Donald was in a dark mood. He heard the sound of happy laughter coming from a saloon on the corner. There behind those swinging doors was momentary recess from worldly cares. He stood in the door of the restaurant and looked across the Inlet at the twin peaks, known as the “Lions,” which guard the entrance to Vancouver’s harbour. The sun was setting in a mass of fleecy clouds; the clouds became a luminous gauze, and a golden splendour spread over the water. The mountains were suffused in violet, while the snow-fields took on a faint stain of rose. Donald’s face glowed as he watched.
“Some country!” he breathed. He turned to catch a friendly smile from Old Joe as he worked over his range. “And some people!” he added fervently.
Once more he turned to the mountains. The glow had vanished and the Lions stood in bold relief against the clear sky. The massive snow-capped peaks seemed to impart a new strength to his being. “I’ll not quit. I’m going to make good,” he said grimly.
While on his daily run around Stanley Park the next afternoon Donald was attracted by a horse and rider standing on Prospect Point. The rider was interested in a huge white liner ploughing her way through the Narrows, bucking a head tide. The horse, a noble animal, with full mane and tail, was restive, rocking and prancing in his eagerness to be off.
When Donald lifted his eyes to the rider he saw a beautiful, haughty face with skin of a milky whiteness, a heavy mass of dark brown hair, neatly coiffed under a trim riding hat, and a pair of wonderful brown eyes that suddenly grew cold.
A shower of dirt and pebbles stung Donald’s face as the horse was swung about as though on a pivot and with its rider was off like the wind.
“A thoroughbred,” he exclaimed, as he watched the rider until she turned a corner in the drive. “Two of them! And she thinks I am a low-down masher,” he added ruefully.
That afternoon he went through fifteen rounds of boxing, finishing strong and fresh to tackle pulleys and punching-bag.
Andy was joyful. “It will never go twenty rounds, me lad. That straight left of yours alone would stop ’im in ’arf that time.”
“This is my last day of road-work,” remarked Donald to his friend on Friday afternoon, as he slipped on his running-shoes.