Iredale was perhaps the better of the
two, at least his bag numbered two brace more than that of his
companion; but then, as Hervey told himself, he was using a strange
gun, whilst Iredale was using the weapon he most favoured. Supper was
prepared by the time they returned to the house. Iredale, healthily
hungry and calmly contented, sat down to the meal; Hervey, famished by
his unusual exercise, joined him in the loudest of good spirits.

Towards the close of the meal, when the whisky-and-water Hervey
had liberally primed himself with had had due effect, he broached
the subject that was ever uppermost in his thoughts. He began
expansively--

"You know, George,"--he had already adopted the familiarity, and
Iredale had not troubled to show disapproval, probably he remembered
the relationship between this man and Prudence,--"I'm sick of
farming. It's too monotonous. Not only that; so long as mother lives I
am little better than a hired man. Of course she's very good," he went
on, as he noted a sudden lowering of his companion's eyelids; "does no
end for me, and all that sort of thing; but my salary goes nowhere
with a man who has--well--who has hitherto had considerable resources.
It's no easy thing under the circumstances to keep my expenses down.
It seems such nonsense, when one comes to think of it, that I, who
will eventually own the farm, subject, of course, to some provision
for Prue, have to put up with a trifling allowance doled out to me
every month; it's really monstrous. Who ever heard of a fellow living
on one hundred dollars a month! That's what I'm getting. Why, I owe
more than five months' wages at the Northern Union Hotel in Winnipeg.
It can't be done; that's all about it."

Iredale looked over at the dark face opposite him. Nor could he help
drawing a comparison between the man and the two ladies who owned him,
one as brother, the other as son. How utterly unlike them he was in
every way. There was not the smallest resemblance in mind, face, or
figure. His thoughts reverted to Silas Malling, and here they paused.
Here was the resemblance of outward form; and he wondered what
unfathomed depths had lain in the nature of the old farmer which could
have communicated themselves in such developed form to the son. It was
inconceivable that this indolent, selfish spendthrift could have
inherited his nature from Silas Malling. No; he felt sure that some
former ancestor must have been responsible for it. He und