He spoke deliberately, evenly, without raising his voice. His manner, even more than his words, expressed fixed determination. Farwell lifted his eyebrows, and puckered his lips in a silent whistle. His diplomacy was turning out badly, and he repressed an inclination to retort.
"Well, I'm sorry," he said. "I hoped we could fix this up. Think it over, anyway."
"But, man, you're on the wrong side of the fence, and you know it. The railway is too strong for you. What's the sense of bucking it?"
"Not much, maybe. I guess you mean well, and I take it friendly, but this ain't a question of sense."
"Of a man's right to keep what he's worked for, and to live on the land he owns." McCrae replied. "That's the way I look at it."
It was the old question once more--older than the country, older than the _Mayflower_, older than the Great Charter wrested from John the King----the eternal battle between the common man and class or privilege. Here, in the new country, in place of the divine right of kings and the hereditary power of nobles, was substituted the might of money, the power of the corporate body, itself a creation of law, overriding the power which created it.
"Well, it's your funeral," said Farwell. "I can't help my job, just remember that. And of course I've got to earn my pay."
"Sure," said McCrae; "sure, I understand."
They were at the camp. Farwell jumped out inviting McCrae to put his team up and come to his quarters. McCrae refused. It was late; he must be getting back.
"Just as you say," said Farwell. "I'm coming over to your ranch now and then, if you don't mind."
"Come along," said McCrae. "Latchstring's always out. You, Jeff; you, Dinny! G'lang, boys!"
The buckboard leaped to the sudden plunge of the little road team. Farwell stood for a moment listening to the diminishing drum roll of hoofs, whir of spokes, and clank of axles in their boxes.
"The blamed fool!" he thought. "Well, I gave him his chance. But it's going to be hard on his folks." He shook his head. "Yes, it will be pretty hard on his wife and the girl--what do they call her? Sheila. Nice name that--odd! Sheila!" He repeated the name aloud.
"Hello, did you speak to me?" said the voice of his assistant, Keeler, in the darkness.