The light, and the bulky shadow of old
Pearce, which appeared for a moment on one of the drawn curtains,
aroused Philip to other thoughts. Since his arrival at Churchill
he had made the acquaintance of Pearce, and it struck him now that
just such a man as this might be Lord Fitzhugh Lee. The Keewatin
Mines and Lands Company had no mines and few lands, and yet Pearce
had told him that they were doing a hustling business down south,
selling stock on mineral claims that couldn't be worked for years.
After all, was he any better than Pearce?
The old bitterness rose in him. He was no better than Pearce, no
better than this Lord Fitzhugh himself, and it was fate--fate and
people, that had made him so. He walked swiftly now, following
close along the shore in the hard stretch kept bare by the tides,
until he came to the red coals of half a dozen Indian fires on the
edge of the forest beyond the company's buildings. A dog scented
him and howled. He heard a guttural voice break in a word of
command from one of the tepees, and there was silence again.
He turned to the right, burying himself deeper and deeper into the
great silence of the north, his quick steps keeping pace with the
thoughts that were passing through his brain.
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