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Updated: June 12, 2025
Besides, I have hitherto recorded only those things "quorum pars magna" or minima, as the case may be "fui." There is one exception, old Weir's story, for the introduction of which my reader cannot yet see the artistic reason.
Before Atkinson fired a volley at the unsuspecting workmen he crossed the canyon to where a cub engineer was peering through a transit. The superintendent had overheard a scrap of gossip among the staff one evening before Weir's arrival when they were discussing the advent of the new chief. "What was that name you fellows were saying Weir was called by?" he asked. The boy straightened up.
The doctor had insisted that Blanche should go to Weir's Tavern and get the night's rest, needed so much, and Joe now pressed her to keep her promise. Jacques added an urging word, and after a time she started. Joe had forgotten to tell her that a new road had been made on the ice since she had crossed, and that the old road was dangerous.
Nursing might bring him through, but the chance was very slight. Blanche only occasionally left the sick man's bedside to be relieved by Soldier Joe and Freddy Tarlton. It dawned on Joe at last, it had dawned on Freddy before, what Blanche meant by the heart-breaking words uttered that night in Weir's Tavern. Down through the crust of this woman's heart had gone something both joyful and painful.
Not only as such, indeed, but as a wretch who had dared to touch Janet Hosmer against her will, to drag her from her home to this lonely spot by violence for his own bestial purposes. The blood seemed like to burst Steele Weir's heart. This sweet, honest, kind-souled, noble girl! Janet Hosmer, so bright-eyed and pure!
I wanted to find out whether young Weir's fancy that the ladies he had failed in serving, or rather whom he had really served with honesty, were Mrs and Miss Oldcastle, was correct. What a point it would be if it was! I should not then be satisfied except I could prevail on Miss Oldcastle to accompany me to Thomas Weir, and shame the faithlessness out of him.
It was the portrait of a young woman very lovely but with an expression both sad and scared, I think, would be the readiest word to communicate what I mean. It was indubitably, indeed remarkably, like Miss Oldcastle. And I learned afterwards that it was the portrait of Mrs Oldcastle's grandmother, that very Mrs Crowfoot mentioned in Weir's story.
Sorenson's horse suddenly went to its knees. But the man leaping clear took the ground on his feet and instantly set off at a run for the line of brush in the draw some seventy or eighty paces away. A last spurt Weir's pony made, bringing his rider to within thirty yards of the cattleman, who glancing over his shoulder halted, swung about, fired a shot and again started to run.
Weir's paper on the kinds of larvæ, etc., eaten or rejected by insectivorous birds was read at the last meeting of the Entomological Society and was most interesting and satisfactory. His observations and experiments, so far as they have yet gone, confirm in every instance my hypothetical explanation of the colours of caterpillars.
At the very time Miss Crowther was with me, as nearly as I can guess, Old Rogers turned into Thomas Weir's workshop. The usual, on the present occasion somewhat melancholy, greetings having passed between them, Old Rogers said "Don't you think, Mr Weir, there's summat the matter wi' parson?" "Overworked," returned Weir.
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