THE "CUT-OFF"
The meeting with Margaret Westcote was a great event in Lois' life.
Hitherto, her lot had been somewhat of a lonely one, with no special
girl friend to share her confidences. Her interests had always been so
different from others that she was not looked upon by any as a boon
companion. She often reasoned with them and asked why they should make
selfish pleasure the principal motive of living when they could have
more enjoyment by putting self last and others first.
With Margaret Westcote, however, it was different. She was after Lois'
own heart, and the two were as one in their interests. Each supplied
what the other lacked; one her vivaciousness, and the other her
calmness of mind. Their friendship was not a growth but a fusing at
the first meeting. They were now very much together, and Margaret took
a keen interest in the work of getting the Christmas supplies ready for
needy families.
Dick was delighted that this beautiful girl was so much at the house,
and for the first time in his life he found Church work most
interesting. He was always ready to help, but was generally in the
way. It was quite evident that he was greatly in love with Margaret,
though she on her part treated him as a mere boy and not as a lover.
He could not seem to realise that she was an excellent judge of
character, and preferred men who did things instead of spending their
time in idleness. Lois understood the girl's feelings, and the truth
began to dawn upon her that Jasper Randall was Margaret's ideal type of
a man. One who could battle and overcome was the man who appealed to
her. Whenever Jasper's name was mentioned Margaret's eyes would
sparkle with animation, and she never tired of talking about him and
the struggle he had made in life.
The week before Christmas Lois became more enthusiastic than ever with
the work of getting the boxes ready to be sent to the various families.
She longed to interest her father, and one morning before he left for
his office she asked him if he would not do something for the families
of the men who were working for him in the woods on the old Dinsmore
Manor. She had never spoken to him about the letter he had written to
Mrs. Bean, feeling sure that it would be of no avail. But she had
learned through a letter from Betty that the choppers had not yet
crossed the line, and for this Lois was thankful. Perhaps he did not
intend to take the logs, she reasoned, but had written the letter
during one of his cranky moods, with no intention of putting his threat
into practice.
"Why should we send anything to country families?" her father asked
her. "They earn good money, and why should we help them?"
"But there are some very poor families," Lois replied, "and I know they
can hardly make a living. There is Mrs. Bean, for instance. She
hasn't the bare necessities of life at times, and a present this
Christmas would be a blessing to her."
"I can't help that," Mr. Sinclair angrily retorted. "It's none of my
business if she is poor. Where would we be, I'd like to know, if we
handed out to such people? Why, there are thousands of them."
It was in no happy frame of mind that Mr. Sinclair left the house and
made his way down town. Reaching his office, he seated himself before
his desk and spread out a somewhat soiled piece of paper. Over this he
ran his finger until it stopped at a certain mark. "Camp Number One,"
he muttered. "Ha, ha! good timber there, and close to the line, too.
Camp Number Two--much nearer the line," and his finger moved over the
paper to another mark. "Camp Number Three, and over the border into
the enemy's country, ha, ha! Good for five thousand. Pine timber,
straight and clean as masts, and thick as hair on a dog's back. How
they'll squirm, those country clogs, when they see their good logs
floating down the river. But they're mine. The new line is right, for
the best surveyor in the Province ran it. Fifty rods inside the old
one, ha, ha! I expect they'll make a fuss and put up a big kick. But
I'll fight them, and then we'll see what money will do."
A knock sounded upon the door, and three men entered with hats in their
hands.
"Mr. Sinclair, I believe," the spokesman began.
"Yes, that's my name, and what can I do for you?" the lumberman replied.
"Well, you see," continued the other, "we've come to the city on
purpose to have a talk with you about that line you had run between
your land and ours."
"Well, and what about it?" snapped Sinclair.
"We've been appointed a committee to inform you that your men are
cutting logs over the line, and are encroaching on the shore lots.
They began day before yesterday."
"What, the men of Camp Number Three?"
"Yes."
"But that timber is mine," Sinclair replied. "I sent a surveyor there
last summer and he found that the old line was wrong. A new one was
run which gives me fifty rods off the rear of your shore lots."
"There must be some mistake, Mr. Sinclair," the countryman calmly
returned. "Our forefathers received their lands as grants from the
Crown after the Revolutionary War. A line was then run which separated
the shore lots from that portion of land known as the 'Dinsmore Manor,'
and there has been no dispute over it until now."
"Look here!" and Sinclair sprang to his feet. "I know my business and
attend to it. You attend to yours. The new line is right and, by
heavens, I'll stick to it!"
"We are attending to our business," the countryman replied, "and we'll
show you, wealthy though you are, that you can't work any bluff game on
us. But," and here he lowered his voice, "Mr. Sinclair, we don't want
to quarrel. We came chiefly to tell you that your men in Camp Number
Three are cutting the logs on the farm of a poor widow with several
children. If you are a man of any heart you will see that the work is
stopped at once."
"What, cease for a widow and her brood? Never! There is the Poor
House--let her go there; and the Orphanage is the place for the kids if
they are not old enough to work. Such people only injure a settlement,
and you should be glad to be rid of them. So, gentlemen, as I have
much business on hand, I wish to be alone."
"And you will do nothing to help that poor woman?" the three men asked
as one.
"No, nothing. Do your best. If you wish to lose your farms, go ahead.
Good day."
Christmas came on Thursday, and on Tuesday morning Mr. Sinclair
informed Lois that he was going away and would not be back until the
end of the week. It was during breakfast that he told her this, and
Lois paused in the act of pouring his coffee.
"And you'll not be here for Christmas?" she asked in surprise.
"No. Christmas means nothing to me. I intend to visit my camps. I
should have gone before, as no doubt the men are loafing. I am going
to surprise them. They'll never expect to see me at this season of the
year. The men'll want to take three days off, and I can't allow it.
They always come back unfitted for work after their celebrations.
They'll do nothing of the kind this year if they expect to work for me."
Lois knew only too well how useless it was to try to reason with her
father when he had once made up his mind. She had learned from bitter
experience in the past that the less she said the better it would be.
Nevertheless, her heart was very sad at the change that had come over
her father. Never before had he gone away fit Christmas time, and it
was the one day in the year when he was more pleasant than usual. What
would be the outcome of it all? she wondered.
That very morning as soon as breakfast was over Mr. Sinclair left for
the scenes of his lumbering operations, about fifty miles from the
city. He travelled with a horse and sleigh, and on the second day he
reached Camp Number Two shortly after the men had finished their
mid-day meal and were starting back to their work. No sooner had
Sinclair entered the cabin than his eyes fell upon a man lying in one
of the bunks.
"Hello, Stevens," he called to the foreman, "who is this taking life so
easy, when the rest of us are struggling for our daily bread?"
"Oh, that is Robins, one of our best men," was the reply. "He took
sick this morning, and I would have sent him to the shore at once only
to-morrow will be Christmas Day and I thought he could wait until
to-night when the teams will be going out, and----"
"Going out! Going out, are they?" Sinclair interrupted. "And who gave
orders to quit on Christmas Day, I'd like to know?"
"We always quit on that day, sir," Stevens stammered. "It's been the
custom for years, and I took it for granted----"
"Yes, that's just the trouble. You take too many things for granted.
But I tell you this, Christmas is all nonsense. It breaks up the work,
and the hauling season is none too long at the best. I'll have none of
it. You'll work or quit, and that's the end of it."
"But what about Robins?" questioned the foreman, whose thoughts were
travelling away to a little group of bright faces anxiously awaiting
his home-coming for a jolly Christmas.
"Isn't there any spare team?" Sinclair asked.
"None to spare, sir. We've only the bob-sleds, and they're not much
for a sick man to ride on. But," he added after a pause, "we were
going to fix up something to-night, sir."
"Confound it all!" Sinclair exclaimed. "What are we going to do? I
can't afford to let a double team go, and besides, it would mean a loss
of two days. Let me see. How far is it to Camp Number Three?"
"Three miles if you go by way of the cut-off, but four if you go
around. The cut-off hasn't been used much by the teams this winter,
and it is little more than a foot-path."
"How far is it to the cut-off?" Sinclair asked.
"About two miles."
"Well, look here, Stevens. You drive me to that cut-off, and then get
some one to take that sick fellow out with my rig. I'll walk the rest
of the way to the camp, and stay there till you come for me."
When the cut-off had been reached, Sinclair started off on a brisk walk
in the keen frosty air. He even felt quite young and cheerful as he
moved forward. But the trail was rough, and his coat was very heavy,
so after walking for some time he began to feel weary.
"This is a long trail," he muttered. "Confound that sick man! What
business had he getting laid up and causing all this trouble."
Hardly had the words left his mouth before his foot struck the stump of
a small tree, and with a cry of pain he sank upon the snow. Recovering
himself he tried to walk, but so great was the agony when his right
foot touched the trail that he groaned aloud.