Cameron spent the rest of the day partly in "taking in" the circus and partly in conversing with the farmers who seemed to have taken possession of the town; but in answer to his most diligent and careful enquiries he could hear of no position on a farm for which he could honestly offer himself. The farmers wanted mowers, or cradlers, or good smart turnip hands, and Cameron sorrowfully had to confess he was none of these. There apparently was no single bit of work in the farmer's life that Cameron felt himself qualified to perform.
It was wearing towards evening when Cameron once more came across Tim. He was standing outside the bar room door, big tears silently coursing down his pale and freckled cheeks.
"Hello!" cried Cameron, "what's up old chap? Where's your dad, and has he got his groceries yet?"
"No," said Tim, hastily wiping away his tears and looking up somewhat shyly and sullenly into Cameron's face. What he saw there apparently won his confidence.
"He's in yonder," he continued, "and I can't git him out. They won't let him come. They're jist making 'im full so he can't do anything, and we ought to be startin' fer home right away, too!"
"Well, let's go in anyway and see what they are doing," said Cameron cheerfully, to whom the pale tear-stained face made strong appeal.
"They won't let us," said Tim. "There's a feller there that chucks me out."
"Won't, eh? We'll see about that! Come along!"
Cameron entered the bar room, with Tim following, and looked about him. The room was crowded to the door with noisy excited men, many of whom were partially intoxicated. At the bar, two deep, stood a line of men with glasses in their hands, or waiting to be served.
In the farthest corner of the room stood Tim's father, considerably the worse of his day's experiences, and lovingly embracing the hard-faced young man, to whom he was at intervals announcing, "My name's Tom Haley! Ye can't git over me!"
As Cameron began to push through the crowd, a man with a very red face, obviously on the watch for Tim, cried out--"Say, sonny, git out of here! This is no place fer you!"
Tim drew back, but Cameron, turning to him, said, "Come along, Tim. He's with me," he added, addressing the man.
"He wants his father."
"His father's not here. He left half an hour ago. I told him so."
"You were evidently mistaken, for I see him just across the room there," said Cameron quietly.
"Oh! is he a friend of yours?" enquired the red-faced man.
"No, I don't know him at all, but Tim does, and Tim wants him," said Cameron, beginning to push his way through the crowd towards the vociferating Haley, who appeared to be on the point of backing up some of his statements with money, for he was flourishing a handful of bills in the face of the young man Sam, who apparently was quite willing to accommodate him with the wager.
Before Cameron could make his way through the swaying, roaring crowd, the red-faced man slipped from his side, and in a very few moments appeared at a side door near Tom Haley's corner. Almost immediately there was a shuffle and Haley and his friends disappeared through the side door.
"Hello!" cried Cameron, "there's something doing! We'll just slip around there, my boy." So saying, he drew Tim back from the crowd and out of the front door, and, hurrying around the house, came upon Sam, the red-faced man, and Haley in a lane leading past the stable yard. The red-faced man was affectionately urging a bottle upon Haley.
"There they are!" said Tim in an undertone, clutching Cameron's arm. "You get him away and I'll hitch up."
"All right, Tim," said Cameron, "I'll get him. They are evidently up to no good."
"What's yer name?" said Tim hurriedly.
"Cameron!"
"Come on, then!" he cried, dragging Cameron at a run towards his father. "Here, Dad!" he cried, "this is my friend, Mr. Cameron!
Come on home. I'm going to hitch up. We'll be awful late for the chores and we got them groceries to git. Come on, Dad!"
"Aw, gwan! yer a cheeky kid anyway," said Sam, giving Tim a shove that nearly sent him on his head.
"Hold on there, my man, you leave the boy alone," said Cameron.
"What's your business in this, young feller?"
"Never mind!" said Cameron. "Tim is a friend of mine and no one is going to hurt him. Run along, Tim, and get your horses."
"Friend o' Tim's, eh!" said Haley, in half drunken good nature.
"Friend o' Tim's, friend o' mine," he added, gravely shaking Cameron by the hand. "Have a drink, young man. You look a' right!"
Cameron took the bottle, put it to his lips. The liquor burned like fire.
"Great Caesar!" he gasped, contriving to let the bottle drop upon a stone. "What do you call that?"
"Pretty hot stuff!" cried Haley, with a shout of laughter.
But Sam, unable to see the humour of the situation, exclaimed in a rage, "Here, you cursed fool! That is my bottle!"
"Sorry to be so clumsy," said Cameron apologetically, "but it surely wasn't anything to drink, was it?"
"Yes, it jest was something to drink, was it?" mocked Sam, approaching Cameron with menace in his eye and attitude. "I have a blanked good notion to punch your head, too!"
"Oh! I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Cameron, smiling pleasantly.
"Say, Sam, don't get mad, Sam," interposed Haley. "This young feller's a friend o' Tim's. I'll git another bottle a' right.
I've got the stuff right here." He pulled out his roll of bills.
"And lots more where this comes from."
"Let me have that, Mr. Haley, I'll get the bottle for you," said Cameron, reaching out for the bills.
"A' right," said Haley. "Friend o' Tim's, friend o' mine."
"Here, young feller, you're too fresh!" cried the red-faced man, "buttin' in here! You make tracks, git out! Come, git out, I tell yeh!"
"Give it to him quick," said Sam in a low voice.
