The air was sharp and wonderfully invigorating when Festing stopped for a few moments, one evening, outside Charnock's homestead. A row of sandhills glimmered faintly against the blue haze in the east, but the western edge of the plain ran in a hard black line beneath a blaze of smoky red. It was not dark, but the house was shadowy, and Festing noticed a smell of burning as he entered.

The top was off the stove in Charnock's room, and the flame that licked about the hole showed that the floor was strewn with torn paper. Charnock was busy picking up the pieces, and when he threw a handful into the stove a blaze streamed out and the light shone upon the wall. Festing noted that the portrait that had hung there had gone, and looking round in search of it, saw a piece of the broken frame lying on the stove. It was half burned and a thin streak of smoke rose from its glowing end. Festing remarked this with a sense of anger.

“What are you doing, Bob?” he asked.

“Cleaning up,” Charnock answered, with a hoarse laugh, as he sat down among the litter. “Proper thing when you mean to make a fresh start! Suppose you take a drink and help.”

A whisky bottle and a glass stood on the table, and Festing thought Charnock had taken some liquor, although he was not drunk. Stooping down, he began to pick up the papers, which, for the most part, looked like bills. There were, however, a few letters in a woman's hand, and by and by he found a bit of riband, a glove, and a locket that seemed to have been trampled on.

“Are these to be burned?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Charnock. “Don't want them about to remind me——Burn the lot.”

Festing, with some reluctance, threw them into the stove. He was not, as a rule, romantic, but it jarred him to see the things destroyed. They had, no doubt, once been valued for the giver's sake; dainty hands had touched them; the locket had rested on somebody's white skin. They were pledges of trust and affection, and he had found them, trampled by Charnock's heavy boots, among the dust and rubbish.

“You'd get on faster if you used a brush,” he suggested.

“Can't find the brush. Confounded thing's hidden itself somewhere. Can't remember where I put anything to-night. Suppose you don't see a small lace handkerchief about?”

Festing said he did not, and Charnock made a gesture of resignation. “Looks as if I'd burned it with the other truck, but I got that from Sadie, and there'll be trouble if she wants to know where it's gone. She may want to know some time. Sadie doesn't forget.”

“Did Sadie give you the locket?”

“She did not,” said Charnock. “You're a tactless brute. But there's something else I want, and I don't know where it can have got.”

He upset a chair as he turned over some rubbish near the table, under which he presently crawled, while Festing looking about, noted a small white square laying half hidden by the stove. Picking it up, he saw it was the portrait of the English girl, and resolved with a thrill of indignation that Charnock should not burn this. He felt that its destruction would be something of an outrage.

He glanced at Charnock, but the latter's legs alone stuck out from under the table, and as it was obvious that he could not see, Festing dusted the portrait and put it in his pocket. By and by Charnock crept out and got upon his feet. It was dark now, but the glow of the burning paper flickered about the room and touched his face. His hair was ruffled, his eyes were dull, and his mouth had a slack droop. Festing felt some pity for the man, though he was also sensible of scornful impatience. The smell of burned paper disturbed him with its hint of vanished romance. Putting the lid on the stove, he took the lamp from Charnock's unsteady hand, and, when he had lighted it, found a brush and set to work. Presently Charnock made a vague sign of relief as he looked at the swept floor.

“All gone!” he remarked. “There was something I couldn't find. Suppose I burned it, though I don't remember.”

“There's nothing left,” said Festing, who felt guilty. “Why did you destroy the things?”

Charnock sat down and awkwardly lighted his pipe. “Wanted to begin again with what they call a clean slate. Besides, the stove's the best place for bills that bother you.”

“You can't get rid of the debts by burning the bills.”

“That's true,” said Charnock with a grin. “Unfortunately obvious, in fact! However, I cut up my account book.”

“I don't see how that would help.”

“My creditors can now amuse themselves by finding out how I stand.”

Festing frowned impatiently. “A rather childish trick! It doesn't strike me as humorous.”

“You're a disgustingly serious fellow,” Charnock rejoined. “But you might be a bit sympathetic, because I've had a nasty knock. My creditors have come down on me, and I'm going to be married.”

Festing smiled. He had some sense of humor, and Charnock's manner seemed to indicate that he felt he was confronted with two misfortunes.

“You must have known your creditors would pull you up unless you came to terms with them, but one would expect you to please yourself about getting married.”

“I'm not sure your joke's in good taste,” Charnock answered sullenly. “But in a way, one thing depended on the other. Perhaps I oughtn't to have said so, but I'm upset to-night. Though I did expect to be pulled up, it was a knock.”

“No doubt. Are you going to marry Sadie?”

“I am. Have you any reason to disapprove?”

“Certainly not,” said Festing. “Sadie's rather a friend of mine.”

In a sense, this was true. When Festing first came to the prairie from a mountain construction camp, where he had not seen a woman for twelve months, he had felt Sadie's charm. Moreover, he imagined that the girl liked him and consciously used her power, although with a certain reserve and modesty. For all that, he fought against his inclination and conquered without much effort. Marriage had not much attraction for him, but if he did marry, he meant to choose a wife of a different type.

“Sadie's a very good sort,” Charnock resumed. “She knows what we are, and doesn't expect too much; not the kind of girl to make ridiculous demands. In fact, Sadie can make allowances.”

Festing thought this was doubtful praise, although it bore out his opinion of the girl. For all that, Sadie might not be so willing to make allowances for her husband as for a lover of whom she was not quite sure.

“Perhaps that kind of thing has advantages,” he said. “But I don't know—”

“I do know,” said Charnock; “I've tried the other way. The feeling that you're expected to keep on a high plane soon gets tiresome; besides, it isn't natural. It's better to be taken for what you are.”

“I suppose so,” Festing assented. “Anyway, if Sadie's satisfied——”

Charnock grinned, although there was a touch of color in his face.

“You're not given to flattery, but might use a little tact. I've had a knock and am not quite sober, so I can't argue the point. Then it isn't your business if Sadie's satisfied or not.”

“That's so. But what are you going to do when your creditors turn you out?”

“Everything's arranged. I'm going to help Keller at the hotel and store.”

Festing got up. “Well, I've stopped longer than I meant. I wish you good luck!”

“We'll have a drink,” said Charnock, reaching for the bottle with an unsteady hand. Then he paused and gave Festing a suspicious look. “It's curious about that portrait! I used to see you gazing at it, and don't remember that I picked it up.”

“No, thanks,” said Festing, refusing the glass. “I think you've had enough. In fact, it might have been better when you were wiping the slate clean if you had put the bottle in the stove.”

He went out and walked back to the camp in the moonlight, thinking hard. He was angry with Charnock, but vaguely sorry. Bob had some virtues and was throwing himself away, although, when one came to think of it, this was only true to some extent. What one meant was that he was throwing away his opportunities of rising to a higher plane; while Bob was satisfied with his present level Sadie was good enough for him, perhaps too good. Life together might be hard for both, and there was a touch of pathos in his burning all the tender tokens that bound him to the past, though it was ominous that he kept the whisky. He could, however, get as much liquor as he wanted at the hotel; that is, if Sadie allowed it, but there was some comfort in the thought that the girl was clever and firm.

Festing dismissed the matter, and when he reached his shack at the bridge put the portrait on the table and sat down opposite. He felt that he knew this girl, whom he had never met, very well. Something in her look had cheered him when he had difficulties to overcome; he felt that they were friends. She was calm and fearless and would face trouble with the level glance he knew, although now and then, when the lamp flickered in the draught, he had thought she smiled. They had been companions on evenings when Charnock wanted to read the newspaper or the talk had flagged. Sometimes the window and door were open and the smell of parched grass came in; sometimes the stove was red-hot and the house shook in the icy blast. Festing admitted that it was not altogether for Charnock's society he had visited the homestead.

Then he began to puzzle about a likeness to somebody he knew. He had remarked this before, but the likeness was faint and eluded him. Lighting his pipe, he tried to concentrate his thoughts, and by and by made an abrupt movement. He had it! When he was in British Columbia, engaged on the construction of a section of the railroad that was being built among the mountains, he met a young Englishman at a mining settlement. The lad had been ill and was not strong enough to undertake manual labor, which was the only occupation to be found in the neighborhood. Moreover, he had lost his money, in consequence, Festing gathered, of his trusting dangerous companions.

Festing, finding that he had been well educated and articled to a civil engineer, got him a post on the railroad, where he helped the surveyors. Dalton did well and showed himself grateful, but when Festing went to the prairie he lost touch with the lad. The latter wrote to him once or twice, but he was too busy to keep up the correspondence. Now he knew it was something in Dalton's face he found familiar in the portrait. The girl had a steady level glance, and the lad looked at one like that. Indeed, it was his air of frankness that had persuaded Festing to get him the post.

But this led him nowhere. He did not know the girl's name, and if it was the same as the lad's, it would not prove that they were related. He pushed back his chair and got up. It looked as if he was in some danger of becoming a romantic fool, but he put the portrait carefully away, Soon after he had done so a man came in, and sitting down, lighted a cigarette.

“I wanted to see you, Festing, but hadn't a chance all day,” he said. “Probably you haven't heard that I've got orders where to send the staff when the bridge is finished, as it will be soon.”

Festing looked up sharply. Kerr was his superior in the company's service, but they were on good terms.

“I haven't heard. I'm anxious to know.”

Kerr told him, and Festing's face hardened.

“So Marvin and I go on to the next prairie section! Since they want the best men on the difficult work in the mountains, it means that we're passed over.”

“It does, in a sense,” Kerr agreed.

“Then I think I know why you came,” said Festing, who pondered for a few moments. He had courage and decision, and it was his habit to face a crisis boldly. “Now,” he resumed, “I'm going to ask your opinion of my prospects if I stay on the road?”

“Your record's good. You're sure of a post, so long as there's any construction work going on.”

“A post of a kind! Not the best kind, where a man would have a chance of making his mark?”

“Well,” said Kerr, “I think that's what I meant. The headquarters bosses don't know us personally, and judge by a man's training and the certificates he's got. Of course, in spite of this, talent will find its way, and sometimes one gets there by a stroke of luck.”

Festing smiled, rather bitterly. “I have no marked talent, and haven't found it pay to trust to luck. In fact, my only recommendations are a kind of practical ability and a capacity for hard work. I got on the road by doing chores and fought my way up.”

“You are practical,” Kerr agreed. “It's your strong point, but I've thought it sometimes kept you back.”

He paused when Festing looked at him with surprise, but resumed in a thoughtful voice: “When your job's in front of you, you see what must be done, and do it well; there's not a man on my section does that kind of thing better. Still, I'm not sure you always see quite far enough. You miss what lies ahead and sometimes, so to speak, what's lying all round. Concentration's good, but one can concentrate too much. However, I didn't come to find fault, but to let you know how matters are.”

“Thanks. I'm going to look ahead and all round now, and the situation strikes me as much like this: If I'm content with a second or third best post, I can stop; if I want to go as far as my power of concentration may take me and find a place where I can use my independent judgment, I'd better quit. Have I got that right?”

“It's what I tried to hint. You can count on my recommendation when it's likely to be of use, but you said something that was rather illuminating. You want to use your judgment?”

Festing laughed. “I don't know that I've thought much about these matters, but I am an individualist. You get up against useless rules, empty formalities, and much general stupidity in organized effort, and good work is often wasted. When you see things that demand to be done, you want to begin right there and get at the job. If you wait to see if it's yours or somebody else's, you're apt not to start at all.”

“Your plan has drawbacks now and then,” Kerr remarked. “But what are you going to do about the other matter?”

Festing was silent for a few moments. He had to make a momentous choice, but had known that he must do so and did not hesitate.

“I'm going to quit and try farming. After all, I don't know very much about railroad building; up to now I've got on rather by determination than knowledge. Then, if I stop with you, I'll come up against a locked door whenever I try to push ahead.”

“There are locked doors in other professions.”

“That's so; but in a big organization you must knock and ask somebody to let you through, and unless you have a properly stamped ticket, they turn you back. When the job's your own you beat down the door.”

“I've seen farmers who tried that plan left outside with badly jarred hands. Frost and rust and driving sand are difficult obstacles.”

“Oh, yes,” said Festing. “But they're natural obstacles; you know what you're up against and can overcome them, if you're stubborn enough. What I really mean is, you don't trust to somebody else's good opinion; whether you fail or not depends upon yourself.”

“Well,” said Kerr, getting up, “I think you're making the right choice, but hope you won't forget me when you leave us. You'll have a friend in the company's service as long as I'm on the road.”

He went out and Festing lighted his pipe. Now he had come to a decision, there was much that needed thought; but, to begin with, he knew of a suitable piece of land. Living in camp, he had saved the most part of his pay, and had inherited a small sum from an English relative. In consequence, he could buy the land, build a comfortable wooden house, and have something over to carry him on until he sold his first crop.

He resolved to buy the land and set the carpenters to work, but could not leave the railroad for a month, when it would be rather late to make a start. Then he had worked without a break for twelve years, for the most part at camps where no amusement was possible, and resolved to take a holiday. He would go back to England, where he had a few friends, although his relatives were dead. This was, of course, an extravagance; but after the self-denial he had practised there was some satisfaction in being rash. Lighting another pipe, he abandoned himself to pleasant dreams of his first holiday.