British -- Canada -- Fiction; Love stories; Ranchers -- Canada, Western -- Fiction
Brooke sat silent awhile. He knew that the story was not a very unlikely
one, for while, in view of the simplicity of the Canadian land tenure
legislation, there is no reason why any man should be swindled, as a
matter of fact, a good many are. He was also irritated that he had
allowed himself to indulge in what he realized must have appeared a
puerile threat. This was, of course, of no moment in itself, but he felt
that it showed how he was losing hold of the nice discretion he had, at
least, affected in England. Still, he meant exactly what he had said.
During the greater portion of two years he had attempted a hopeless
task, and then, discovering his folly, resigned himself, and drifted
idly, perilously near the brink of the long declivity which Englishmen
of good upbringing not infrequently descend with astonishing swiftness
in that country, and for that, rightly or wrongly, he blamed the man who
had robbed him. Then the awakening had come, and he saw that while there
were many careers open to a man with six thousand dollars, or even half
of them, there was only strenuous physical toil for the man with none.
He had attempted it, but proficiency in even the more brutal forms of
labor cannot be attained in a day, and he now looked back on a year of
hardship and effort which had left an indelible mark on him.
It had been a season when there was little industrial enterprise, and he
had no friends, while the dollars he gained were earned for the most
part by the strain of overtaxed muscles and bleeding hands. He had
toiled up to his waist in snow-water at the mines, swung the shovel
under the lashing deluge driving a Government road over a big divide,
hung from dizzy railroad trestles holding with fingers bruised by the
hammer the spikes the craftsmen drove, and been taught all there is to
learn about exposure and fatigue. He had braced himself to bear it,
though he had lived softly in England, but each time he crawled into
draughty tent or reeking shanty, wet through, with aching limbs, at
night, he remembered the man who had robbed him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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