STIRLING LETS THINGS SLIDE It was early evening when Weston swung himself down from the platform of the Colonist car in a little roadside station shut in by the pine bush of Ontario.

There was a wooden hotel beside the track, and one or two stores; but that was all, and the fact that nobody except the station-agent had appeared to watch the train come in testified to the industry, or, more probably, the loneliness of the district.

While Weston stood looking about him a man came out of the office, and he was somewhat astonished to find himself face to face with his employer.
The smart straw hat and light summer suit did not become the contractor.

He was full-fleshed and red of face, and the artistically cut garments striped in soft colors conveyed a suggestion of ease and leisure which seemed very much out of place on him.

One could not imagine this man lounging on a sunlit beach, or discoursing airily on a cool veranda.
"Got here," he said abruptly, and then swung around and looked at Grenfell.