He slept that night at a small hotel near the shore, and rising early next morning was quite unprepared for the beauty of the scene that awaited him. The distant hills of snow were touched with rosy fire, the lake was like a turquoise, and the town surprised him by its sober aspect of prosperity. He scarce knew what he had expected in this remote outpost of the Empire, but certainly not what he saw--broad streets, buildings of hewn stone, substantial shops and warehouses, all gathered round a curve of lake so exquisite that few places could surpass it in its natural loveliness. The hotel was kept by an Englishman, who made haste to cultivate his acquaintance. He was a lightly built, bearded fellow, with a shrewd eye and a perpetual smile, one of the numerous family of Smith. "So you're going up the lake?" he inquired. "Yes. I want a ranch called Bundy's." "Bundy. Let me see. I don't know of any Bundy here." "He isn't here. It's his ranch I want to find." "Did he tell you where it was?" "Poplar Point." "Ah! now I know. If you'll come with me, I think I can show you whereabouts it is." He took him to the landing-stage, and pointed out a deep fold in the hills. "You make for that," he said. "Unless I disremember, Bundy's ranch is there or thereabout. But people are always going and coming here. These 'ere ranches are always changing hands. Young fellows like you come out, and get tired of the work at the end of the summer, and sell out. They're the plague of Nelson. Quitters, we call 'em. I hope you ain't a quitter." "I don't think I am. I've come here to live." "Well, sir, you've come to a good place. But let me give you a word of warning. It's only hard work that pays here, and you'll have to work hard and wait long if you want to do anything in fruit. This is no place for quitters." He went on to give him many brief histories of the obnoxious tribe of quitters. They were all looking out for a soft job--that was what was the matter with them. Mamma's darlings--that's what they were. Did he know what it was to handle an axe. No, he thought not. Land had to be cleared--did he know what that meant? "But mine is cleared," Arthur interrupted. "At least, fifty acres are." At this he looked puzzled. "I never heard of fifty acres of cleared land anywheres near Poplar Point," he observed. There happened to come along the landing-stage at that moment a somewhat extraordinary-looking old man. He wore blue jeans, a red wool sweater, and a battered felt hat. His hair and beard were unkempt, and both were gray. A beggar could not have been worse dressed, and yet there was about him something of the dignity that marks the open-air man. "That's Jim Flanagan," remarked Smith; "he ought to know. Here, Jim, I want to speak to you." The old man came towards them in silence. "Jim, do you know a ranch at Poplar Point called Bundy's? You know most of the places up and down the lake, don't you?"