The morning after the barbecue, Donald McKaye reported at eight
o'clock to his father's faithful old general manager, Andrew Daney.
Daney had grown gray in his father's service, and it was no part of
Donald's plans to assign him to a back seat.
"Well, Mr. Daney," he inquired affably, "what are your plans for the
new hired man?"
Old Daney looked up quizzically.
"You do the planning here, Don," he replied.
"You heard me say yesterday that there would be no changes, Mr. Daney.
Of course, I haven't grown up in Port Agnew without learning something
of my heritage, but, in view of the fact that I still have
considerable to learn, suppose you indicate just where I ought to
start."
Daney was pleased at a deference he had not anticipated.
"Start in the woods," he replied. "That's where your daddy started.
Felling timber and handling it is rather a fine art, Don. I'd wrestle
logs for a month and follow them down the Skookum to the log boom.
Then I'd put in six months in the mill and six more in the factory,
following it with three months on the dock, tallying, and three months
of a hand-shaking tour out among the trade. After that, you may sit in
at your father's desk, and I'll gradually break you in to his job."
"That's a grand idea, and I'll act on it," Donald declared.
"Well, it's too late to act on it to-day, Don. The up-river launch to
the logging-camp left at seven o'clock. However, I have a job for you.
We really need the Sawdust Pile for an extension of our drying-yard.
Our present yard lies right under the lee of that ridge of which Tyee
Head is an extension, and it's practically noon before the sun gets a
fair chance at it. The Sawdust Pile gets the sun all day long, and the
winds have an uninterrupted sweep across it. We can dry our cedar
decking there in half the time it requires now."
"But the Sawdust Pile is--"
"A rat's nest, Don. There are a number of other shacks there now--some
Greek fishermen, a negro, and a couple of women from the overflow of
Tyee. It ought to be cleaned out."
"I noticed those shacks last night, Mr. Daney, and I agree with you
that they should go. But I haven't the heart to run old Caleb Brent
off the Sawdust Pile. I gave it to him, you know."
"Well, let Brent stay there. He's too old and crippled with rheumatism
to attend to his truck-garden any more; so if you leave him the space
for his house and a chicken-yard, he'll be satisfied. In fact, I have
discussed the proposition with him, and he is agreeable."
"Why did dad permit those other people to crowd him, Mr. Daney?"
"While your father was in Europe with you, they horned in, claimed a
squatter's right, and stood pat. Old Brent was defenseless, and while
the boys from the mill would have cleaned them out if I had given the
word, the Greeks and the negro were defiant, and it meant bloodshed.
So I have permitted the matter to rest until your father's return."
Donald reached for his hat.
"Caleb Brent's squatter-right to that Sawdust Pile is going to be
upheld," he declared. "I'll clean that colony out before sunset, or
they'll clean me."
"I'd proceed cautiously if I were you, Don. They have a host of
friends up in Darrow, and we mustn't precipitate a feud."
"I'm going over now and serve notice on them to vacate immediately."
He grinned at old Daney. "A negro, a handful of Greeks, and those
unfortunate women can't bluff the boss of Port Agnew, Mr. Daney."
"They tell me there's a blind pig down there, also."
"It will not be there after to-day," Donald answered lightly, and
departed for the Sawdust Pile.
As he came up to the gate in the neat fence Caleb Brent had built
across the Sawdust Pile nine years before, a baby boy, of perhaps
three years of age, rose out of the weeds in which he had been playing
and regarded the visitor expectantly.
"Hello, bub!" the young laird of Tyee greeted the child.
"Hello!" came the piping answer. "Are you my daddy?"
"Why, no, Snickelfritz." He ran his fingers through the tot's golden
hair. "Don't you know your own daddy?"
"I haven't any daddy," the child drawled.
"No? Well, that's unfortunate." Donald stooped and lifted the tike to
his shoulder, marveling the while that such a cherub could be the
product of any of the denizens of the Sawdust Pile. At once, the boy's
arms went round his neck and a velvet cheek was laid close to his.
"You're an affectionate little snooks, aren't you?" Donald commented.
"Do you live here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Somebody's been teaching you manners. Whose little boy are you?"
"Muvver's."
"And who might mother be?"
"Nan Brent."
"Yo-ho! So you're Nan Brent's boy! What's your name?"
"Donald Brent."
"No; that isn't it, son. Brent is your mother's name. Tell me your
father's name."
"Ain't got no farver."
"Well then, run along to your mother."
He kissed the child and set him down just as a young woman came down
the sadly neglected shell walk from Caleb Brent's little white house.
Donald opened the gate and advanced to meet her.
"I'm sure you must be Nan," he said, "although I can't be certain. I
haven't seen Nan in six years."