But he was not one to give up easily, and two days later borrowed one of John Larson's horses and directly after dinner set off for the mill run by Peter Odell. This was up in the hills, on the edge of a small lake, a ride of thirteen miles. The way was rough, but Dale did not mind this, and as he loved to ride on horseback, the journey proved pleasant enough. Once he stopped at a brook to let the horse drink and sprang down himself to quench his thirst and bathe his face and hands. "This is like old times, when I used to be home with all the others," he thought. "Oh, how I wish those times could come back." At last he came in sight of the mill, nestling among the trees bordering the little lake--a scene full of rural beauty. To his surprise all was quiet about the place. "It can't be that Odell has shut down, too," he thought. "If that is so we ought to have heard of it before this." He was just turning into a side path leading to the mill when a man leaped out from behind a clump of trees and caught his animal by the bridle. The fellow was a French-Canadian, with a dark face and dark, evil-looking eyes. "Hi! what do you mean by that?" demanded Dale. He did not like the looks of the stranger. "You stop, talk wiz me," said the Canadian. "What do you want?" "You go to de mill, yes?" "What if I am going to the mill?" At this the French-Canadian muttered something in French which the young lumberman could not understand. "You look for job, hey? No job no more down by de Larson mill, hey?" "That is none of your business. Let go of my horse." Again the man muttered something in French. "You no go to de mill. Geet hurt sure. All mens dare on de strike. You go back." And now he shook his fist in Dale's face. "Are you on a strike?" "Yees." "What are you striking about?" "Dat none your bus'nees. You go back." "I will not go back!" declared Dale, his temper rising. "If you don't let go of that horse pretty quick, somebody will get hurt." "Hah! You are von big fool!" snarled the man, and clung to the animal as tightly as ever. The horse began to prance, and, watching his chance, Dale leaned forward and struck the French-Canadian a sharp blow in the forehead that caused him to stagger back in dismay. "Good for you!" sang out a voice not far off, and looking in the direction Dale saw a young man of twenty approaching. The newcomer was a young lumberman like himself, and Dale had met him several times, on the river and elsewhere. "Hullo, Owen," replied Dale. "Who is this chap?" "That is Baptiste Ducrot, one of the mill hands up here," replied Owen Webb. "Odell hired him about a month ago, but I guess he wishes he hadn't, for the rascal drinks like a fish." "He says there is a strike on at the mill." "So there is, among the Canadians. They wanted me to join, but I wouldn't do it."