making progress sooner or later. And I knew that. Lack of money means nothing to a young man with the ambition which you had, and still have. As for me, I shall have nothing now but myself."

"And me, Eileen, for I'll never let you back out. Why,—if you wish it, I'll leave everything here as it stands, or I'll give it away,—and we can go somewhere else and start all over."

"But that wouldn't be fair, if I did agree."

"Then, dearie, just let me help."

"No,—no,—no!"

"But the land should be saved,—at least, as much of it as we can save. It is of the best, and when the real merits of the fruit of this Valley are known, when the markets are opened up for us and transportation facilities are improved, the land will be worth much more than it is now, for the younger orchards will be bearing heavier and heavier year by year. Eileen, we want to hold what we can of your father's property, unhampered."

"Oh, yes!—you are terribly logical and convincing, but I won't love you any more if you get mixed up in this;—it is too, too hopeless."

"Immovable as Vancouver Island! and yet they talk of frail femininity. Ah, Eileen! as difficult to understand as, as any other lady!"

Eileen sighed, went over to the window and parted the curtains, as she looked out over the peaceful Valley. Phil went to her side.

Up on the hill as they were, overlooking the surrounding country, they almost forgot their troubles under Nature's hypnotism. The sky overhead was opalescent; the ranges, dotted with grazing cattle and unbroken horses, were bathed in sunshine. Away below them, the little town, with its long Main Street of business houses and its stretch of regular shade trees, drowsed in an adolescent contentment. All around lay farm houses surrounded by fields in cultivation with parallel lines of fruit trees. In the distance, due west between the hills, the blue waters of the Okanagan Lake sparkled in a winding streak which melted into the sky.

Phil put his arm round Eileen and drew her to him.

"And we talked about leaving all this, dearie!"

She looked up at him with moist eyes, and her voice trembled.

"Oh, Phil!—I couldn't—I just couldn't! If I did, I should be leaving part of me behind."

He stooped and kissed her.

"And you won't, sweetheart;—not if I know it!"

A streak of dust rose from the roadway and an automobile turned quickly in to the avenue.

"Here comes the doctor, Phil, to see daddy."

"I'll be off then, girlie! I'll 'phone later to find out how he is progressing."



CHAPTER XXV

The Bank Robbery

Phil was sound asleep in bed when a noise of some kind brought him partly back to sensibility. He turned uneasily. The noise came again. Someone was throwing gravel up at his window. He jumped out of bed, pulled out the sliding screen-window and looked over.

A man on horseback was below.

"That you, Phil?"

"Yes!"

The horseman was Howden, the recently promoted Police Chief.

"Big things doing! If you're game for a night ride, wake Jim and both of you come down quick. We're shy of men and you two have a pair of good horses."

"What is it?"

"Tell you when you come. Bring a gun, and hurry, for every minute counts."

Phil went to Jim's room across the passage. Jim, ever ready for an adventure, was on the floor in a second; and both were dressed and downstairs in five minutes.

"Won't a car take us quicker?"

"No!" replied Howden. "It is likely to be a chase over the ranges."

They saddled their horses and lined up on each side of the Police Chief, who immediately started off.

"Cattle thieves?" asked Jim.

"Worse'n that! The Commercial Bank's been broken into, the safe blowed up and every blamed bill in the institootion pinched."

"Well, I'll be-darned!"

"Just our blasted luck, too!" said Howden quickly and in excitement as they trotted on, "Jamieson, my deputy, is in Vancouver, sick; Hardie went to Kamloops yesterday with a couple of prisoners. There is hardly a real policeman in town,—only me, Downie and McConnachie.

"The Mayor left on the train two days ago for the Coast.

"Downie, who for once wasn't boozed, noticed someone slip over the back window at the Bank. There were half a dozen of them in the lane, he says. He couldn't do a thing but watch. Three of them took off by the B.X. way on horseback; two of them made for the Coldcreek Road, and the other two made for the Okanagan Landing. Downie thinks there is another, but he isn't sure."

"Where are they all now?" asked Jim.

"Tell you later.

"We've to go up along the Kelowna Road, case any of them double back and try that way. They've got a hell of a haul among them. We'll be coverin' nearly every road, for Downie has scared up a bunch and is off up the B.X. route. McConnachie got three with him on to the Landing. Thompson, the Government Agent, is away hell-for-leather with Morrison on the Coldcreek Road.

"Gee!—but it'll be great dope if I land them."

"It will be further promotion and highly commended," remarked Phil.

Howden grinned, but the grin could only be surmised by the others, for it was dark just preceding the dawn. They cantered quickly up the hill and on to the level winding road cut along the side of the hills, with the endless ranges on the right and a sheer drop into the Kalamalka Lake on the immediate left.

"But how did they pull it off, Howden? Didn't the bank have a watchman on the premises?"

"Sure they had!—that greasy Chink, Ah Sing, and half a dozen black cats."

Jim laughed.

"We found Sing gagged and tied up to one of the big desks."

Jim whistled.

"Where is Sing now?"

"Where we can get him when we want him," answered Howden. "I put him under lock and key right away."

"The best place for him," remarked Jim.

"He's whimpering like a baby-monkey, too. We'll get all we want out of him before he's long there."

"Did you find out how they got into the bank?"

"That's the fishy bit! Sing says he opened the door and looked out for a breath of air, when someone hit him over the nut. The next he says he remembers was being tied up. His head is cut open all right, but all the same, I wouldn't wonder if the Chink's a liar."

"They say they have a reputation for that kind of thing," put in Phil.

Jim's brain was busy, but he remained silent.

They galloped hard along that part of the road which diverged from the Lake, keeping their eyes to the right in the direction of the old trail between the hills to the Landing, and straight ahead also where the road ran parallel again three hundred feet above the water.

There was no moon. The night was dark, but away over Blue Nose Mountain the grey of dawn was slowly creeping.

Like a writhing snake, the Kelowna Road turned and twisted round the hills which almost precipitated into the dark waters below.

The riders were now going Indian file owing to the darkness and the narrowness of the path. Phil, who was ahead—for he had a horse that refused to stay in the rear of any other horse—turned the first bend. He reined back suddenly, causing the others to do the same. He held up a warning hand.

Cautiously they looked ahead round the crumbling rock.

Half-way between where they were and the next turn, a lone horseman was standing, intent on the adjusting of the girths and heavy saddlebags on his steaming horse. He looked over his shoulder every second or so in the direction of the Landing, as if he feared he might be suddenly surprised.

"By God!" whispered Howden, atremble with excitement, "one of them!"

"Sssh!" cautioned Phil.

Gathering for a dash, they sprang round the turn with a yell, Phil's horse fairly leaping ahead of the others.

The man by the horse looked up in astonishment. Evidently he had not been anticipating pursuit from that quarter. With an astounding agility for a man of his apparent bulk, he sprang clear from the ground into the saddle of his tall horse, and he was off like a whirlwind.

The three followed after at breakneck speed, but neither Jim's horse nor Howden's was a match for the great striding beast in front of them. Phil's speedy little mare was the only one that could in any way hold its own.

They covered a mile in a heart-breaking pace, and by that time Phil was three hundred yards in front of Jim and Howden, with the hunted man two hundred yards further ahead still.

At every bend and turn, Phil's heart stood still in the fear of an ambush, but he could do nothing but take that chance, if he ever wished to keep his quarry in sight. The lone rider, however, had evidently only one thought and that was to shake his pursuers.

The light was creeping up every minute. Phil looked away behind him and fancied he saw other riders tailing in behind Jim and Howden,—which was true, for the two had been joined by McConnachie and one other who had pursued the horseman but had been outridden by him over the old road from Okanagan Landing.

Phil began to realise that he was slowly gaining. The man ahead also became anxiously aware of the fact, for he cast a critical glance over his shoulder every now and again as if measuring the space between.

Through the part gloom, Phil noticed that he was masked and heavily bearded. He was unable to identify the figure with any he had seen in the Valley, and it flashed through his mind in a sub-conscious way that possibly a gang from the other side of the Line had engineered the bank robbery. Yet there was something in the gait of the great, striding, shadowy horse that was strangely familiar to him, even in the darkness that still held almost undisputed sway.

Twice that great brute ahead stumbled as if almost spent. Foot by foot Phil gained, until a bare fifty yards divided them.

The horseman rounded another bend in the road. Phil dashed along in hot chase.

He slowed up a bit, for the turning was treacherous. From the shadow of one of the great, shelving, cut-away rocks, the horseman in waiting jumped out on him. Phil's mare plunged its fore feet into the soft earth, then reared in terror. The robber pulled a gun and fired. The shot nicked a tiny piece from Phil's ear as it sang past. The man shot again, this time without any apparent effect. He wheeled round, spurred his horse and dashed off once more along the narrow path, making for the last turn in the precipitous highway ere it ran from the side of the Lake across a cut in the hills and into the thickly wooded country.

Phil shook his reins. His mare sprang forward eagerly and held her own for a little. But suddenly she began to swing in her stride, then she stumbled, almost throwing her rider. Phil pulled her in and jumped to the ground, just in time, for she collapsed in a quivering heap, with blood oozing from a tiny hole in her chest and from her foaming mouth and distended nostrils.

Something rose in Phil's throat, almost choking him. In his chagrin, he raised his fist and shook it at the retreating horseman, who, as if sensing his opponent's impotence at the same time as he became exultant over his triumph and escape, stood up in his stirrups, turned completely in his saddle, pulled off his hat and waved it defiantly.

It was thus that he mirrored himself on Phil's mind as he disappeared momentarily round that dangerous bend.

But it was only for the flash of a second that the picture was shut out. There was a shout and the sound of a crash. The great horse reappeared at the sharp angle of the path, rearing high on its hind legs, with its rider clinging precariously to its perpendicular body as he struggled frantically with the stirrups as if trying to kick free. The animal backed wildly against the frail wooden rail on the left—erected there simply for the safety of pedestrians in the dark. The fence gave way like matchwood, the rearing figure of the horse with its rider balanced on the edge for a moment, then slowly toppled backward amid a rush of loose, falling debris, sheer two hundred feet to the rocky bed of the shallow water of the Lake below.

Phil was petrified at the sight, but he quickly regained his composure, left his dying horse and ran forward to the scene of the accident.

Jim Langford, Howden, McConnachie and the ever-ready Morrison of The O.K. Company came racing along behind, reaching the place simultaneously with him.

Immediately on the other side of the cut-away, an old Chinaman was lying nursing a damaged and bloody head, and about him was littered the wreckage of his broken wagon and scattered vegetables; while his ramshackle horse was grazing unconcernedly a few yards farther along.

"By God!—we got him," again exclaimed Howden, mopping his face as he got off his horse.

They peered over the edge of the precipice.

"Dead, I guess, from the looks of that tangle down there!" said Jim.

"Have you any idea who he is?"

"No!" answered Phil. "An old, hard-nut, evidently. He is masked and wears a beard. I am positive, though, that the horse is Brenchfield's. They must have known its matchless speed and stolen it. He sure was some rider to take a chance with that brute."

"Gee!—the Mayor'll have a cat-fit when we tell him. He was bugs on that horse o' his," said Howden.

"Who is going down to bring him up?" asked McConnachie.

"I'll go," put in Howden.

"No!—better let Phil go! He is not quite so heavy as you are, Howden, and he has more spring to him."

Ropes were taken from the saddles and joined together. Phil was lowered slowly over the side and down. He reached the bottom in safety, but was unable to do anything single-handed, for the great dead horse was lying completely on top of the dead rider.

"Better come down, Jim," he shouted up. "It is more than a one man job."

He sent up his rope, and soon Jim was down beside him. Together they partly dragged and partly rolled the horse from off the dead man. Its neck had apparently been broken in the fall.

Every bone in the body of the bank robber was crushed and broken with the weight of the horse falling on top. But his masked and bearded face appeared to be unmarred. Life was completely gone.

Phil stooped down and removed the mask. As he did so, his face turned ashy pale and his breath began to come in gulps. Quickly and nervously he put his fingers through the man's black beard and tugged. The hair came away in his hands, and he gazed in horror at a face he was well familiar with.

He rose from his knee, passed his hand over his eyes and his brow, then staggered against the damp bank.

"Great God, Jim! It's—it's Brenchfield!" he gasped.

Jim stood looking silently at the corpse on the ground, his face peculiarly unperturbed. He stepped over to Phil and put his arm comfortingly over his shoulder.

"Well, old man! his sins have found him out at last. He had to come back to it,—a thief always does. He's got the last hair out of the dog that bit him.

"Brace up, old fellow! I hate to ask you to handle him, but—well—the hate part of it is gone now."

Phil recovered himself and quietly assisted Jim in adjusting the rope round the great, limp body.

They did not shout their discovery to those above, but left the surprise of it to the arrival.

But they had to wait some time and had to shout several times before the rope was lowered by the half-stupefied men above.

Jim and Phil loosened the saddlebags from the dead horse. These were stuffed to overflowing with bills of all denominations; seemingly the entire theft from the Commercial Bank.

One after the other, each carrying a bag, Phil and Jim were pulled up on to the roadway.

"The dirty, two-faced son-of-a-gun!" was the only remark made, and it came from Howden. No other words were necessary, for that phrase expressed their opinions concretely.

Brenchfield's body was hoisted and swung across Howden's horse in front of the Chief, and the man-hunters proceeded homeward at a canter.

"How did you get over from the Landing?" asked Jim of McConnachie.

"Oh,—we got there in good time and didn't meet a darned thing all the way. We got to Allison's wharf. The old man's launch was there, tied up for the night. But there was another one alongside of it. We were just comin' back to have a look about, when him and two more came bang into us from over the hill. We jumped to our nags, and they turned and beat it back. God knows where the other two got to. They looked like breeds to me. We made after him because he had full saddlebags and looked like the head-boss man.

"But that she-devil of a horse,—it left us a mile behind. We hadn't the ghost of an idea he was anyways near when we hit your bunch.

"But where in the name of Pete the darn-fool idiot was making for, gets my goat. Who would make for Kelowna when there's miles of ranges to roam in?"

"Aw!—get off your foot!" exclaimed the knowing Howden. "He meant to get that launch at the Landing first of all and make for his ranch at Redmans, or maybe for Penticton and down over the Line. When you guys fooled him, he came up over here, meaning to beat it back Vernock way, down Kickwillie Loop, I guess, on to the shore road at the head of the Lake and out the Coldcreek to the foot-hills, and over to the Other Side that way.

"If he had ever gotten a head start, we'd never have seen skin or hair of him."

"But why didn't he? Wasn't you ginks chasin' him to Kelowna?"

"Sure!—but weren't we between him and the road he wanted to get onto,—simp?"

McConnachie let the sense of it sink, but it seemed to take a long time.

When the procession reached the awakening town he remarked, "I see now! You guys blocked him same as we did at the Landing."

"Just exactly!" remarked Jim. "We all saw it two hours ago." As for Howden, he was past remarking anything.

The news of the robbery, of the escape of all but one, and of the dead-capture—and the climax in regard to the identity of that dead robber—caused a tremendous sensation throughout the Valley. It was the talk of the entire country for very many days to follow. A number of respectable citizens, of course, were shocked beyond words; others shook their heads and said it was just what they had expected. But the great fact remained:—Graham Brenchfield, several times Mayor of Vernock, Rancher, Cattle breeder, Wholesale Produce Dealer and Political Boss had been caught red-handed in the biggest bank robbery the Province had ever known.



CHAPTER XXVI

The Dawn of a New Day

Phil was busily engaged going over the day's mail early one afternoon, on a sweltering day in the month of August of that same eventful year, when his attention was drawn to an envelope addressed to himself and bearing the Government imprint.

He opened it and read the contents of the letter slowly. He laughed softly in the gurgling, boyish way he used to laugh years before. That letter awakened something in him that seemed to have been asleep. And it gave him an irresponsibly happy sort of feeling.

He read the letter over again. It was perfectly plain:

Mr. Philip Ralston, Vernock, B. C.

Dear Sir,

Among the papers left by the late Graham Brenchfield, late Mayor of Vernock, was one addressed to The Attorney General, in which he confessed to being the sole culprit in the assault on the bank official and in the robbery of the branch bank at Carnaby several years ago. For this crime, you were tried by jury and sentenced to a term of five years imprisonment. You served the full term of this sentence at the penitentiary at Ukalla.

The whole matter has been carefully gone into by me and I find that Brenchfield's statements are borne out by every point in the case and that you were convicted on purely circumstantial evidence, although this evidence was of a most damning nature.

The Government can accept no responsibility for the mistake of your incarceration on account of the fact that you could have cleared yourself at the time had you chosen to do so, instead of which you aided and abetted the escape of the real criminal.

I have much pleasure, however, in advising you that your conviction has been quashed; your name has been struck out entirely from the criminal records of the Province and from the books of Ukalla Penitentiary.

We have known for some time of your residence in Vernock and have watched with interest your splendid business achievements.

Your obedient servant,

J. GALBRAITH SAMUELS,

Attorney General.

Phil was still in his chair with the letter in his hand, dreaming and wondering at the strange cycle about which every human being turns, when Jim,—wayward, devil-may-care Jim—came in, with a grin on his face and his hat set jauntily over one side of his head. He sat down at his own desk, turned over a few papers impatiently, then started to dream also. Suddenly he threw the papers aside and commenced to walk the office floor, going to the door every once in a while and looking up the street in the direction of the Railway Station.

From the door he shouted suddenly:—

"Say, Phil!—I'm going up the length of the Station Hotel to see a man about a dog. I'll be back shortly." And he hurried off.

In fifteen minutes he returned, and he tried hard to settle down to the dictation of a few letters, but he was a dismal failure in his attempt, for he sighed and remarked to the stenographer: "Oh, pshaw! I'm on the blink for work to-day. Cancel that! I'll give you the remainder to-morrow."

He went over to the window and gazed out into the street.

Phil picked up the letter he had received and went over to Jim with it, intending to let him read it. He clapped Jim on the back, making the latter jump.

"Wake up, Jim! What's got you this time?"

Jim turned to him. "Gee, Phil!—positively and absolutely, the most charming piece of femininity I have ever seen is in Vernock to-day."

"Good heavens!" ejaculated Phil. "Why didn't you tell me that Eileen was down town?"

"Look here, old man!—I said, the most charming lady that I had ever seen, not that you had ever seen."

"Oh!" apologised Phil, "I—I see."

"No,—but straight goods! I was up at the station when the train came in, and she came off, with her mother and dad, I guess they were."

"Strangers?"

"Yes! They went right to the Station Hotel. But I tell you——" He stopped. "Oh, well!—what's the good? Guess she's married, or engaged, or something like that! Just my rotten luck!"

"And what has that got to do with you, anyway? Who are they? Did you get introduced?"

"Me? Good land, no!"

"Well,—did she look at you, or smile?"

"No, siree! She's not that kind. Maybe she gave me a look, but say!—she glided along as if—well, just as if she knew she had a right to."

"And you are making all this fuss about a little thing like that," laughed Phil.

"But it isn't a little thing, man!"

"Do you know her name?"

"No! I went up to the hotel to get a glimpse of the register, but she was around the desk there, waiting, I guess, for her dad to come down. So I just had to beat it back.

"Oh,—I'll find out before long, though. Believe me!"

Phil laughed, for this was a new phase in the make-up of Jim Langford, whom he had always considered impervious to the charms of any lady.

"Laugh, you crazy nut! Who would expect you to understand, anyway?"

Suddenly he sobered.

"You've got something there you want to show me."

Phil handed over the letter he was holding.

Jim read it, and his big, honest face beamed in delight. He pounced on Phil and wrung his hand.

"Man,—isn't that great now? He owned up,—the dirty sinner. But he waited till he was a dead one before he did it.

"Well!—better late than never. And here was I, thrusting my new notions on to you when you had good news like that to spring on me. Man, but I'm a selfish rotter!

"But, say, Phil!—honest!" he reverted dreamily, "she was a positive vision."

There is no saying how long the conversation would have gone on, had not a telephone message come from the bank requesting Jim's attendance there immediately.

He hurried off, and was away most of the afternoon.

Towards closing time, Phil was standing at the kerb-stone, beside his car, when a tall young lady, fashionably attired and using a sunshade to tantalising advantage, crossed the road in front of him and stopped before one of the office windows. She stepped back a little, looked up at the sign over the doorway, "The Langford-Ralston Financial Corporation," and walked inside.

Phil followed, and was just in time to hear her inquiry.

"May I see Mr. Ralston or Mr. Langford, please?"

"Mr. Ralston is just behind you, miss."

The lady turned round.

She was tall, fair-skinned and, as Jim had said,—charming; for Phil knew in a second that she must be the same young lady of whom his partner had spoken.

Phil raised his hat and went forward to her. She smiled, and was about to address him when she stopped up. Her eyes grew wide and her face blanched. For almost a minute she stood staring at him, then she almost tottered to him. She put her hand on his sleeve, and her fingers ran loosely along his arm, as she still held his eyes with hers.

Her voice came at last, broken and in the faintest of whispers:—

"Philly,—oh, Philly! It is you! Don't you know me? Sister Margery!" Her voice rose. She threw her arms around his neck and cried:—"I've found you! Phil,—Phil,—my own, dear brother, Phil! Oh,—I've found you!"

And Phil, with a heart too full to speak, and a mind too astonished to grasp the situation thoroughly, held her to him as tears ran down his cheeks and on to her hair.

At last he led her into his own room, until both of them should regain their composure.

Years and years rolled back in these last few minutes.

She and Phil were happy little playmates together again.

"Oh, brother!" she said at last, "don't tell me any more. I can't hold it. Daddy is here. Let's wait for him. Poor old daddy! he's been starving for you, Philly, and heart-broken because he could not get news of you anywhere. He felt sure Graham Brenchfield would know,—and we have just heard of the dreadful things that he did. Daddy was afraid——"

She picked up the telephone, rang up the hotel and got into communication with her parents.

"Oh, daddy!—come down the Main Street to number one hundred and fifty-six. Come quick! Big, big news, daddy! Run all the way! Bring mother!"

She rang off again, lest she should be tempted to tell her father more.

Shortly afterwards, when the office staff had gone for the day, a tall, grey-haired, straight-backed gentleman came in, accompanied by a sweet-faced, motherly lady.

Phil stood waiting, with just a little reserve, but there was to be no waiting.

The big, kindly-faced man ran to his boy and hugged him in his arms. He then held him out from him, gazed on his face for a long time, then hugged him again.

"And I almost believed what they told me in the East. Oh, my boy! As if my own boy could be anything but straight, and clean, and honest!"

And there, in the little private room, Phil made his peace with the dear old lady he had wronged so long ago in his boyish idea of chivalry to his own departed mother.

One hour, two hours, three hours passed like so many seconds, as he told them of all his wanderings, his hardships, his disappointments, his ambitions and his ultimate success.

When he told them of how he had suffered five years in prison for Brenchfield because of the kindness Brenchfield's father and mother had shown in caring for him, in giving him a home and paying for his education—his old father's anger was almost at white heat.

"Paying, did you say, boy? By the Lord Harry!—not a cent did they ever pay for you. Why, boy!—it was you who kept them,—through me."

"That's what I've felt myself of late," said Phil, "but at that time I thought differently."

"For shame, Phil! Do you think I would let anyone provide for my boy, no matter where he might be, or what he might be? When you would not have the money I sent, I sent it to them regularly for your upkeep;—and much more besides, for they always had something to tell me of what you needed extra. I doubled the allowance when they sent you to college. Yes!—and it was three years after you had gone West before I knew of it, and then only through the death of Brenchfield's father and an inquiry I made through a firm of lawyers.

"We planned, not once but a hundred times, to go ourselves to Campbeltown in search of you. But I couldn't get away from my business affairs in Texas and your mother was too ill to travel alone. Last winter, however, I sold all my interests for cash, your mother made a great recovery, and we came away for a double purpose. First, to find you, if we could; next, to see if we should like to make a home out here, for we had heard much about this part of the country.

"For years Margery has pined her heart out for her old playmate, until she threatened to come herself if I would not come with her. But, Phil, boy!—there was little need for her threat, for your daddy could not have gone to his long rest without making peace with his boy.

"We heard that you had separated from Graham Brenchfield several years ago; that you had gone to the bad; and that nobody knew of your whereabouts.

"Of course, that rascal's wonderful, would-be success was well-known in his native town. We came on here to get what information we could from him, in the hope of being able to follow you up. And we found—well—he is gone now, so we'll say no more. But we found you, well and in a position I would expect my boy to make for himself."

Then Phil told them of his quaint, whimsical and brilliant partner, Jim Langford, but not a word, of course, of what Jim had said to him in regard to Margery.

At last he came to what was nearest to his heart, after all,—his love for Eileen Pederstone—following it hard with a recount of the tide of misfortune that had swept over her father.

"Jim and I have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in solid cash, dad,—and, if you have anything to put in, it would be the finest investment in the world to clear that property of its mortgages and put it in a position to earn its own keep.

"But, say!—aren't you folks hungry? It is eight-thirty, and I'm just beginning to feel I want dinner."

"Come on then, Phil,—we'll all go to the hotel and have a bite there, then you can 'phone for this wonderful Jim Langford and we can have a session."

At the hotel, while the ladies and Phil's father were upstairs, he was standing idly in the rotunda when Jim pushed out from the swing doors of the billiard room.

"Hullo, old boy!" he cried. "Sorry I couldn't get back before closing time. Say!—I've found out who the lady is."

"Allow you for that," remarked Phil.

"Funny though!—they have the same name as yourself,—Ralston. They are from some distant clime down Texas way. Man!—I wish they were cousins or something of yours. Can't you work up an acquaintance on the name, Phil? They've gone down town and haven't come back yet."

At that moment, the trio came down the carpeted stairway. Phil, who was facing them, quietly beckoned them forward, and before Jim knew how, he was surrounded.

"Meet my mother, Mr. Langford—Mrs. Ralston."

Jim gasped.

"My sister! Mr. Langford—Margery."

Jim's face underwent a series of changes. He stood and bowed stiffly, and was quite inarticulate.

"My dear old dad,—Jim."

And it was all over.

Phil enjoyed the joke immensely, but Jim was limp with the excitement of it and remained so for several courses of that interesting little dinner, although, towards the finish of it, he made ample amends with his dry humour and his brilliant sallies. He took possession of Margery finally, and Margery seemed greatly to enjoy being possessed, for to her Jim Langford was a type distinctly new, absolutely original and delightfully amusing.

Jim arranged a motor trip for the ladies for the next morning, and was reluctant indeed to wish them "Good night," in order to take part in the long business talk which Phil and Mr. Ralston, Senior, had arranged.

Right on until the early morning the three men sat in the smoking room of the Station Hotel discussing the country, the conditions and future possibilities.

Phil and Jim furnished the local information, until father Ralston became almost as well posted as they were themselves. He was a keen business man, one who knew good opportunities when they were presented and who was never afraid to grasp them.

Next morning early, as soon as he got up, Phil telephoned Eileen the wonderful news, but that alert little lady already knew, for the news had travelled quickly over the little town.

Soon thereafter, two cars—one containing the two ladies and Jim, and the other Phil and his father—ran up to Royce Pederstone's. Eileen and her father came out, were introduced, and the cheerful little party set out for a tour of inspection over the neighbourhood. Every ranch of importance was visited, particular attention being given to the many possessed by Royce Pederstone, who, although greatly improved in health, was still far from well; and the visit to the beautiful places he possessed in name only, the great areas of wonderful property that would have to pass out of his keeping to satisfy his bank creditors, seemed to cast fresh gloom over the old man.

They lunched in the open, and they visited the lakes.

While the elderly folks sat and talked together, Phil wandered off with Eileen down among the trees by the lake side. There in the shade, sitting on a grassy knoll, he told her of the plans his father and Jim and he were formulating. He cajoled her, he coaxed her, then he bullied her; but it was only when he proved to her that everything was purely in the nature of an investment, that there was no question of bolstering a tottering edifice, that it was only because of its great possibilities that they were anxious to be in it; it was only then that he won her over to their way of thinking.

Meantime Jim and Margery were away out on the lake in a motor boat, and they were both so loth to return that much hallooing and horn-honking had to be done before they swung round shoreward.

After dinner at Royce Pederstone's, the ladies gathered together for music and conversation, while the four men closeted themselves over their cigars, in order to thrash out the burning question.

"That, gentlemen, is my exact financial position, as far as I know it," said John Royce Pederstone, after a lengthy explanation. "This is the bank's statement of my indebtedness to them. I received it yesterday."

They studied the figures closely for a time, then Phil's father—shrewd business man, quick to grasp a situation; clear-visioned, frank, lucid and brief—put the proposition in a nut-shell.

"Mr. Pederstone,—the boys have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars eating their paper heads off in idleness in the bank. I have,—well—as much as I require at any time. I have come out West to settle, and I mean to do so. If we don't come to an arrangement with you, we intend buying from someone else.

"We have been all over your properties to-day and they comprise some of the most valuable land in the Valley. The ranches are well laid out, the fruit varieties are of the best. Unfortunately, these ranches have not been too well looked after. The reason for this is not far to seek. From what I can gather, there has been no proper supervision of your various ranch foremen, who, evidently, have been devoting most of their time to the places they themselves own, fattening and growing rich meanwhile in some mysterious way, while you grew poor.

"The boys and I are willing to enter into joint partnership with you for the purpose of paying off your entire indebtedness to the bank and any others, so that the properties may be absolutely unencumbered.

"Between us, we can see to the proper future supervision of the farms. We can get rid of all your useless help, hire competent foremen and ranch-hands at good wages, and so have the trees properly cared for and new ones planted to replace those that have been killed by the winter cold or have died from neglect.

"Are you agreeable to the proposition?"

"No!" put in Royce Pederstone, "because there isn't a market for the fruit when you have it harvested."

"Wait a moment! I am getting to that.

"There is a market; but there is no organisation to command it.

"When we jointly own and work these properties, we can immediately approach every rancher in the Valley, as one of themselves with mutual interests. We can organise—we shall organise—for I know how. We shall have a large, central warehouse for the segregation of the Valley's produce, for grading, for packing and for distributing. This will at once eliminate unfair competition and the highway robber in the guise of jobber. Only first-class fruit will be allowed to go out. We will ship out under the Valley's special brand, with the grower's own name underneath. We will make our own way into the markets and demand fair prices for our harvests.

"Again, a single individual—or individuals crying separately—can do little or nothing with the Powers that be, as you well know; but once we are organised we can and shall insist on the Government introducing a proper system of irrigation throughout the entire Valley,—not a hit or a miss scheme such as presently obtains, for, if we would insure ourselves against periodical failure, if we would have annual uniformity of quality in our fruit, we must have proper irrigation. So far as the Government is concerned, our battle is more than half over, for we have in you a representative who knows the requirements of the Valley as no other member of parliament does.

"And in regard to the water,—look at the unlimited supply we have of it right at our very doors. If only some clear-minded inventor would devise a cheap, feasible scheme for getting the water up from these great, but low-lying lakes, on to the higher ranch levels! Failing that—we still have the lesser lakes up on the surrounding hills, as well as the numerous waterways in the neighbourhood.

"This glorious Valley is practically free from blight; the coddling moth is under perfect control. There is nothing, Mr. Pederstone, and you know it too, nothing in the world to prevent the Valley's production of fruit from increasing year by year as the younger orchards come to bearing age and fresh orchards are planted.

"There is no reason why we should not be able ultimately to take care of the entire Canadian requirements, with a surplus for export trade.

"As a vast fruit-growing organisation, we can demand and get all the transportation facilities we require.

"I tell you, the land is here, and the climate. All that is required now is cohesion and enterprise. Mr. Pederstone, we are going to see that this is supplied here and now.

"These are the facts. There is our partnership proposition to you in black and white. Read it over carefully and give us your decision to-morrow afternoon."

John Royce Pederstone rose.

"Thank you, gentlemen! I shall do so. I would give you my answer now, but I would like to go over the whole matter with my daughter Eileen. Had I consulted her more often in the past, things would have been better for me to-day."

And next day, John Royce Pederstone shook hands with his three new partners, and sealed the compact. He had a brighter look in his eye, a more erect head, and a laugh on his lips that Eileen heard from the next room and thanked God for. She was standing at the front window, as she had so often stood—as she and Phil had occasionally done—looking out over the sun-kissed little town, with the ranges, the ranches, the settlers' cottages; the gardens, the trees, the lakes; the blue sky and the bright sunshine; all co-mingling in a merry-go-round of fairy delight and harmony and peace.

As Jim Langford hastened below, Phil stole to Eileen's side. He did not have to tell her, for she knew already.

They stood together, hand in hand, dreaming in happy contentment.

"My dear little, brave little lady," said he, as he drew her close; "The big game is just ahead of us. And we are going to win."

"You have won," she answered. "The real victory is always in the decision, Phil."

He stroked her breeze-blown curls, for the window was open and the summer wind, warm and fresh, was coming in over the hills.

The sound of a voice, sweet and mirthful; and another, low, melodious, and charming in its enunciation, came up from below, breaking in on their conversation.

Phil looked over the window-sill, then, smilingly he beckoned to Eileen.

They both leaned over.

Down there, on a summer-seat, in the arbour of trailing vines at the end of the veranda, close together and evidently day-dreaming, were Margery and Jim.

Phil was about to shout to them, but Eileen put her finger on his lips.

Then once more came the musical, alluring, deep-toned, yet crooning voice of Jim Langford;—great-hearted, apparently wayward and devil-may-care, but at all times really serious—as he recited to the lady by his side, in his own inimitable way:—

"And the night shall be filled with music And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away."

THE END



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