The train was held up on its way to the Canadian frontier by a wash-out farther along the track. Devereux Clay stood in the noon sunshine talking to Osborne at a small wayside station while groups of impatient passengers strolled about the line, stopping now and then to glance at a gap in the somber1 firs where the rails gleamed in the strong sunshine; the engineer, leaning out from his cab, had his eyes turned in the same direction. There was, however, nothing to be seen but climbing trees, whose ragged2 spires3 rose one behind the other far up the steep hillside, and the fragrance4 the hot noon sun drew out from them mingled5 with the sharp smell of creosote from the ties. Except for the murmur6 of voices and the panting of the locomotive pump, it was very quiet in the narrow clearing, and the sound of falling water came up faintly from a deep hollow where a lake glittered among the firs.
Clay leaned against the agent’s wooden shack7, with his watch in his hand, for time was of value to him just then.
“Twenty minutes yet, from what that fellow said,” he grumbled8. “Give me a cigar—I’ve run out—and you needn’t wait.”
“Oh, I’m in no hurry,” said Osborne, glancing toward his automobile9, which stood outside the station. “I suppose it’s the labor10 trouble that’s taking you to Vancouver?”
“You’ve hit it,” Clay answered in a confidential11 tone. “I’m a bit worried about things; but I’ve spent the last two days wondering whether I’d go or not.”
He was seldom so undecided, but Osborne thought he understood.
“It looks as if the unions meant business,” he said, “and in this agitation12 against alien labor they seem to have public sympathy. Have you any Japs at the mill?”
“I believe so. That’s partly why I’m going. Until I read the papers this morning I thought I’d stay away. I figured it might be better to let the boy worry through alone and see what he could make of it.”
“Let him win his spurs?”
“That’s right. I told him to sit tight, and so long as he made good I’d foot the bill; but after the big row in Vancouver yesterday, I thought I’d go along. Still, my notion is to keep in the background unless I find I’m badly wanted.”
His manner was half apologetic, and Osborne smiled. Clay was not addicted13 to hovering14 in the background when things were happening; but Osborne knew the affection he bore his son.
“It might be wiser for you to be on the spot; the white mob seems to be in an ugly mood,” he said. “How is Aynsley getting on?”
“Better than I expected. The boy has the right grip and he’s taking hold.” Clay turned abruptly15 and fixed16 Osborne with his eyes. “I was a bit puzzled about his making up his mind all at once that he’d run the mill. Do you know of anything that might have helped to persuade him?”
“Since you ask, I have a suspicion,” Osborne answered.
“So have I; I guess it matches yours. It’s like the young fool that a word from a girl who knows less than he does should have more effect than all the reasons I gave him.”
“It’s not unnatural,” Osborne smiled.
“Then suppose we’re right in our idea of what this points to? You know my boy.”
“I like him. Perhaps I’d better say that if I found that Ruth shared my good opinion, I shouldn’t object. But I can’t guess her views on the matter.”
“I know Aynsley’s,” Clay said dryly. “We had a talk not long ago, and I offered to see what I could do.”
Osborne gave him a searching glance and his expression changed. He looked on his guard.
“So far, you have been able to get your son everything he wished for; but you must understand that you can’t dispose of my daughter. Ruth shall please herself.”
Clay’s eyes gleamed with rather hard amusement.
“It’s curious that my boy said much the same thing. In fact, he warned me off. He knows how I’ve indulged him and seemed to think I might put some pressure on you.”
“In the present instance it wouldn’t have much effect; but what you say gives me a better opinion of Aynsley than I already had.”
“That’s all right,” Clay rejoined, dropping his hand on the other’s arm in a friendly manner. “We certainly can’t afford to quarrel, and I don’t know that it’s unfortunate our children are more fastidious than we are. Anyway, we don’t want them to find us out. I’d feel mean if my son disowned me.”
Osborne winced17 at this allusion18.
“Aynsley stands prosperity well,” he said.
“In my opinion, it’s considerably19 less damaging than the other thing. I’m thankful I’ve done the grubbing in the dirt for him. I’ve put him where it’s easier to keep clean. So far as I can fix it, my boy shall have a better time than was possible for me. I’ve put him into business to teach him sense—I don’t know a better education for any young man than to let him earn his bread and butter. He’ll learn the true value of men and things; and when he’s done that and shown he’s capable of holding his own, he can quit and do what pleases him. I’ve no near relations, and there was a time when my distant connections weren’t proud of me. Everything I have goes to the boy; and if your daughter will take him, I’d know he was in good hands. If she won’t, I’ll be sorry, but he must put up with it.”
Osborne felt reassured20. Clay had his good points, though they were not always very obvious, and perhaps the best was his affection for his son. Before Osborne could reply, Clay glanced again at his watch and resumed his usual somewhat truculent21 manner.
“If they get me into Vancouver after the trouble begins, I’ll see the road bosses in Seattle and have the superintendent22 of this division fired!” he announced.
At that moment the telegraph began to tick in the shack, and shortly afterward23 the agent came up to Clay.
“They’re through. We’ll get you off in five minutes, and I have orders to cut out the next two stops,” he said.
While he gave the conductor his instructions a shrill24 whistle rang through the shadows of the pines and a big engine with a row of flat cars carrying a gravel25 plow26 and a crowd of dusty men came clattering27 down the line. As they rolled into the side-track Clay climbed to the platform of his car, and almost immediately the train started. His face grew hard and thoughtful when he leaned back in a corner seat; and he had emptied the cigar-case his friend had given him before he reached Vancouver, where he hired the fastest automobile he could find.
While his father was being recklessly driven over a very rough road which ran through thick bush, Aynsley sat on a pile of lumber28 outside the mill with his manager. It was getting dark, the saws which had filled the hot air all day with their scream were still, and the river bank was silent except for the gurgle of the broad, green flood that swirled29 among the piles. A great boom of logs moored30 in an eddy31 worked with the swing of the current, straining at its chains; there was a red glimmer32 in the western sky, but trails of white mist gathered about the thinned forest that shut the clearing in. Only trees too small for cutting had been left, but the gaps between them were filled with massive stumps33. Tall iron stacks, straggling sheds, and sawdust dumps took on a certain harsh picturesqueness34 in the fading light; and the keen smell of freshly cut cedar35 came up the faint breeze. But Aynsley had no eye for his surroundings. He was thinking hard.
After a brief experience, he had found, somewhat to his surprise, that his work was getting hold of him. The mechanical part of it in particular aroused his keen interest: there was satisfaction in feeling that the power of the big engines was being used to the best advantage. Then, the management of the mill-hands and the care of the business had their attractions; and Aynsley ventured to believe that he had made few mistakes as yet, though he admitted that his father had supplied him with c............