“It is certainly not mine. How far it may be yours, I can’t tell, but a man of that kind doesn’t walk alone. Where he goes he drags others after him.”
Osborne laughed as the hum of the car rushing along the hillside came back to them.
“The pace he sets is generally hot,” he admitted; “but I imagine his son is at present gratifying his love of speed.”
As a matter of fact, Clay was then leaning back on the cushions, with his hat jammed tightly on, while he watched Aynsley, whose face was presented to him in clearly cut profile. The car was traveling very fast along one of the rough dirt-roads of the country, throwing up red dust and withered needles and bouncing among the ruts. High overhead there hung a roof of somber foliage, pierced by shafts of glittering light and supported by the columnar trunks of great Douglas firs. There were holes in the uneven surface of the road deep enough to wreck the machine, and though boggy stretches had been laid with small, split logs, these left bare, broad spaces where the wheels sank in the soft soil. Aynsley never slackened speed. He avoided the dangers with judgment and nerve, while the car lurched as it twisted in and out, now clinging to the edge of the bank with tires that brushed the fern, now following a devious track made by wagon wheels. It was an exhibition of fine driving; and Clay, who was a shrewd judge of men, noticed the coolness, courage, and quick decision his son displayed. He took risks that could not be avoided, but he was bold without being rash, and this appealed to his father, who studied him with a puzzled feeling. Considering his strength of character, it was strange that Aynsley had done nothing yet; and Clay was, perhaps, not altogether mistaken in deeming no occupation of importance, unless it was connected with the earning of money. He held that a calling which enriched a man was generally of some benefit to his country.
“I had a letter from Vancouver this morning,” he said, as they climbed a hill and the slower pace made conversation possible. “They’re putting the new engine in and expect to start the mill in a fortnight.”
“I’ll be ready then,” said Aynsley.
Clay noticed that, although his tone conveyed no hint of eagerness, his expression was resolute. If the boy’s task was not quite congenial, he meant to undertake it, which was satisfactory.
“There’s another matter I want to talk about. That’s a nice girl of Osborne’s, though I guess you might do better.”
Aynsley turned his head so he could see his father.
“The remark is obviously absurd, sir.”