Chapter I: A Fight--Choosing Land at Sea

One morning, when the S.S. _Lake Manitoba_ was about in mid-Atlantic, a drizzling rain was being painlessly born out of dank, misty skies. Imperturbably doing her accustomed ten knots, the little liner steadily plunged along through the dripping green seas.

A dense mass of dark-coloured smoke beat down continuously from the single funnel. Trailing for miles astern, it hung over the ship's wake like a shroud. Restless waves, divested by the rain of their usual whitecaps, sloped upwards to lose themselves in the sullen clouds. The cheerless decks, greasy and comfortless, had long since driven nearly everyone into the fetid depths below.

The "orchestra" in the single men's "stateroom" raggedly backed out of their attempt to play the War March of the Priests, and settled down to murder Annie Laurie nice and comfortably. After a time, their nefarious efforts having met with a great deal of success, the performers decided to forbear a little, finishing up with a horrible gasping discord somewhat suggestive of the agony suffered by a pair of overblown bagpipes being struck by lightning.

Several young fellows lounged about diligently on bunks and forms. Thanking the musicians for the recital, they began to discuss their future plans desultorily. The previous day, the Rev. Mr. Lloyd had drawn a crowd of convalescent colonists round him on the boat deck to lecture them on pioneering tactics. The reverend gentleman occasionally blew a shrill blast on a whistle he carried, whereupon a few dozen homesteading enthusiasts would come faithfully to heel to be drilled in the latest theories pertaining to prairie agriculture.

"Ranching for this child," said a medium-sized chap with a bored but lofty air. A magnificent knife, containing sufficient tools with which to erect a factory and a couple of rows of cottages, hung from a belt at his waist. Evidently he considered himself an expert in his future profession, for he added in a tone which expressed great familiarity with it: "I intend to breed polo ponies--classy ones, by Jove!"

"Me, too," echoed another fellow, whose velvet-cord riding breeches fairly knocked your eye out. "This corn-growing they talk so much about seems to be more of a workingman's task; don't you think so, Rex, old boy?"

Rex, a big, red-faced young man, the living image of an assured remittance, withdrew his spotty features from a mug which a few seconds before had been filled with Bass.

"Beastly bore," he said, "following a bally plough. What!"

The fellow with the multitudinous-bladed knife agreed. "Only a silly ass would think of doing such a thing," he remarked. "Fancy going to Canada and degenerating into a common farm labourer!"

"It's too idiotic for words," observed the fellow in velvet corduroys, as he gazed rather thirstily at the empty mug. "It's indecent--positively preposterous. Is there anything left in the bottle, Rex, dear boy?"

Rex laughed. "Not now," he replied, partly filling the mug again. "Last of the Mohicans, too, so to speak. That beastly steward upstairs, the one with the fishy eyes, refused me any more. He says the blarsted cabin people need the rest of the stuff."

The corduroy-bedecked one, a tallish, good-looking, fair-haired Englishman, smothered his disappointment by exclaiming:

"Oh, I say! come off. I know the steward you mean--the putty-faced rotter! Do they really think all the gentlemen on this moth-eaten barge are travelling first? Why it was only because the guv'nor sent my passage money in to Barr too late that I'm compelled to mix with the scum in this awful hole," and he glanced round the crowded cabin contemptuously.

"Scum!" suddenly cried a little pug-faced chap who had overheard the remark--Sam, everyone called him. "Scum, did yer say, yer ruddy himitashun toff?"

Almost two days had elapsed since Sam had fought his last battle; therefore he was spoiling for another. The fellow in velvet breeches stood up and regarded him amusedly, apparently not the least bit nervous--merely a trifle annoyed at being made the cynosure of so many vulgar eyes. He flushed a deep red.

"If the cap fits, wear it, by all means. In the meantime, kindly oblige me by going to the deuce, there's a good chap." Nevertheless, he watched the little fellow out of the corner of his eye, remembering his reputation for pugnacity.

Snub-nosed Sam at once jumped from off the top bunk where he was sitting, and without further pause launched himself straight at the face of the man in velvet. He reached his mark, but with a glancing blow. Owing to the confined nature of the battlefield, and the excessive exuberance of his attack, he stumbled over his antagonist's feet, which were not at all small, and fell sprawling on the floor.

"Good old Sam!" "At 'im, Sam!" shouted the young fellows from the bunks and forms round about, happy as full-grown men at a dog-fight.

Like a cat, Sam jumped to his feet and made another dash, but this time missed his mark completely. A straight clean jab from a long, slim, steely arm caught him plump on the point, or end rather, of his already turned-up nose, and sent him flying among feet and forms.

Universal peace must in reality be a tremendously long way off when two or three hundred young men can be lifted into ecstasy by the prospect of viewing a scrap. Every one who was able to, crowded round and passed encouraging remarks to the combatants. Even the "bandsmen," who had started again to minister to the nausea of the seasick invalids with a particularly discordant prelude, desisted from their charitable efforts to come across to enjoy the fray.

The velvet-breeched one coolly surveyed his handiwork, still on his guard, but obviously not relishing his position.

"Nice one, sir!" "Well played!" "Neat, Gussie, dear!" were a few of the exclamations greeting his success in the first round.

Again Sam rose to attack, though plainly preoccupied with taking astronomical observations.

"Go it, little 'un. Never say yer muvver bred a jibber," some one called to him encouragingly.

More cautiously, as he thought, Sam hit out wildly with his right, managed to disarrange a rather pretty cluster of stars which dangled before his eyes, and, of course, missed his foe again. Then he accepted another little tap on the nose, but there was steel in the blow.

"Strewth!" he groaned under his breath involuntarily.

"Chuck it, you bally little fool," said the velvet-garbed boxer soothingly. "Shake hands and be friends. You're too full of guts to be called scum."

Rather sheepishly, Sam reluctantly did so.

"Wot's yer blinkin' nyme?" he asked admiringly, in a low voice, mopping at his bleeding nose with an enormous mottled red-and-white handkerchief.

"Never mind my name just now. You may call me Bert if you like."

At this point in the peace conference, two arrogant-looking men pushed their way across the cabin. One of them, in a blatant tone, shouted as he waved a piece of paper in his hand:

"Barr's dishin' out land up in 'is office. We've got ourn. Here y'are--Robert Roberts Robertson--North-west, twenty-four, fifty, twenty-six, W. three--whatever the devil that means--and don't you forget it. With the Leicester lot, we are; aren't we, George?" and he turned to his chum, who also had recently become an estate owner.

"It's right, mates. We've got our land," said the other potentate, as the vessel gave a stomach-turning dip into the trough of a wave, slowly returning to a more or less even keel again with a series of shuddering jerks.

"Land, did someone say?" feebly moaned a prostrate form close by, as it wiped its splitting brow with its hand. "My God! if only it's true."

The attention of the idlers was immediately transferred from the reconciliation to more important matters. Another crowd soon gathered about the pair of bloated landowners, eagerly demanding more complete information, which was condescendingly given.

The hunger for land spread with great rapidity. None of the men desired water. They were sick of the filthy, rusty-hued stuff they were forced to drink; and they were tired of the dreary expanse of the salted variety which was spread out all round them in such illimitable quantities.

"Wot abaht a bit of land?" said Sam to Bert, as familiarly as though they had attended school together.

"Brilliant idea, Sam, me lad. Come along," returned Bert: so up to G.H.Q. they went, followed by several more of the men to whom the very word "land" was suggestive of blissful solidity and freedom from that ghastly up and down motion of the steamer.

After waiting half an hour outside the door of Barr's office, the two landseekers went in together. They were both from London, though from widely separated suburbs. No thought of such an ill-assorted companionship as they had apparently struck up had ever entered either of their heads. It was merely the influence of battle which, as so often is the case, had been the means of cementing their new friendship. They had taken each other's measure, and were seemingly well satisfied.

The Rev. Isaac M. Barr, dark, squat, heavily-built, preoccupied, was seated at a table. Spread out before him was a large-scale map of the far-away Saskatchewan valley. His A.D.C., George Flamank, mercurial, dark-brown eyes glittering, sat beside him. The Rev. George Exton Lloyd stood on one side--tall, lithe, keen-eyed, the embodiment of energy leashed. A little old chap with greying hair, and scarlet nose and waistcoat, stood handily by, exuding waves of synthetic dignity.

"Well, men, you want some land, I suppose?" said Barr, addressing neither of the pair particularly.

"Yes, if it is convenient to you," replied Bert.

"Not 'arf, sir," said Sam, glancing across at the little man's red nose. Sam stroked his own smarting and swollen proboscis and wondered if the other had acquired his the same way.

Visions of an estate dotted with deer, and duck-ponds, and with redskins peering through the undergrowth--_his_ undergrowth--flashed before Bert's mind's eye.

Barr cleared his throat, which appeared a trifle dry.

"Let me see," said he, addressing Bert, "you're from London, aren't you?" Bert nodded affirmatively.

"----And you're from Birmingham?" Barr added, turning to Sam and obviously guessing.

"No, guv'ner--an' thank Gawd for it," retorted Sam fervently. "I'm from the blinkin' smoke, like 'e is," indicating his companion with a nod.

The little red-nosed man with the flaming waistcoat turned round politely and tried to cough, but he surprised himself, and everybody else, by sneezing seven or eight times instead. Flamank's eyes gleamed. The tall figure of the Rev. Lloyd disappeared through the doorway. Barr smiled mechanically, plainly bored, and said:

"Then you both wish to be with the London party, I presume?"

Sam said they did, and was quite vehement about it. Bert confirmed his answer. At this, Barr turned and spoke to Flamank.

"Put them with the London group. What is there left in fifty-one, twenty-seven?"--meaning township and range. He stood up and leaned over the table, whilst Flamank fished among a pile of papers.

"How would this place suit you?" Barr asked, indicating on the map with his finger an attractive square situated about six hundred miles north-west of Winnipeg.

Bert carefully examined the location. "It looks very nice," he said, after a moment or two.

"It's 'andsome, I calls it," observed Sam, who had squeezed his chunky self in between the little red-nosed man and Bert.

As this was the first map Sam had ever inspected, his opinion naturally went a long way with his new pal. The place on the plan to which Barr had referred was a pretty pale-blue section bordered in brown, nicely-shaded, and with a couple of wavy lines--war-paths, probably, thought Bert, who was slightly romantic--running across it obliquely. After a little pause to consider the matter, Bert said:

"It's a delightful place, really. That'll suit us fine, won't it, Sam?"

Sam thought it was "the best bit of land 'e'd ever clapped eyes on." They were both immensely in love with the location.

Barr, through his A.D.C., allotted them adjoining homesteads. Flamank, with pen poised over paper, looked at Bert and said: "Name, please."

"Bertrand Paul Tressider."

"----And yours?"--this to Sam, who was dreamily caressing his turned-up nose.

"Samuel Adolphus Potts--guv'ner."

They handed over their entry fees and, after a record of the location of the land had been duly made, turned and left the cabin.

With new bubbly feelings in their respective young hearts, they descended to the dreary steerage deck. Sam glanced disdainfully at the watery waste surrounding them. It still rained dismally. After spitting in the ocean once or twice, he said, meditatively:

"A 'undred an' sixty blinkin' acres of land's a lot, ain't it, Bert?"

"A half-mile square. Why?"

"Oh, nothink. I feel too prahd ter speak."

Bert laughed and strolled away.

"Hey!" Sam called to him. "If you 'appen ter see my man abaht anywhere, tell 'im I want 'im at once, will yer?"

NOTE.--Although sounding far-fetched, scores of Barr Colonists picked their homesteads from a map in Barr's office aboard the S.S. _Lake Manitoba_ in mid-Atlantic. A few of them are still living on those same farms to-day.--H. P.