The World For Sale | Page 7

shade of the trees, he
had seen the plunge of the canoe into the chasm, and had held his
breath in wonder and admiration. Even at that distance he knew who it
was. He had seen Fleda only a few times before, for she was little
abroad; but when he had seen her he had asked himself what such a
face and form were doing in the Far North. It belonged to Andalusia, to
the Carpathians, to Syrian villages.
"The pluck of the very devil!" he had exclaimed, as Fleda's canoe swept
into the smooth current, free of the dragon's teeth; and as he had
something of the devil in himself, she seemed much nearer to him than
the hundreds of yards of water intervening. Presently, however, he saw
her droop and sink away out of sight.
For an instant he did not realize what had happened, and then, with

angry self-reproach, he flung the oars into the rowlocks of his skiff and
drove down and athwart the stream with long, powerful strokes.
"That's like a woman!" he said to himself as he bent to the oars, and
now and then turned his head to make sure that the canoe was still safe.
"Do the trick better than a man, and then collapse like a rabbit."
He was Max Ingolby, the financier, contractor, manager of great
interests, disturber of the peace of slow minds, who had come to
Lebanon with the avowed object of amalgamating three railways, of
making the place the swivel of all the trade and interests of the Western
North; but also with the declared intention of uniting Lebanon and
Manitou in one municipality, one centre of commercial and industrial
power.
Men said he had bitten off more than he could chew, but he had replied
that his teeth were good, and he would masticate the meal or know the
reason why. He was only thirty-three, but his will was like nothing the
West had seen as yet. It was sublime in its confidence, it was free from
conceit, and it knew not the word despair, though once or twice it had
known defeat.
Men cheered him from the shore as his skiff leaped through the water.
"It's that blessed Ingolby," said Jowett, who had tried to "do" the
financier in a horsedeal, and had been done instead, and was now a
devout admirer and adherent of the Master Man. "I saw him driving
down there this morning from Lebanon. He's been fishing at Seely's
Eddy."
"When Ingolby goes fishing, there's trouble goin' on somewhere and
he's stalkin' it," rejoined Osterhaut. "But, by gol, he's goin' to do this
trump trick first; he's goin' to overhaul her before she gits to the bridge.
Look at him swing! Hell, ain't it pretty! There you go, old Ingolby.
You're right on it, even when you're fishing."
On the other-the Manitou-shore Tekewani and his braves were less
talkative, but they were more concerned in the incident than Osterhaut
and Jowett. They knew little or nothing of Ingolby the hustler, but they

knew more of Fleda Druse and her father than all the people of
Lebanon and Manitou put together. Fleda had won old Tekewani's
heart when she had asked him to take her down the Rapids, for the days
of adventure for him and his tribe were over. The adventure shared with
this girl had brought back to the chief the old days when Indian women
tanned bearskins and deerskins day in, day out, and made pemmican of
the buffalo-meat; when the years were filled with hunting and war and
migrant journeyings to fresh game-grounds and pastures new.
Danger faced was the one thing which could restore Tekewani's self-
respect, after he had been checked and rebuked before his tribe by the
Indian Commissioner for being drunk. Danger faced had restored it,
and Fleda Druse had brought the danger to him as a gift.
If the canoe should crash against the piers of the bridge, if it should
drift to the cataract below, if anything should happen to this white girl
whom he worshipped in his heathen way, nothing could preserve his
self- respect; he would pour ashes on his head and firewater down his
throat.
Suddenly he and his braves stood still. They watched as one would
watch an enemy a hundred times stronger than one's self. The white
man's skiff was near the derelict canoe; the bridge was near also.
Carillon now lined the bank of the river with its people. They ran upon
the bridge, but not so fast as to reach the place where, in the nick of
time, Ingolby got possession of the rolling canoe; where Fleda Druse
lay waiting like a princess to be waked by the kiss of destiny.
Only five hundred yards below the