“Very well,” he replied, “now tell us why you were at the depot the last two times the payroll was left off. Why you followed it up to the mine, and why you followed the agent home last night.”

I brazened it out with all the indignation I could muster, reminding him that I was a British subject and it was my right to stand mute and answer no questions. The mine superintendent said to the others so I could hear him: “My men want to lynch somebody; I don’t know whether I can control them.” I knew all about miners and knew they never lynched anybody anywhere. I knew I was in Canada where lynching never flourished.

I turned to a group of miners at the back of the room. “This man says you want to lynch me. Before you do it, I want to know why.”

One of them, a giant, redheaded Irishman with shaggy, white eyebrows and pebbly blue eyes, said: “Don’t worry, me boy, there’ll be no lynchin’ here.”