dent of which is a retired colonel of the British Army, a
man of fine manners, of some degree of intelligence and reading, but,
I have reason to believe, of bad life. His is the dominant influence in
the community if we except my friend, Mr. Henry Fink, or, as he is known
locally, 'Hank Fink.' Hank is a character, I assure you. A Yankee from
the Eastern States, the son of a Scotch mother. Has a cattle ranch, runs
a store which supplies the scattered ranchers, prospectors, and miners
with the necessaries of life, and keeps a stopping place. Is postmaster,
too. In fact, Hank is pretty much the whole village. He has lived in
that country some fifteen years. Has a good Canadian wife, and a flock
of small children. He is a rara avis in that country from the fact that
he hates whiskey. He hates it almost as much as he does Colonel Hicks
and his Freethinking Club. When I visited the village, for some reason
or other Hank took me up, the Scotch blood in him possibly recognising
kinship. He gave me his store to preach in, took me all about the
country, and in a week had a mission organized on a sound financial
basis. His methods were very simple, very direct, and very effective. He
estimated the amount each man should pay and announced this fact to the
man, who generally acquiesced. I didn't probe too deeply into Hank's
motives, but it seemed to give him considerable satisfaction to learn
that Colonel Hicks was filled with indignant and scornful rage at the
proposal to establish a Christian mission in that remote valley. It
grieved the Colonel to think that after so many years of immunity they
should at last be called upon to tolerate this particularly offensive
appendage to an effete civilization. I noticed that Hank's English
always broke down in referring to the Colonel. Well, we sent in
Finlayson a year ago this spring, you remember. Strong man, good
preacher, conscientious fellow. Thought he would do great work. You know
Finlayson? Well, this is the result." Here he picked up Hank's letter.
"This would hardly do for the Home Mission report," continued the
Superintendent, with a twinkle in his keen grey eyes:

"COLUMBIA FORKS, WINDERMERE, B. C.

"DEAR SIR:--I take my pen to write you a few lines to let you know how
things is goin'. Well, sir, I want to tell you this station is goin' to
the devil. [Judging from what I saw of the place, it hadn't far to go.]
Your preacher ain't worth a cuss. I don't say he ain't good fer som