By noon of the following day, Port Agnew was astounded by news brought
by the crew of one of the light draft launches used to tow log rafts
down the river. Donald McKaye was working for Darrow. He was their
raftsman; he had been seen out on the log boom, pike pole in hand,
shoving logs in to the endless chain elevator that drew them up to the
seas. As might be imagined, Mrs. Daney was among the first to glean
this information, and to her husband she repeated it at luncheon with
every evidence of pleasure.
"Tut, tut, woman," he replied carelessly, "this is no news to me. He
told me yesterday after service that he had the job."
The familiar wrinkle appeared for an instant on the end of her nose
before she continued: "I wonder what The Laird thinks of that,
Andrew?"
"So do I," he parried skilfully.
"Does he know it?"
"There isn't a soul in Port Agnew with sufficient courage to tell
him."
"Why do you not tell him?"
"None of my business. Besides, I do not hanker to see people squirm
with suffering."
She wrinkled her nose once more and was silent.
As Mr. Daney had declared, there was none in Port Agnew possessed of
sufficient hardihood to inform the Laird of his son's lowly status and
it was three weeks before he discovered it for himself. He had gone
up the river to one of his logging camps and the humor had seized him
to make the trip in a fast little motor-boat he had given Donald at
Christmas many years' before. He was busy adjusting the carburetor,
after months of disuse, as he passed the Darrow log boom in the
morning, so he failed to see his big son leaping across the logs,
balancing himself skilfully with the pike pole.
It was rather late when he started home and in the knowledge that
darkness might find him well up the river he hurried.
Now, from the Bight of Tyee to a point some five miles above Darrow,
the Skookum flows in almost a straight line; the few bends are wide
and gradual, and when The Laird came to this home-stretch he urged the
boat to its maximum speed of twenty-eight miles per hour. Many a time
in happier days he had raced down this long stretch with Donald at the
helm, and he knew the river thoroughly; as he sped along he steered
mechanically, his mind occupied in a consideration of the dishonor
that had come upon his clan.
The sun had already set as he came roaring down a wide deep stretch
near Darrow's mill; in his preoccupation he forgot that his
competitor's log boom stretched across the river fully two-thirds of
its width; that he should throttle down, swerve well to starboard and
avoid the field of stored logs. The deep shadows cast by the sucker
growth and old snags along the bank blended with the dark surface of
the log boom and prevented him from observing that he was headed for
the heart of it; the first intimation he had of his danger came to
him in a warning shout from the left bank--a shout that rose above the
roar of the exhaust.
"Jump! Overboard! Quickly! The log boom!"
Old Hector awoke from his bitter reverie. He, who had once been a
river hog, had no need to be told of the danger incident to abrupt
precipitation into the heart of that log boom, particularly when it
would presently be gently agitated by the long high "bone" the racing
boat carried in her teeth. When logs weighing twenty tons come gently
together--even when they barely rub against each other, nothing living
caught between them may survive.
The unknown who warned him was right. He must jump overboard and take
his chance in the river, for it was too late now to slow down and put
his motor in reverse. In the impending crash that was only a matter of
seconds, The Laird would undoubtedly catapult from the stern sheets
into the water--and if he should drift in under the logs, knew the
river would eventually give up his body somewhere out in the Bight of
Tyee. On the other hand, should he be thrown out on the boom he would
stand an equal chance of being seriously injured by the impact or
crushed to death when his helpless body should fall between the logs.
In any event the boat would be telescoped down to the cockpit and sink
at the edge of the log field.
He was wearing a heavy overcoat, for it was late in the fall, and he
had no time to remove it; not even time to stand up and dive clear. So
he merely hurled his big body against the starboard gunwale and
toppled overboard--and thirty feet further on the boat struck with a
crash that echoed up and down the river, telescoped and drove under
the log boom. It was not in right when old Hector rose puffing to the
surface and bellowed for help before starting to swim for the log
boom.