"You understand, Nichols," he said when they reached the portico, "you've agreed to go—to-night—at eleven."
"I wish you'd let me meet him—without the money."
"No—no. I've made up my mind——," gasped McGuire with a touch of his old alarm, "there can't be any change in the plan—no change at all."
"Oh, very well," said Peter, "it's not my money I'm giving away."
"It won't matter, Nichols. I—I've got a lot more——"
"But the principle——" protested Peter.
"To H—— with the principle," growled the old man.
Peter turned and went back to the Cabin, somewhat disgusted with his whole undertaking. Already he had been here for five days and, except for two walks through the woods for purposes of investigation, nothing that he had come to do had been accomplished. He had not yet even visited the sawmills which were down on the corduroy road five miles away. So far as he could see, for the present he was merely McGuire's handy man, a kind of upper servant and messenger, whose duties could have been performed as capably by Stryker or Shad Wells, or even Jesse Brown. The forest called him. It needed him. From what he had heard he knew that down by the sawmills they were daily cutting the wrong trees. He had already sent some instructions to the foreman there, but he could not be sure that his orders had been obeyed. He knew that he ought to spend the day there, making friends with the men and explaining the reasons for the change in orders, but as long as McGuire wanted him within telephone range, there was nothing to do but to obey.
He reached the Cabin, threw off his coat, and had hardly settled down at the table to finish his drawing, a plan of the observation towers, when Beth appeared. He rose and greeted her. Her face was flushed, for she had been running.
"Has Shad been here?" she asked breathlessly.