Donald left the following morning in the automobile for the
logging-camps up-river, and because of his unfamiliarity with their
present location, his father's chauffeur drove him up. He was to be
gone all week, but planned to return Saturday afternoon to spend
Sunday with his family.
As the car wound up the narrow river road, Donald found himself
thinking of Nan Brent and her tragedy. Since his visit to the Sawdust
Pile the day before, two pictures of her had persisted in his memory,
every detail of both standing forth distinctly.
In the first, she was a shabby, barelegged girl of thirteen, standing
in the cockpit of his sloop, holding the little vessel on its course
while he and old Caleb took a reef in the mainsail. The wilderness of
gold that was her uncared-for hair blew behind her like a sunny
burgee; her sea-blue eyes were fixed on the mainsail, out of which she
adroitly spilled the wind at the proper moment, in order that Donald
and her father might haul the reef-points home and make them fast. In
his mind's eye, he could see the pulse beating in her throat as they
prepared to come about, for on such occasions she always became
excited; he saw again the sweet curve of her lips and her uplifted
chin; he heard again her shrill voice crying, "Ready, about!" and saw
the spokes spin as she threw the helm over and crouched from the
swinging boom, although it cleared her pretty head by at least three
feet. He listened again to her elfin laugh as she let the sloop fall
off sufficiently to take the lip of a comber over the starboard
counter and force Donald and her father to seek shelter from the spray
in the lee of the mainsail, from which sanctuary, with more laughter,
she presently routed them by causing the spray to come in over the
port counter.
The other picture was the pose in which he had seen her the morning
previous at the Sawdust Pile, when, to hide her emotion, she had half
turned from him and gazed so forlornly out across the Bight of Tyee.
It had struck him then, with peculiar force, that Nan Brent never
again would laugh that joyous elfin laugh of other days. He had seen
the pulse beating in her creamy neck again--a neck fuller, rounder,
glorious with the beauty of fully developed womanhood. And the riot of
golden hair was subdued, with the exception of little wayward wisps
that whipped her white temples. Her eyes, somewhat darker now, like
the sea near the horizon after the sun has set but while the glory of
the day still lingers, were bright with unshed tears. The sweet curves
of her mouth were drawn in pain. The northwest trade-wind blowing
across the bight had whipped her gingham dress round her, revealing
the soft curves of a body, the beauty of which motherhood had
intensified rather than diminished. Thus she had stood, the outcast of
Port Agnew, and beside her the little badge of her shame, demanding
the father he had never known and would never see.
The young laird of Tyee wondered what sort of man could have done this
thing--this monumental wickedness. His great fists were clenched as
there welled within him a black rage at the scoundrel who had so
wantonly wrecked that little home on the Sawdust Pile. He wondered,
with the arrogance of his years, assuming unconsciously the right of
special privilege, if Nan would ever reveal to him the identity of the
villain. Perhaps, some day, in a burst of confidence, she might. Even
if she did tell him, what could he do? To induce the recreant lover to
marry her openly and legally would, he knew, be the world's way of
"righting the wrong" and giving the baby a name, but the mischief had
been done too long, and could never be undone unless, indeed, a
marriage certificate, with proper dating, could be flaunted in the
face of an iconoclastic and brutal world. Even then, there would
remain that astute and highly virtuous few who would never cease to
impart in whispers the information that, no matter what others might
think, _they_ had their doubts. He was roused from his bitter
cogitations by the chauffeur speaking.
"This is Darrow, Mr. Donald. I don't believe you've seen it, have you?
Darrow put in his mill and town while you were away."
Donald looked over the motley collection of shacks as the automobile
rolled down the single unpaved street.
"Filthy hole," he muttered. "Hello! There's one of my late friends
from the Sawdust Pile."
A woman, standing in the open door of a shanty on the outskirts of the
town had made a wry face and thrust out her tongue at him. He lifted
his hat gravely, whereat she screamed a curse upon him. An instant
later, an empty beer-bottle dropped with a crash in the tonneau, and
Donald, turning, beheld in the door of a Darrow groggery one of the
Greek fishermen He had dispossessed.
"Stop the car!" Donald commanded. "I think that man wants to discuss a
matter with me."
"Sorry, sir, but I don't think it's wise to obey you just now," his
father's chauffeur answered, and trod on the accelerator. "They call
that place the 'Bucket of Blood,' and you'll need something more than
your fists if you expect to enter there and come out under your own
power."
"Very well. Some other time, perhaps."
"You don't appear to be popular in Darrow, Mr. Donald."
"Those people left the Sawdust Pile yesterday--in a hurry," Donald
explained. "Naturally, they're still resentful."
"They were making quite a little money down there, I believe. Folks do
say business was good, and when you take money from that kind of
cattle you make a worth-while enemy. If I were you, sir, I'd watch my
step in dark alleys, and I'd carry a gun."
"When I have to carry a gun to protect myself from vermin like that
mulatto and those shifty little Greeks, I'll be a few years older than
I am now, Henry. However, I suppose I'd be foolish to neglect your
warning to mind my step."
He spent a busy week in the woods, and it was his humor to spend it
entirely felling trees. The tough, experienced old choppers welcomed
him with keen interest and played freeze-out each night in the
bunk-houses to see which one should draw him for a partner next day;
for the choppers worked in pairs, likewise the cross-cut men. Their
bucolic sense of humor impelled the choppers to speed up when they
found themselves paired with the new boss, for it would have been a
feather in the cap of the man who could make him quit or send him home
at nightfall "with his tail dragging," as the woods boss expressed it.
Donald sported a wondrous set of blisters at the close of that first
day, but after supper he opened them, covered them with adhesive tape,
and went back to work next morning as if nothing had happened. During
those five days, he learned considerable of the art of dropping a tree
exactly where he desired it, and bringing it to earth without
breakage. He rode down to Port Agnew with the woods crew on the last
log-train Saturday night, walked into the mill office, and cashed in
his time-slip for five days' work as a chopper. He had earned two
dollars a day and his board and lodging. His father, who had driven
into town to meet him, came to the window and watched him humorously.
"So that's the way you elect to work it, eh?" he queried. "I told
Daney to pay you my salary when I quit."
"I like to feel that I'm earning my stipend," Donald replied, "so it
pleases me to draw the wages of the job I'm working at. When I'm
thoroughly acquainted with all the jobs in the Tyee Lumber Company, or
at least have a good working knowledge of them, I think I'll be a
better boss."
The Laird took his son's big brown hands in his and looked at the
palms.
"I rather think I like it so," he answered. "A man whose hands have
never bled or whose back has never ached is a poor man to judge a
labor dispute. 'Twould improve you if you were a married man and had
to live on that for a week, less twenty-five cents for your hospital
dues. The choppers pay a dollar a month toward the hospital, and that
covers medical attendance for them and their families."
Donald laughed and flipped a quarter over to the cashier, then turned
and handed ten dollars to a wiry little chopper standing in line.
"I was feeling so good this morning I bet Sandy my week's pay I could
fell a tree quicker than he and with less breakage. He won in a walk,"
he explained to The Laird.
"Come with me," his father ordered, and led him into the office.
From the huge safe he selected a ledger, scanned the index, and opened
it at a certain account headed, "Sandy dough." To Sandy's credit each
month, extending over a period of fifteen years, appeared a credit of
thirty dollars.
"That's what it's costing me to have discovered Sandy," his father
informed him; "but since I had served an apprenticeship as a chopper,
the time required to discover Sandy was less than half an hour, I
watched him one day when he didn't know who I was--so I figured him
for a man and a half and raised him a dollar a day. He doesn't know
it, however. If he did, he'd brag about it, and I'd have to pay as
much to men half as good. When he's chopped for us twenty years, fire
him and give him that. He's earned it. Thus endeth the first lesson,
my son. Now come home to dinner."
After dinner, Donald returned to town to buy himself some
working-clothes at the general store. His purchases completed, he
sought the juvenile department.
"I want some kid's clothing," he announced. "To fit a child of three.
Rompers, socks, shoes--the complete outfit. Charge them to my account
and send them over to Nan Brent at the Sawdust Pile. I'll give you a
note to enclose with them."
Notwithstanding the fact that she was an employe of the Tyee Lumber
Company, the girl who waited on him stared at him frankly. He noticed
this and bent upon her a calm glance that brought a guilty flush to
her cheek. Quickly she averted her eyes, but, nevertheless she had a
feeling that the young laird of Tyee was still appraising her, and,
unable to withstand the fascination peculiar to such a situation, she
looked at him again to verify her suspicions--and it was even so. In
great confusion she turned to her stock, and Donald, satisfied that he
had squelched her completely, went into the manager's office, wrote,
and sealed the following note to Nan Brent:
Saturday night. FRIEND NAN:
Here are some duds for the young fellow. You gave me the right to
look after him, you know; at least, you didn't decline it. At any
rate, I think you will not mind accepting them from me.
I sent to Seattle for some books I thought you might like. They
have probably arrived by parcel-post. Sent you a box of candy,
also, although I have forgotten the kind you used to prefer.
Been up in the logging-camp all week, chopping, and I ache all
over. Expect to be hard and not quite so weary by next week-end,
and will call over for Sunday dinner.