Phil was busy in the forge one morning, all alone. Sol Hanson, for some unknown reason, had failed to put in an appearance, and his assistant was not a little troubled over his absence. Before starting out to make inquiries, however, he decided to work away until noon, for it was the day after the Provincial Election, and the results were expected any minute and were anxiously awaited.

He felt quite confident within himself that John Royce Pederstone would be elected, for the candidate had received a splendid reception at all his meetings throughout the Valley, with the solitary exception of the hometown of his opponent. Furthermore, rumour had it that Pederstone’s party was sweeping the country, so, if there was anything at all in indications, Royce Pederstone’s election was a foregone conclusion.

Phil had noticed that the nearer the election day had drawn, the more serious, nervous and unsettled Sol had seemed to grow, as if he dreaded the possibility of his old master’s defeat and was taking it to himself as a personal matter.

At noon time, Phil went out, took a hurried lunch, then strolled down to the office of the Advertiser, where a crowd was gathered reading the results from the various constituencies as they were posted up on the notice-board outside.

Just as he got there, Ben Todd came rushing out of 141 the office, his eyes jumping, his little hunched body quivering with excitement, and his long arms swinging, apelike and energetic. He mounted a chair. He could not settle himself at the start, so all he did was to wave a paper in the air and shout gleefully:––

“He’s in, boys! He’s in! Vernock is on the map at last. Hip-hip-hurrah, for John Royce Pederstone, M.L.A.!”

The news was received with yells of delight, cat-calls and some real cowboy war-whoops. When the commotion subsided, Ben Todd continued.

“Our new member is coming in on the stage from Kelowna at six-thirty. The band is going to be there, so don’t forget to be there too and give him a rouser. The ladies are busy already at the town hall. Supper at seven-thirty and a dance at eighty-thirty till the cows come home. Put on your glad rags, bring your women folks and whoop her up for a fare-you-well.”

Thus relieved of his effervescence, Ben Todd threw his slang overboard and started in to a political speech in good English, on the immense possibilities of the Valley in which they were privileged to dwell; the era of prosperity just ahead––in fact, with some already reached; on the increasing demand for property everywhere, the consequent rising values and the prospect of early wealth to the present holders of land; haranguing the good-natured crowd on the outstanding qualities of John Royce Pederstone, their new member; on the wonderful things he would do for the Valley in the matter of irrigation, railroads, public buildings and everything else; eulogising on the tremendous help Mayor Brenchfield had given with his widespread influence and his virile oratory during the final whirlwind tour over the Valley; and last but not least, dwelling on the unfailing support the new member had received from the greatest of British Columbia’s 142 inland newspapers, The Vernock and District Advertiser.

Phil had no time to wait to hear all of it. He threaded his way through the crowd and back to the smithy. He had just got his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, when Sol Hanson swaggered in in great style. He was dressed in a loud-checked summer suit, which fitted him only where it touched him. Every button on it was buttoned and straining, and in places the cloth was stretched to bursting point––for no ordinary-sized suit ever fitted Sol Hanson; and, never thinking of such a disloyalty as sending out of the Valley for his clothes, he had, perforce, to content himself with the biggest suit he could obtain in the Vernock stores.

Sol had a black bowler hat, three sizes too small for him, sitting jauntily on the back of his head. His great shock of fair hair was streaming from under it, all round, like a waterfall. It was a new hat, but it looked as if it had had an argument with a dusty roadway.

Later information proved that appearances, so far as the hat was concerned, were not deceptive.

Sol’s trousers were tight and straining. They were turned up, high above a pair of flaring yellow boots, displaying some four inches of lavender socks. A red necktie, a walking stick, a huge red rose and a pair of tan gloves completed the external extravaganza. Sol had succeeded in getting one glove on his great ham-like hand, but the other had proved too much for him and he carried it loosely in his hand.

He strutted up and down in front of Phil, with a look of inordinate pride on his big, porridge-soft, Simple Simon face.

Phil gaped in wonder, then, when he could restrain himself no longer, he burst out laughing, much to the dandified Sol’s disappointment.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, straightening up.

This caused Phil to laugh the more.

“Why, Sol!––you’re all dolled up something awful,” he remarked.

“Well!––that’s all right,––ain’t it?”

“Sure thing,––go to it! Mr. Pederstone won’t know you when you go up to congratulate him on his victory.”

“Ya!––Mr. Pederstone win. I pretty dam-glad. But that ain’t any reason why a fellow put on his fine clothes.”

“What is it then, Sol? You might tell a fellow. You haven’t come into a fortune?”

“No such dam-luck as that! But this my birthday, Phil. I been thirty-three years old to-day.”

“Well now!––and I never knew.” Phil reached and shook the big Swede’s big hand heartily. “Leave it there,––many happy returns, old man!”

Sol’s good nature bubbled over, but his face took on a clouded expression shortly after. “‘Old man’!” he repeated. “Ya!––you right, Phil, thirty-three, I soon, be old man and I not been got married yet. If I wait two-three year more, nobody have me.”

“Oh, go on, you old pessimist. You’re a young fellow yet. There’s lot of time.”

“Maybe––maybe not! Yesterday I think all pretty girl here soon be snapped up. Gretchen Gilder, she get married to that slob Peters last year, and Peters he no dam-good. I never ask Gretchen, or maybe I have her now. I think she been too good. Peters he ask her and get her right off. All them Johnson girls get married; five fine big girl too! Now little Betty McCawl––you know little Irish girl––God bless me!––I just been crazy for her. She go get married day before yesterday to that other Swede, Jan Nansen.”

Phil laughed at Sol’s rueful countenance, as the latter recounted his matrimonial misses.

“Why!––you’re too slow.”

“You bet!––too dam-slow to catch myself getting out of bed. I scared to tell little Betty. Think maybe she not like to marry big Swede. Jan Nansen catch her first time. Jan Nansen,––land sakes!––I got more money, more sense, more hair on top my head, more clothes;––I could put Jan in my jean’s pocket. Now little Betty, she Mrs. Jan Nansen. Good night and God bless me!”

Sol spat among the hoof parings on the floor in his annoyance.

“Yes, too bad, Sol!” Phil put in.

“Yesterday I say too bad too! I got fine house. Build him all myself too. I got three room, with chairs, tables, fine stove, everything. But I got nobody to keep it nice. Then that dam-fool of a fine little fellow Smiler, he going all plumb toboggan to hell because nobody look after him all day long. Soon no more pretty girl be left, I say to myself:––‘Sol Hanson, to-morrow your birthday. You get all dressed up and first girl you meet you ask her if she marry Sol Hanson.’ See! Maybe she not take me. All right! I keep on ask next one, then another one, till some girl take me. First one take me, she get me,––see!”

Phil raised his eyebrows in amusement, wondering what next he was about to hear.

“Well, last night I go down to Morrison’s store and buy all these. This morning, I have a fine bath, with fine baby soap. I get good shave, dress up swell like this, and come out about one o’clock. One o’clock all fine girl be going back to work after dinner,––see!

“I open front door and get down sidewalk, then come down street. Nobody there; nobody pass me. But when I get ten yard from corner Snider Avenue, who come slap-bang pretty near head-on collision:––big Martha Schmidt.”

Phil yelled uproariously as Sol stood there the picture of seriousness.

“Ya,––you laugh. I laugh now,––ha, ha! You know Martha. She maybe thirty, maybe thirty-six. I don’t know. She got one good eye; other eye all shot to hell sometime. Just got one big tooth and he stick out good and plenty. Ugh!

“Well,––Sol Hanson every time he dam-good sport and do what he say he do. But I not meet her. I stop quick,––think for one little time,––then Martha cry, ‘Hullo, Sol!’ I never hear her. I turn quick, walk back all the same as if, maybe, I left my pipe home. I hurry into house, slam door hard and stand inside all shivers like one pound of head cheese waiting to get cold.”

“And what then, Sol?”

“Oh,––after while, I peep out and see Martha go up the road. Little while more, all clear, I come out and have one more try.

“This time, first girl for sure, I say. Well––first girl happen to be black buck-nigger Ebenezer Jones’s coon kid, Dorothea. Dorothea she dam-fine girl all right. She say, ‘Hullo, Kid,––nice day!’

“I look away down the street to corner. I make her think I not see her. I keep on going. She stand on sidewalk, one big fist on each hip and she look after me and say, ‘Wal,––I like dat!’”

“Dirty trick!” remarked Phil.

“What? Holy Yiminy!––that fair enough. You don’t expect decent white man ask nigger coon wench to marry him. I maybe not mention it to myself when I make deal with myself, but no black nigger, no Chink or Jap for Sol Hanson. I keep single first,––you bet!”

“Quite right!” switched Phil. “Keep the colour scheme right anyway, Sol.”

“Well––then white girl come along. ‘By gosh!’ I say.

“She Miss Gladys Tierney,––you know,––she work typewriter for Commercial Bank.

“I raise my hat and say, ‘Good morning, lady!’

“She look me up and down. ‘Are you crazy?’ she ask. ‘You bet!’ I say, ‘been crazy for you, sweetheart.’

“She sniff and give me regular freeze-out; leave me standing dam-fool foolish.

“Little while more, pretty fine Jane she come along. I see her sometimes; but not know her name.

“Big,––uhm! Work in steam laundry. She wear her sleeves all rolled up; walk very quick like she been going some place. She look good to me, so I step up in front. I take off my hat.

“‘How do you do, Jane!’

“She look at me and laugh. Half-smile, half laugh,––you know, Phil. I guess, maybe, it all right. So I try, little bit more.

“‘Very nice day, ma’am,’ I say.

“‘It is,’ she say.

“‘You look pretty nice!’ I say next.

“‘That’s comforting!’ she say next back, very quick.

“‘This my birthday.’ And I smile to her.

“‘It is written all over you,’ she answer.

“‘You think I look pretty good to you, eh?’ I ask.

“‘Swell!’ she say.

“‘You think somebody like to marry me? I got dam-fine house, and furniture, and Smiler.’

“‘Somebody might,’ she say.

“Well, Phil,––I seem to be getting on pretty good, so I take the bull by the tail and say right bang off the wrong side of the bat, ‘You be my wife?’

“‘What?’ she say, as if maybe she make a mistake in her ear-drums.

“‘You marry me?’ I ask again.

“She pull the blinds down all over her face just like 147 biff. She take one swing on me, Phil, right there, and pretty near break my jaw;––knock my four dollar hat all to hell in the middle of the road and walk away laughing like, like––oh, like big, fat, laundry maid laugh.”

Very seriously, Phil asked his further adventures.

“Ain’t that plenty for one day? No dam-good catch wife that way. I try another trick, though. Maybe it work better.”

“What’s the other trick, Sol?”

The big simpleton drew a pink coloured, badly frayed newspaper out of his pocket. It was The Matrimonial Times, a monthly sheet printed in Seattle and intended for the lonely, lovesick and forlorn of both sexes; a sort of agony column by the mile.

“You don’t mean to say you correspond with anybody through that?”

“You bet!”

“And can’t you land anyone?”

“Not yet! Everybody say, ‘Send photo.’ I send it, then no answer come back.”

“Never mind!” commiserated Phil. “One of these days your picture will reach the right one and she’ll think you’re the only man on earth.”

“Well,––she have to be pretty gol-darn quick now, for I’m all sick inside waiting.”

“Meantime, hadn’t you better get back to work, Sol?”

“Guess, maybe just as well.”

He went into a corner, took off his glad rags, folded them and laid them carefully on a bench, then donned his working trousers, shirt and leather apron, and was soon swinging his hammer and making the sparks fly as if he had no other thought in the world but the welding of the iron he handled to its fore-ordained shape.