William Crooks, the old lumberman who had been the friend of the elder
Kent, was big and broad and burly, and before the years had silvered his
mane it was as red as any danger flag that ever wagged athwart steel
rails. He held strong opinions, he used strong language, he was swift to
anger, he feared no man on earth, and he knew the logging business from
stump to market.
He inhabited a huge, square, brick structure that would have given an
architect chronic nightmare. Twenty odd years before he had called to
him one Dorsey, by trade a builder. "Dorsey," said Crooks, "I want you
to build me a house."
Dorsey, who was a practical man, removed his pipe, scratched his head
and asked: "What of?"
"Red brick," said Crooks. He held out a sheet of foolscap. "Here's the
number of rooms and the sizes of them."