Amongst the few who knew Robert Fisher Clark at all well, for there were not many of them, there was no question as to his beliefs. It was too obvious that his primary faith was in himself. Nor is it known whether, at any time, he gave any thought or study to the character of those with whom, in the course of his remarkably active life, he came into association. Always it appeared that there was laid upon him the responsibility of doing things which did not occur to the ordinary man, and he went about them with such supreme confidence and unremitting enthusiasm that he infused into his followers much of his communicable zeal. It appears now that Clark weighed a man by appraising the degree to which he contributed to the work in hand, and automatically set aside those whom he considered contributed nothing to his object. He was the most unattached personality it is possible to imagine. Whatever passion or reaction he may have experienced was always a matter for him alone, and something that he underwent in the remoteness of an astonishingly exclusive brain. That he experienced them is without doubt, but they were revealed in the intensity of action and the quick resiliency of renewed effort.

It was not known, either, whether he believed in chance, or in those tiny eventualities which so often impress a definite color on subsequent years. The trend of his mind was to move forward rather than back, and it is questionable if he gave much thought to second causes. The fruit dangled before his eye even as he planted the vine, and if this induced in him a certain ruthlessness it could only be because those who are caught up in high endeavor to reach the mountain tops must perforce trample many a lowland flower beneath their eager feet.

And yet it was chance that brought Clark to St. Marys, chance that he should be in a certain train at a given time, and above all it was chance that he should overhear a certain conversation, but it was not by any means chance that he should interpret the latter as he did.

The train was lurching over an uneven track that wound through the woods of western Ontario when, staring thoughtfully out of the window at the tangled bush, he caught from across the aisle the drift of talk that was going on between two strangers.

"And so," said one of them, "the thing went smash for lack of just two things."

"And what were they?"

"Some more money and a good deal more experience."

Clark raised his head ever so slightly. Money and experience—the lack of them had, to his personal knowledge, worked disaster in a wider circle than that of St. Marys. He had heard of the place before, but that was years ago. Presently one of the strangers continued.

"It was after the railway came that the people in St. Marys seemed to wake up. They got in touch with the outside world and began to talk about water power. You see, they had been staring at the rapids for years, but what was the value of power if there was no use to which to put it? Then a contractor dropped in who had horses and tools but no job."

"So that's what started it?"

"Exactly. The idea was small enough to begin with and the town just wanted power for light and water works, so they gave the contractor the job, borrowed a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, and got the necessary land from the Ottawa government. I've an idea that if those rights ever get into experienced hands you'll hear a good deal more of St. Marys than you ever heard before."

"And then?"

"The town went broke on the job. Mind you, they had a corking agreement with the government and a block of land alongside the rapids big enough for a young city. The mistake was they hadn't secured any factory. Also they needed about five times as much money."

The other man smiled reflectively. "The old story over again."

"That's about it. Credit ran out and the work stopped and things began to rust, and now St. Marys has gone to sleep again and does a little farming and trade with the Indians."

"In fact, it's a sort of rural tragedy?"

"Yes. You'll see the half-finished ditch just before we cross the bridge. I'm afraid St. Marys has that kind of a sick feeling that generally knocks the stuffing out of a municipality. Come on, let's have some lunch."

The two disappeared toward the dining car, but Clark did not stir. His eyes, which were gray and keen, still fixed themselves contemplatively on the ragged wilderness. His lips were pressed tight, his jaw slightly thrust out. Water rights—industries—unlimited power—land for an industrial city; all this and much more seemed to hurl itself through his brain. Presently he took a railway folder out of his bag and examined one of those maps which invariably indicate that the railway which has published the folder owns the only direct route between important points and that all other lines meander aimlessly in comparison. He noted, although he already knew it, that St. Marys, Ontario, was just across the river from St. Marys, Michigan; that Lake Superior flung itself down the rapids that roared between, and that to the south the country was fairly well settled—but to the north the wilderness stretched almost unbroken to the sub-arctics.

A quarter of an hour passed when a long whistle announced the approach to the town. At the sound a new light came into the gray eyes, the traveler closed his bag with a snap and began to put on his coat. Just at that moment the porter hurried up.

"This isn't Minneapolis, sir."

Clark drew a long breath. "I know it—have changed my mind. I'm for
St. Mary's now."

He stepped off almost before the train came to a halt and looked curiously about.

"Good day," he said to the nearest man. "Will you please tell me who is mayor and where I will find him?"

Now it happened that the individual to whom this query was addressed was none other than Bowers, the town solicitor, for Bowers had a habit of deserting his office about train time and surveying new arrivals from a corner of the platform with the lurking hope of unearthing something which might relieve the monotony of days which were not only wearisome but unprofitable. When the stranger spoke to him, the lawyer noticed that he was of medium height with a strong barrel-like body and rather sloping shoulders. His face was smooth, his jaw somewhat heavy, his eyes exceedingly keen, and he carried with him an indefinable air of authority. He observed, also, that the voice had in it something peculiarly clear and incisive. With a little thrill and a sudden flicker of the flame of hope, he pointed down the street that led to the river.

"Filmer is the mayor and his store is at the second corner down. His office is just behind."

The stranger nodded and strode briskly off. Presently Bowers heard another voice.

"Who's that, do you suppose, commercial?"

The lawyer wrinkled his brows. "In a way, yes, but in another way, no.
That fellow isn't selling anything, he's a buyer."

As the stranger approached Filmer's store, he noted that it was the largest building in sight, as well it might be. It was the local emporium, and so successfully had Filmer managed his business that the Hudson Bay Company saw nothing inviting in competition. From a plow to a needle, from an ax to a kettle, from ammunition to sugar, Filmer had all things, and what he had not he secured with surprising promptness. He had been mayor so long that his first term was now almost forgotten. By ability, courage, and fairness he was easily the leader in the community. Broad and strong, with a ruddy, good natured face, a fine tenor voice, a keen sense of humor and repartee, he was universally popular. No one had known Filmer to complain or repine, though there must have been moments when he longed for touch with those of his own caliber. His was the case of a big man who though bigger than his surroundings accepted them cheerfully. Thus, when Filmer looked up and saw the stranger standing at his office door he was conscious of a curious feeling of anticipation.

It was noted in the store that when the murmur of voices, a mingling of the stranger's penetrating tones and Filmer's fuller, richer note, had lasted for a moment, the mayor got up and banged the door shut, after which there drifted out only a suggestion of conversation. It was not until an hour later that the door opened and the two came slowly out, the stranger as brisk as ever. Filmer was pulling thoughtfully at his glossy black whiskers. Both paused on the wide front step.

"Then at eight this evening, Mr. Clark?" said Filmer.

"At eight," answered the stranger, staring keenly at the river.

"Won't you come and stay with me while you are here, it's just as comfortable as the hotel?" Filmer laughed softly.

Clark shook his head. "Thanks, I'll have too much to do while I am here. I'd better be alone." And with that he set off walking smartly up the long rambling street that led to the abandoned power canal.

He progressed steadily with quick energetic steps, an alert and suggestive figure amidst a scene of placidity. Up the uneven plank walk he went, noting with a swift, sidelong glance the neat white house of Dibbott, the Indian agent, a house that thrust its snowy, wooden walls and luxuriant little garden close up to the street. On his left, still further west, was the home of Worden, the local magistrate. This was a comfortable old place by the river, with a neglected field between it and the highway. Scattered here and there were stores, small buildings with high, wooden fronts, in the upper part of which lived the proprietor and his family. On the right, street after street started intermittently northward and died, houseless, at the railway line, beyond which lay the unbroken bush. Still further up was the County jail, set four square in a large lot that had been shorn of trees. It was of gray stone, massive and forbidding and iron barred. Clark stopped here for a moment and looked back at St. Marys with its flaming maples and its scattered roofs from which rose plumes of light, gray smoke. His eyes half closed as though in some sudden introspection, till, turning abruptly, he struck off over a road that led across a mile of level land and came presently to the grave of the industrial hopes of the town. It was an ugly scar in the face of the helpless earth.

Climbing the half completed embankment, he looked west, where through the clearing he could see the waters of Superior, then down stream to the tail of the rapids that roared half a mile further on. It came to him that nothing is so ugly as a well meant effort which has been left unfinished. Where he stood there had, a year or so before, been little rivulets which, escaping from the mighty flood of the rapids, lost themselves in thickets of birch, hemlock, and cedar, and tinkled and leaped musically to the lower stretches of the river, whilst great trout lay winnowing their currents of white water. But of this beauty there was now but a disordered gash, a hundred feet wide and a thousand feet long, where rusting tools were scattered amongst mounds of splintered rock that lay in piles just as the blast of dynamite had left them. An untidy ruin, thought Clark, who had his own ideas of how things should be put away.

But he was, nevertheless, intensely interested, scanning it all shrewdly. He picked up fragments of stone, and, breaking them, examined their texture with the utmost care. Once or twice he walked along the top of the unfinished embankment throughout its entire length, running a keen eye over the outlines of the excavation. After half an hour which concluded with one long concentrated stare, he pushed on deliberately through the soaked and tangled undergrowth till he came to the edge of the rapids themselves. Here he sat on a rock and looked long and earnestly, and so motionless was he that, after a little while, he seemed to blend completely with earth, sky, and water.

Immediately at his feet the rush of the river grasped at the rough shore as though to pluck it into the deeps, and here were eddies in which he could see the polished stones at the bottom. But further out, where the full weight of water began to be felt, were the first of the great, white horses that stretched to the other shore, a tossing, leaping, irresistible herd. Under the great bridge at his right, the river took its first dip, a smooth and shining slope, streaked with tiny furrows of speed that wrinkled like waving metallic lines. Below that came the rapids in their first fury, with scattered cellars into which the flood swept to uprear itself in a second into pyramids of force and foam. This seemed to fascinate Clark, and he peered with unwinking eyes till a sharp clatter just over his head caused him to look up. Still he did not move his body, and a kingfisher on a branch, after regarding him for an instant with bright suspicious eyes, flung himself into the air and hovered over a nearby eddy with an irregular flapping of quick, blue wings. Then, like a bullet, he dived into the flashing stream immediately at Clark's feet, and emerged with diamond drops flying from his brilliant plumage and a small, silver fish curving in his sharp, serrated beak, till, a second later, he darted into the covert with his prey. The bird had dared the rapids and found that which he sought. Clark's gray eyes had seen it all, and he smiled understandingly.

The mayor, after the departure of his visitor, stood thoughtfully in front of the store, while his eye followed the stranger's figure dreamily up the street, and stood like one who has that whereof to ponder. It is true that he had offered to accompany the new comer on his pilgrimage, but equally true that Clark had politely but definitely declined, and it was something new for the mayor to have his suggestion thus put aside. In this case, however, he felt no resentment, and presently strolled to the house of Worden, the magistrate, where he found Worden, a large man with a small, kindly face, sitting in his study which immediately faced the lawn. On the other side was the river. Worden was apparently dividing his time between an unfinished judgment, for which there seemed no pressing demand, and a satisfying contemplation of the great stream which here was flecked with foam from the tumult above.

The mayor sat for some time talking to him, surrounded by tiers of homemade shelves packed with law books, along whose tattered, leather backs Worden had a habit of running a tobacco-stained forefinger while he relighted a pipe which seemed in continual need of attention. The talk was long and earnest. The mayor's cigar went out with a smell of varnish where it lay on the edge of the judge's desk, but the two were so interested that they did not notice it.

Presently Filmer got up and Worden followed him to the porch expressing entire approval of all that had been discussed, and, as Filmer struck across to the street, he returned to his study and gazed at the judgment with apparent contempt.

From Worden's, the mayor walked across to the jail and sought out Manson. The latter was in his small office which seemed crowded with its single occupant's bulk, and adjoined the high forbidding walls of the jail itself. In St. Marys the chief constable was a man of place, and the jail an edifice that at times took on a singular interest, and if such a capacious establishment as it actually was might seem superfluous in Arcadia it must be remembered that in seasons of the year the lumberjacks rolled in from the northern parts with six months' wages and a great thirst that demanded to be quenched, and a perfectly natural and well meaning desire to offer combat at sight, which they generally did. Then, too, there were fugitives from justice who slipped across the river by night in canoes, and miners from the silver country far to the west, and sometimes crime was also the product of isolation.

Manson, a tall man, broad, dark, and heavy voiced, seemed by nature designed to meet just such contingencies. Outwardly he was the epitome of authority and inwardly he had a mind as stiff as his back. In his own domain he was as Jove on Olympus, and when he moved abroad he was a perambulating reminder of the strong arm of the law. The jail was conveniently arranged to hold the court room on an upper story, so that Manson could pop a prisoner up out of his cell to be tried and sentenced, and pop him back forthwith, and all the time the unfortunate was, so to speak, one of the family and continually under the paternal eye.

Had a listener been outside the door, he would have gleaned that the mayor's visit was, in this case, not as amicable as that just made to Worden. He talked long and arduously, but every now and then Manson's deep bass boomed out heavy with argument, and his massive fist crashed ponderously on the table. Presently Filmer drew a long breath and, stepping out on the trim gravel path, glanced up quizzically at the chief constable who looked as though enthroned on his own doorstep.

"Mr. Mayor," came the deep voice, "I don't take any stock in your scheme. It's no good and there's a nigger in the fence somewhere. I was right before, and I am right this time."

Filmer laughed softly. "Well, John, you're a hell of a good jailer, we all admit that, but I don't put you down as any permanent prophet. However, you will come, won't you?"

Manson nodded, a nod which said that though he would come it could not affect his fixed opinion, whereupon the mayor laughed again, and set off to finish his afternoon pilgrimage, and it is but fair to follow him a little further since he was a shrewd man, active and courageous, and though he did not know it, the result of the various visits he made that day was to be imprinted indelibly on the history of St. Marys.

Banishing Manson from a mind which was already busy with his next move, he retraced his steps as far as the cottage of Dibbott, the Indian agent, who at this hour of the day, might have been found moving mountainously in his long garden and pottering amongst his perennials, smoking an enormous pipe which he regretfully laid aside only in order that he might eat.

Now, since the citizens of St. Marys were, without their knowledge, about to enter upon a period of great importance, glance at Dibbott, not the least of them, as his small, blue eyes caught the approaching figure of the mayor. Six feet when he straightened, his shoulders were bent, but still broad and strong. His face was fiery, not only from his full blooded habit but also from long canoe voyages. He was a placid man—placid yet at times suddenly choleric, and he regarded St. Marys and his own particular plot of land with an undying and tranquil affection. Dibbott's position was, in a sense, enviable, for he stood as administrator between the government and the local Indian tribes, in whose eyes he was the representative of authority.

Year after year he made official visits of visible grandeur to the settlements of his wards, journeying in a great canoe in the middle of which he rested enthroned, the brim of his hat pulled far down over a scarlet, sunburnt nose, a steady wisp of smoke from his big pipe floating back into the face of the laboring Indian behind him. It may be that it was in the silence and mysterious appeal of these journeys that Dibbott got the dignity which sat so naturally on his great, gray head.

The mayor liked the old man, and Dibbott knew it, so they talked amicably while Dibbott, turning every now and then in surprise, pushed out his full red lips as though rising to a fly, and darted quick, little glances as Filmer unfolded his story beside a late phlox. And when the mayor concluded, Dibbott did not move but began to rumble in a deep, throaty, ruminative voice something that sounded like one hundred and thirty thousand dollars at six per cent.

On his way back to the office, Filmer saw Bowers' lean figure across the street. He crooked a masterful finger. "Come here!"

The lawyer came over very deliberately and the two went on together.

"There is a man up at the rapids who says he's ready at any time to take over the town canal debentures."

Bowers looked up startled. "Will you please repeat that very slowly."

"It's true," chuckled Filmer, "and I am calling a town meeting for to-night. I haven't time to give you the details now, but be on hand at eight o'clock. He's made a perfectly straight proposal and I don't see how we can lose on it. I never met a man just like him."

"Did he come in on the train this afternoon?"

The mayor nodded. "Yes—said he was going on to Minneapolis, but decided to stop over and make this offer."

"Then I saw him at the station," answered Bowers thoughtfully. "I thought he was a buyer. Do you reckon we can rope him in?"

Filmer drew a long breath. "Looks to me as if he would rope himself in the way he is going. He won't need any help from us."

"What did you make of him personally?"

"I didn't get very far," said Filmer deliberately, "except that he struck me as the sort of man who gets things done. Look here, I've seen Dibbott and Worden and Manson. Will you go and see the Bishop and ask him to come to-night?"

"The Bishop went away this morning."

"Damn!" said the mayor explosively. "I wanted to get his opinion about
Clark, that's his name, Robert Fisher Clark. Well, so long."

He went on to his store where he was overtaken by Clark who had tramped back from the rapids. The visitor was muddy and no longer immaculate and there was a trace of fatigue on his face, but he looked as cheerful and determined as ever. At that moment the village crier passed up the street swinging a raucous bell and announcing in stentorian tones that a meeting would be held in the town hall that night at eight o'clock to consider matters of prime importance to the citizens at large. The crier tramped on, and Filmer glanced up inquiringly.

"Won't you change your mind and come to the house with me? It is a safe bet you'll be more comfortable."

Clark shook his head. "Thanks, but I've got to speak in two hours and there's a good deal to think of."

Meantime rumors of many things had begun to spread through St. Marys. The magistrate, as soon as the mayor left him, naturally told Mrs. Worden all about it and Bowers would not have dreamt of keeping such a thing from his wife, so had stuck a card on his office door saying he would be back in ten minutes and went home for the afternoon, after which Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Bowers strolled over to see Mrs. Dibbott and were in close conversation amongst the perennials, appealing now and then to Dibbott in order that there might be no mistake about it. Down in Blood's barber shop, Jim Blood had, as might be expected, the most detailed information, for Clark had gone in there on his way to the hotel and, sitting down, remarked "shave please" and at the end, without another word, gave Jim fifty cents and walked out. And if you add to all this the sound of the crier's bell mellowing softly up the long street, it will be understood that the excitement was considerably intensified. Even Filmer, as he ate supper, did not say much, but kept his gaze on the lid of the teapot as though it were a Pandora's box in which bubbled marvelous things that might be vomited any moment. But at heart Filmer was not anxious. It was not his habit. Of all men he knew best the folk of St. Marys, so he doubted not at all, and as a matter of fact St. Marys had for mayor a much bigger and wiser man than it ever suspected.

There may be communities now such as St. Marys was twenty-five years ago, but one goes far to find them. Electricity has altered their distinctive character. The traffic of half a continent glided majestically past these wooded shores, with the deep blast of whistles as the great vessels edged gingerly into the Government lock across the river to be lifted to Superior, and another farewell blast as they pushed slowly out, and lastly a trail of vanishing black smoke as they dwindled westward to the inland sea. For seven months this procession passed the town but never halted, till the people of St. Marys felt like the farmer who, in mid field, waves a friendly hand to a speeding train.

As a result folk knew each other to a degree which some would call insufferably well, and yet they did not weary. It was a curious condition in which life had few secrets and yet an ample privacy. There was, as it happened, little to secrete, and simultaneously there was no straining of hospitality. In these close quarters each was aware that the others knew what he or she could reasonably do, and, in natural consequence, did it with grace and simple ease. For years before the railway pushed up from Sudbury, the outer world was brought into touch when the bows of the bi-weekly steamer bumped softly against the big stringers of Filmer's dock, and papers and letters were thrown on a buckboard and galloped to the post office where presently the community gathered and talked.

There was no telephone to jangle, no electric light and no waterworks, but in the soil of St. Marys were springs of sweet water, and through the windows came the soft glow of lamplight as evening closed in, and the shuffle of feet on the porch announced the visitor. It was from the river and the close encircling forest that St. Marys took on its atmosphere. The maple bush was full of game, and the beaver built their curving dams in tamarac thickets within three miles of the village. It was a common thing to kill Sunday's dinner in a two hours stroll from Filmer's store, and, at the foot of the rapids where the Indians pushed their long canoes up to the edge of the white water, there were great, silver fish for the taking. The ducks halted for a rest on their way north and within a stone's throw of the Bishop's big, square house, the geese used to alight in a cornfield, sometimes on a Sunday morning. On such occasions the Bishop experienced keen embarrassment, for he was a good shot and a good sportsman. In springtime the Indians would come up from the settlement with mink and otter which they traded at Filmer's store for bags of brown sugar, and, these, being silently transported to the bush, would shortly reappear as quantities of genuine Indian maple sugar, which Filmer's clerks sold to Filmer's friends with absolute gravity, the nature of the thing being perfectly understood on both sides of the counter. As to local excitement, there was twice a year the County Court and, while it might be said that there was not in all this much for young people to do, they had, nevertheless, camping trips and cruises in big Mackinaw boats along the shores of Lake Huron, and snow shoeing expeditions in winter that took them straight into a fairyland where they built roaring fires of six foot logs and feasted royally in the ghostly recesses of the snow burdened woods. All this and much more had the folk of the village, and everything that went to make up a sweet, clean, uneventful life. And then into this Arcadia dropped one day a stranger, with an amazing experience of the outer world, a kaleidoscopic brain, an extraordinary personal magnetism and a unique combination of driving force and superlative ambition.

Is it surprising that even though ignorant of Clark's characteristics the people of St. Marys filled the town hall that night?