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.