Ralph Stock

“ Since then the two had sweated side by side, and Strode had come to think that he knew his man. How far he was out in his calculations had been demonstrated by a flask on a trellis bridge. By such narrow margins may a man betray his soul.
The next day was the same as any other. At daylight, and in answer to the mill whistle, that pierced the silence of the mountains like a knife, Grouch rolled from his bunk, added a few clothes to those he seemed never to discard, and went out to groom his team. ”

“ But Strode would not. One meets strange folk in the course of world wanderings, but there was something about a Leightham, buried for life here in the heart of the Rockies, that stirred his imagination. He knew the name well. What Englishman did not? And it carried him back to a glimpse of Leightham Court through the trees of a Sussex lane. No wonder Grouch was at war with his world. No wonder he harboured dreams of "drifting in with the port ..."
When Strode came up from the prairie a few months ago, the bunk-house of the Summit Shingle Mill was full. ”

“ And we humour 'em. Why?"
"I wonder," ventured Strode.
Grouch glared at him unseeingly for a space. "Because we're fools," he jerked out. "Because we're hidebound, hamstrung, everlastingly damned by something—something I can't put a name to."
"Why not call it tradition?" suggested Strode.
"All right, anything you like." Grouch rocked with scorn on the edge of the bridge. "But it's got to be shaken off before a feller will do any good for himself. I'm going to shake it off," he announced firmly.
"You'll find it goes deeper than you think," warned Strode. ”