the little
square, with a tiny brass cannon at its base.

Sam saw the trader taking the air on his veranda with two ladies. The
neat fence, the gravel path, the flower-beds, had a strange look in
that country. A keen feeling of homesickness attacked the unhappy Sam.
As he approached the veranda one of the ladies seemed vaguely
familiar. She glided toward him with extended hand.

"Mr. Gladding!" she exclaimed. "So you got here before us. Glad to see
you!" In a lower voice she added: "I wanted to tell you how much I
sympathized with you the other day, but I had no chance. So glad you
got out of it all right. I knew from the first that you were not to
blame."

Sam was much taken aback. He bowed awkwardly. What did the woman want
of him? Her over-impressive voice simply confused him. While she
detained him, his eyes were seeking the trader.

"Can I speak to you?" he asked.

The other man rose. "Sure!" he said. "Come into the house."

He led the way into an office, and, turning, looked Sam over with a
quizzical smile. His name was Gilbert Beattie, and he was a tall,
lean, black Scotchman, in equal parts good-natured and grim.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Give me a job," replied Sam abruptly. "Anything."

"Aren't you working for the French outfit?"

"For my keep. That will never get me anywhere. I might as well be in
slavery."

"Sorry," said Beattie. "This place is run in a different way. 'The
Service,' we call it. The young fellows are indentured by the head
office and sent to school, so to speak. I can't hire anybody without
authority. You should have applied outside."

Sam's lip curled a little. A lot of good it did telling him that now.

"You seem to have made a bad start all around," Beattie continued,
meaning it kindly. "Running away with that girl, or whichever way it
was. That is hardly a recommendation to an employer."

"It wasn't my fault!" growled Sam desperately.

"Come, now," said Beattie, smiling. "You're not going to put it off on
the girl, are you?"

Sam bowed, and made his way out of the house. As he returned down the
path he saw Miss Mackall leaning on the gatepost, gazing out toward
the sinking sun over Beaver Bay. There was no way of avoiding her.

She started slightly as he came behind her, and turned the face of a
surprised dreamer. Seeing who it was, she broke into a winning smile,
albeit a little sad, too. All this pretty play was lost on Sam,
because he wasn't looking a