“Aynsley stands prosperity well,” he said.
“In my opinion, it’s considerably 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 reassured. 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 truculent manner.
“If they get me into Vancouver after the trouble begins, I’ll see the road bosses in Seattle and have the superintendent of this division fired!” he announced.
At that moment the telegraph began to tick in the shack, and shortly afterward 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 shrill whistle rang through the shadows of the pines and a big engine with a row of flat cars carrying a gravel plow and a crowd of dusty men came clattering 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 lumber 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 swirled among the piles. A great boom of logs moored in an eddy worked with the swing of the current, straining at its chains; there was a red glimmer 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 stumps. Tall iron stacks, straggling sheds, and sawdust dumps took on a certain harsh picturesqueness in the fading light; and the keen smell of freshly cut cedar 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 capable assistants. Now, however, he must grapple with a crisis that he had not foreseen; and he felt his inexperience. There was, he knew, an easy way out of the threatened difficulties, but he could not take it. He must, so far as possible, deal effectively with an awkward situation, and, at the same time, avoid injustice, though that would complicate matters. The problem was not a novel one: he wanted to safeguard his financial interests and yet do the square thing.