“Where have you been all this time? What have you been doing with yourself?” he inquired, with no great interest.
“I’ve been up in the woods—on the Coboconk lakes—near Uncle Phil’s place,” Tom answered with some hesitation. “Looking for—for government land to take up. I saw Cousin Dave, just starting on a gold-rush.”
And to entertain his father he gave a humorous description of the hurrying prospectors.
“You’ve been in town. Did you see Armstrong there? What did he tell you?” Mr. Jackson inquired, after listening indifferently to Tom’s story.
“He told me—that you were on no account to talk about business,” Tom evaded, laughing.
“He’s an old fool. But it’ll not bear much talking about, maybe. He told you the shape it’s in, I’ve no doubt. I left it all in his hands. I was at the end of my rope. If the business goes down, Tom, you’ll have to start life a poor man, the same as your father did; and I’m afraid you haven’t got the training or the mind for it,” he added, ruthlessly. “It’s partly my own fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault a bit, Father!” Tom groaned. “It was all my own foolishness. It’s going to be different after this. I’ve learned a lot up there in the woods. I had a rough time and nearly starved. I thought things all over.” He hesitated, and then went on. “I did think once, too, that I was going to make a big strike.”
Mr. Jackson was looking at his son with a little more interest.
“Well, if you can get a bit more practical, Tom, it’ll be a good thing. In fact, it looks as if you’d have to do it. What kind of a strike were you trying to make? Gold? There’s no mineral around the Coboconk lakes. I’ve lumbered all through that district, years ago.”
“You have?” cried Tom. “I never knew that. Then very likely you’ve heard of the big raft of walnut logs that was lost on Coboconk a good many years ago?”