“Who will ye pit in ma place?”
“I don't know. However, it won't be a difficult task to find a better man than you.”
“I'll nae let him work.” McTavish's voice deepened to a growl. “You worked that racket on my father. Try it on me, and you'll answer to me—personally. Lay the weight of your finger on your successor, Mac, and you'll die in the county poor-farm. No threats, old man! You know the Cardigans; they never bluff.”
McTavish's glance met the youthful master's for several seconds; then the woods-boss trembled, and his gaze sought the office floor. Bryce knew he had his man whipped at last, and McTavish realized it, too, for quite suddenly he burst into tears.
“Dinna fire me, lad,” he pleaded. “I'll gae back on the job an' leave whusky alone.”
“Nothing doing, Mac. Leave whiskey alone for a year and I'll discharge your successor to give you back your job. For the present however, my verdict stands. You're discharged.”
“Who kens the Cardigan woods as I ken them?” McTavish blubbered. “Who'll swamp a road into timber sixty per cent. clear when the mill's runnin' on foreign orders an' the owd man's calling for clear logs? Who'll fell trees wi' the least amount o' breakage? Who'll get the work out o' the men? Who'll—”
“Don't plead, Mac,” Bryce interrupted gently. “You're quite through, and I can't waste any more time on you.”
“Ye dinna mean it, lad. Ye canna mean it.”
“On your way, Mac. I loathe arguments. And don't forget your check.”