The days passed swiftly, as they have a habit of passing after one has
discovered one's allotted task in life and has proceeded to perform
it. Following his discovery of the outrage committed on his father's
sanctuary, Bryce wasted considerable valuable time and effort in a
futile endeavour to gather some further hint of the identity of the
vandals; but despairing at last, he dismissed the matter from his mind,
resolving only that on Thursday he would go up into Pennington's woods
and interview the redoubtable Jules Rondeau. Bryce's natural inclination
was to wait upon M. Rondeau immediately, if not sooner, but the
recollection of his dinner engagement at the Pennington home warned him
to proceed cautiously; for while harbouring no apprehensions as to the
outcome of a possible clash with Rondeau, Bryce was not so optimistic as
to believe he would escape unscathed from an encounter. Experience had
impressed upon him the fact that in a rough-and-tumble battle nobody is
quite so thoroughly at home as a lumberjack; once in a clinch with
such a man, even a champion gladiator of the prize ring may well feel
apprehensive of the outcome.
Wednesday evening at five o'clock Mr. Sinclair, the manager, came
into Bryce's office with a handful of folded papers. “I have here,” he
announced in his clerky voice with a touch of solemnity to it, “a trial
balance. I have not had time to make an exact inventory; but in order
to give you some idea of the condition of your father's affairs, I have
used approximate figures and prepared a profit-and-loss account.”
Bryce reached for the papers.
“You will note the amount charged off to profit and loss under the head
of 'Pensions,'” Sinclair continued. “It amounts approximately to two
thousand dollars a month, and this sum represents payments to crippled
employees and the dependent families of men killed in the employ of the
Company.”
“In addition to these payments, your father owns thirty-two thirty-acre
farms which he has cleared from his logged-over lands. These little
farms are equipped with bungalows and outbuildings built by your father
and represent a considerable investment. As you know, these farms are
wonderfully rich, and are planted in apples and berries. Other lands
contiguous to them sell readily at two hundred dollars an acre, and so
you will see that your father has approximately two hundred thousand
dollars tied up in these little farms.”
“But he has given a life-lease at nothing a year for each farm to former
employees who have been smashed beyond the possibility of doing the hard
work of the mill and woods,” Bryce reminded the manager. “Hence you must
not figure those farms among our assets.”
“Why not?” Sinclair replied evenly. “Formal leases have never been
executed, and the tenants occupy the property at your father's
pleasure.”
“I think that will be about as far as the discussion on that point need
proceed,” Bryce replied smilingly. “My father's word has always been
considered sufficient in this country; his verbal promise to pay has
always been collateral enough for those who know him.”
“But my dear boy,” Sinclair protested, “while that sort of philanthropy
is very delightful when one can afford the luxury, it is scarcely
practical when one is teetering on the verge of financial ruin. After
all, Bryce, self-preservation is the first law of human nature, and
the sale of those farms would go a long way toward helping the Cardigan
Redwood Lumber Company out of the hole it is in at present.”
“And we're really teetering on the edge of financial ruin, eh?” Bryce
queried calmly.
“That is expressing your condition mildly. The semi-annual payment of
interest on the bonded indebtedness falls due on July first--and we're
going to default on it, sure as death and taxes. Colonel Pennington
holds a majority of our bonds, and that means prompt suit for
foreclosure.”
“Well, then, Sinclair,” Bryce retorted, carefully pigeon-holing the
documents the manager had handed him, “I'll tell you what we'll do. For
fifty years my father has played the game in this community like a sport
and a gentleman, and I'll be damned if his son will dog it now, at the
finish. I gather from your remarks that we could find ready sale for
those thirty-two little farms?”
“I am continually receiving offers for them.”
“Then they were not included in the list of properties covered by our
bonded indebtedness?”
“No, your father refused to include them. He said he would take a chance
on the financial future of himself and his boy, but not on his helpless
dependents.”
“Good old John Cardigan! Well, Sinclair, I'll not take a chance on them
either; so to-morrow morning you will instruct our attorney to draw
up formal life-leases on those farms, and to make certain they are
absolutely unassailable. Colonel Pennington may have the lands sold to
satisfy a deficiency judgment against us, but while those life-leases
from the former owner are in force, my father's proteges cannot be
dispossessed. After they are dead, of course, Pennington may take the
farms--and be damned to him.”
Sinclair stared in frank amazement at his youthful superior. “You are
throwing away two hundred thousand dollars,” he said distinctly.
“I haven't thrown it away--yet. You forget, Sinclair, that we're going
to fight first--and fight like fiends; then if we lose--well, the
tail goes with the hide, By the way, Sinclair, are any of those farms
untenanted at the present time?”
“Yes. Old Bill Tarpey, who lost his three boys in a forest fire over
on the San Hedrin, passed out last week. The Tarpey boys died in the
Cardigan employ, and so your father gave Bill the use of a farm out near
Freshwater.”
“Well, you'd better be his successor, Sinclair. You're no longer a young
man, and you've been thirty years in this office. Play safe, Sinclair,
and include yourself in one of those life-leases.”
“My dear boy--”
“Nonsense! United we stand, divided we fall, Sinclair; and let there be
no moaning of the bar when a Cardigan puts out to sea.”
Smiling, he rose from his desk, patted the bewildered Sinclair on the
latter's grizzled head, and then reached for his hat. “I'm dining out
to-night, Sinclair, and I wouldn't be a kill-joy at the feast, for a
ripe peach. Your confounded figures might make me gloomy; so we'll just
reserve discussion of them till to-morrow morning. Be a sport, Sinclair,
and for once in your life beat the six o'clock whistle. In other words,
I suggest that you go home and rest for once.”
He left Sinclair staring at him rather stupidly.