o brood over that.

But he set his face stubbornly against the fears her words aroused. He
could see the trestle sound and solid as a rock. The camp lay beneath
him, as quiet as a country village. Only a week or two and everything
would be settled. He scoffed at his fears. As he looked out over the
tumble of log and canvas, he vowed that when it was all over he would
provide a bang-up feed that would send the bohunks away with one
pleasant memory at least. Murphy and his engine would scurry off to
Saskatoon and fetch such grub as bohunk never before tasted. It would
be a finale befitting--

And just then three men topped the grade a score of yards away.

Torrance's sky suddenly darkened--Lefty Werner, Chico Morani, and
Heppel, Koppy's special cronies. But he hid his concern beneath a
grunt.

He had no intention of making his grunt an invitation, but the three
came on without pausing, and Werner greeted him with an embarrassed
"good-evening, boss." Torrance rose and stepped back into the sitting
room. Some instinct made him wish to move things beyond the eyes of
the camp. For a moment the men hesitated, then, pushed into the lead,
Werner led the way inside.

"Now," snapped the contractor, "get it off your chests. Where's Satan
himself--Koppy, I mean?"

The most intelligent of the visitors, the most capable of estimating
the underlying significance of tone and inflection, was Lefty Werner.
The other two, maintaining their usual expression of phlegmatic and
stubborn sullenness, left the delivery of their message to him, the
glibbest talker. And plainly he had taken a dislike to it. A wild and
fleeting wish that civilisation were nearer, wherein to hide himself,
struggled with a goading appreciation of the comforts in Torrance's
shack; for Werner often of late was oppressed with the futility of his
present sphere as malcontent.

His aberrant reflections were interrupted by Torrance's rising
impatience.

"Here, Werner, what is it? Speak up!"

Werner removed his hat and twirled it in his hand. Twice he cleared
his throat before he could bring himself to speak.

"We've been sent--sent by the general body of workmen--"

"The bohunks, you mean," drawled Torrance with deliberate insult.
"Drop the gush, Lefty. What do you want? . . . And you won't get it."

Werner turned anxious eyes on his two stolid friends for moral support.
He noted Morani's hand slide to the waistband of his trousers, and a
c