As they were walking home to the Sawdust Pile, Nan captured one of her husband's great fingers and swung it childishly. "I wish you didn't insist upon our going to church, sweetheart," she complained. "We're spoiling your father's Christianity."
"Can't help it," he replied doggedly. "We're going to be thoroughbreds about this, no matter how much it hurts."
She sighed. "And you're only half Scotch, Donald."
XLIV
By noon of the following day, Port Agnew was astounded by news brought by the crew of one of the light draft launches used to tow log rafts down the river. Donald McKaye was working for Darrow. He was their raftsman; he had been seen out on the log boom, pike pole in hand, shoving logs in to the endless chain elevator that drew them up to the seas. As might be imagined, Mrs. Daney was among the first to glean this information, and to her husband she repeated it at luncheon with every evidence of pleasure.
"Tut, tut, woman," he replied carelessly, "this is no news to me. He told me yesterday after service that he had the job."
The familiar wrinkle appeared for an instant on the end of her nose before she continued: "I wonder what The Laird thinks of that, Andrew?"
"So do I," he parried skilfully.