"That's it--that's it!" Spoof agreed. "All soul--no body. I shall write that to the Governor. The Governor, dear old chap, thinks this country is rather a bit off the map. I have promised to shoot him a polar bear for Christmas, and he's quite looking forward to it. He writes to know if I find the native labor satisfactory, and can my man mix a decent whisky and soda. I must set his mind at rest. I let him think I run quite an establishment, you understand; he sends a cheque now and again, which, of course, bears a relationship to the position I am supposed to occupy in local society." "Doesn't your conscience trouble you?" Marjorie queried, the conversation having swung into her orbit. "Not at all. I am doing the Governor a kindness. He spends rather too much money on whisky and soda--particularly the former--so I am merely getting him interested in another kind of extravagance. A Younger Son is a very successful form of extravagance, don't you think? What is it Kipling says--'By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,' or something like that? So why shouldn't the Governor sweeten the bitter road a little, and drink less whisky to his soda?" While we were busy thinking of some appropriate remark Spoof remembered his bundle of papers. "I ventured to bring these over," he said, tendering them to Jean. "Just some old copies of _The Illustrated London News_ and _The Graphic_. There are some sketches by an artist showing his conception of homestead life. I rather suspect the Governor has let him read my letters." Presently the conversation turned to agricultural topics, and we were more at ease. "My plowing," Spoof explained, "has gone better since I discarded my compass. The bullocks never took kindly to the compass. No doubt it was a foolish notion of mine that a furrow should run either east and west or north and south, seeing that the whole farm has to be plowed anyway. I now let them veer and tack as they please, and we are making considerable headway." "Any crop in?" "Not this year. A chap in Regina advised me to plant a sack of rolled oats and raise my own porridge, but, thank Heaven, I'm not Scotch. No reflection on the Scotch," he added hurriedly, noting a warning flash in Marjorie's eyes. "They are a very wonderful people. They eat oatmeal, and thrive on it. A very wonderful people." "No garden either?" "Only a few sunflowers. They should be up presently." "Sunflowers? Why sunflowers?" "A chap in Regina--Jake, the land guide--you know Jake, don't you?--he told me to be sure and plant some sunflowers. They are invaluable in winter. They stand up through the snow, and the sunlight beating on their bright, yellow faces enables a settler to locate his shack when otherwise the country is all a white blanket of snow. Jake assured me that many a settler had been frozen to death through neglect of this simple precaution."