Donald Cameron's face was set.
"I've said my say," he said.
"And I've said my say," cried Davey.
"Johnson'll have charge from to-morrow an' you'll work under him."
"You'll give me wages—pay me the same as the rest of the men?" Davey asked, his eyes bright with anger.
"No."
Cameron hesitated. Something of the justice of the boy's point of view reached him. But there was more involved than a mere recognition of justice. It meant the breaking of a will. And it was foreign to his mind to yield; his obstinacy was the habit of a lifetime.
"You're my son—not a hired labourer on the place," he said. "I've fed and clothed you all your days. You'll have food and clothes—and what else I like to give you."
"And how much will that be?"
Davey eyed him narrowly.