[Illustration: E. W. BEATTY “Whom his countrymen will have abundant cause to honour” (P. 306)] “Come up to my room,” said Thompson, “I want to tell you something.” Shaw pleaded a dinner engagement, but his old friend would not be denied. “Come up, anyway,” he pleaded, “I won’t keep you long.” Arrived in the room, Thompson put off his coat, threw himself on the bed and lay there in much distress. “Don’t talk for a little while,” he begged. Shaw read the paper for a quarter of an hour, and then rose. Thompson begged for more time, and again Shaw tried to read the news, and to divine Thompson’s malady. At last Thompson said: “Shaw, I’ve made a million dollars to-day, and I can’t get over it.” Shaw thought the malady needed an alienist, and expressed his disbelief. “Oh, yes, I have,” Thompson persisted. “I’ve bought the Ogilvie Milling Company, and the deal’s worth a million dollars to me.” He explained how Hosmer and the Allans had found the money; and the direction of the Merchants’ Bank was involved in the transaction. The agitation superinduced by an avalanche of wealth subsided in due course; and Fred Thompson developed a remarkably cool imperturbability in presence of oodles of cash. Next evening Shaw was again in the Windsor rotunda when whom should he see but George Lane, the famous rancher of Calgary. George Lane is a character in candour as well as a Croesus in cattle. The embodiment of geniality, he doesn’t expect the milk of human kindness to flow through or about a business transaction. He says: “If after chewing the rag for a day or two I make a deal, and the other fellow says ‘Come and have a drink,’ I say to myself ‘George, you’re beat.’ If he offers me a second drink, I say, ‘George, you’re beat to death’.” Shaw was surprised to see George Lane at Montreal in midwinter. “What are you doing so far from home?” he asked the great cattle man. “I thought you’d be preventing your steers from freezing to death on the ranges.” “I’ve been down to Quebec,” Lane replied. “Quebec? But there are no cattle shipments at this time of year to take you to Quebec.” “It’s been about cattle all the same,” said Lane. “Come up to my room. I’ve got to tell somebody something or bust, and it won’t do to tell it here, with so many people around. Come on up, quick.” George Lane, cattleman, didn’t throw himself on the bed, but quickly announced, “I’ve made half a million dollars to-day.” Remembering the previous evening Shaw did not suppose this was a case for an alienist, and opened his ears for the facts.