Thorne waved his hand.
"That's the point, boys. Mine, which was made in Connecticut, cost five. I think you can see the inference. If you don't, I should like you to ask him where he got the hundred and twenty dollars."
There was applauding laughter, for the men were quite aware that they had furnished it, but Thorne proceeded:
"It's likely that I could buy things of that kind, and keep as smart a team as our friend does, if I struck you for the interest he charges on your held-over accounts."
"That's quite right!" somebody cried. "They don't want no pity. They've got bonds on half our farms. Guess the usual interest's blamed robbery."
Once more the storekeeper lifted up his voice.
"You wouldn't call it that, if you'd ever tried to collect it. You stand out of your money until harvest's in, and then when you drive round the homestead's empty, and somebody's written on the door, 'Sorry I couldn't pack the house off.'"
This was followed by further laughter, for, as Farquhar explained to Alison, pack signifies the transporting of one's possessions, usually upon the owner's back, in most of western Canada, and the notice thus implies that the defaulting farmer had judiciously removed himself and everything of value except his dwelling, before the arrival of his creditor.
"You could shut down on the land, anyway," retorted one man.
"Could I?" Sergeant inquired savagely. "When it's free-grant land, and the man hadn't broke enough to get his patent?"
The crowd, encouraged by a word or two from Thorne, seemed disposed to drift off into a disquisition on the homestead laws, but Sergeant pulled them up.
"We'll keep to the point," he said. "When you buy your drugs at my store you get just what you ask for with the maker's label stuck fast on it. Maverick keeps loose ones, and if you ask him to cure your liver it's quite likely that he'll give you hair-restorer."
Farquhar chuckled.
"I'm afraid there's some truth in that," he admitted. "Still, it's to Mavy's credit that when the case is serious he generally prescribes a visit to the nearest doctor."
In the meanwhile the storekeeper had secured the attention of the assembly.
"What I said, I'll prove!" he added vehemently. "Get up and tell them how he played you, Custer."
His companion waved his hand.
"I'll do that, in the first place, and when I've got through I'll do a little more. I went to Maverick most two weeks ago when my stomach was sour, and he gives me a bottle for a dollar."
"He's perfectly correct so far, except that he hasn't produced the dollar yet," Thorne assented. "I should like to point out that I can cure the kind of sourness he said it was every time, but I can't do very much when the trouble's in the man's sour nature. You took that stuff I gave you the day you got it, Custer?"
"I did. I was powerful sick next morning."
He turned to the crowd, speaking in a tragic voice.
"Boys, he'd run out of the cure I wanted and gave me the first bottle handy, with a wrong label on. I've no use for a man who doses you with stuff that makes your inside feel like it was growing wool."
There were delighted cries at this, but Custer appeared perfectly serious, and Thorne looked down at him.
"No," he drawled, "in your case it would grow bristles."
The laugh was with him now, but it was a moment or two before Custer, who was evidently slow of comprehension, quite grasped the nature of the compliment which had been paid him. The term hog is a particularly offensive one in that country. Then he proceeded to clamber up into the wagon, and Thorne addressed those among his listeners who stood nearest it.
"Hold on to him just a moment," he cried, and two men did as he directed. "I merely want to point out that our friend has supplied the explanation of the trouble – he said he was sick the next morning. Well, as my internal cure is a powerful one, there are instructions on every bottle to take a tablespoonful every six hours, which would have carried him on for several days. It's clear that he felt better after one dose, which encouraged him to take the lot for the next one."
"He has probably hit it," commented Farquhar. "They do it now and then."
"Now," continued Thorne to the men below, "you can let Mr. Custer go. If it's the only thing that will satisfy him, I'll get down."
"You'll get down sure," bawled Custer. "If you're not out when I'm ready, I'll pitch you."
Farquhar started his team.
"I've no doubt Sergeant had the thing fixed beforehand, but I'm inclined to fancy that Custer will be sorry before he's through. Anyway, we'll get on."
He had driven only a few yards when his wife looked at him with a smile.
"Was it a very great self-denial, Harry?"
"Since you ask the question, I'm afraid it was," laughed Farquhar.
"Then I won't mind very much if you get down and see that they don't impose on Mavy – I mean too many of them. I don't want him to get hurt if it can be prevented."
Farquhar swung himself over the side of the wagon.
"It's hardly probable. The boys like Mavy, but, as Sergeant has one or two toughs among the crowd, I'll go along."
Mrs. Farquhar smiled at Alison as she drove on.
"One mustn't expect too much," she said. "After all, if he comes home with a swollen face it will be in a good cause."
Alison made no comment. She was slightly disgusted, and her pride was somewhat hurt. She had made a friend of this man, perhaps, she thought, too readily, and the fact that he had laid himself out to amuse the crowd and had, as the result of it, been drawn into a discreditable brawl was far from pleasant. She was compelled to confess on reflection that he could not very well have avoided the latter, but it was equally clear that he had not even attempted it. Indeed, she had noticed that he jumped down from his wagon with a suspicious alacrity.
Half an hour later a fast team overtook them and Farquhar alighted from a two-seated vehicle. He smiled at his wife as he sat down beside her.
"There was very little trouble," he announced. "Mavy's friends kept the toughs off, and I believe he'll sell out everything he has in his wagon."
"And Custer?"
"I don't think he can see quite as well as he could an hour ago – as one result," replied Farquhar dryly.
Then he flicked the team, and they drove on faster into the dusk that was creeping up across the prairie.
The next morning Alison was standing in the sunshine outside the house when Thorne drove into sight from behind the barn which cut off the view of one strip of prairie. He got down from his wagon and appeared disconcerted when he saw the girl, who fancied that she understood the reason, for he had a discolored bruise on one cheek and a lump on his forehead.
"I want a few words with Farquhar," he explained. "I saw him at the settlement last night, but I couldn't get hold of him."
"No," returned Alison disdainfully, "you were too busy." Then something impelled her to add, "You don't seem a very great deal the worse for your exploit."
Thorne leaned against the side of the wagon, though she noticed that he first pulled the brim of his soft hat lower down over his face.
"That fact doesn't seem to cause you much satisfaction," he observed.
"Why should it?"
"We'll let that pass. On the other hand, there's just as little reason why you should be displeased with me."
"Are you sure that I am displeased?" inquired Alison, suspecting his intention of leading her up to some definite expression of indignation. This would, as she realized, be tantamount to the betrayal of a greater interest in his