“I maun see yer faither aboot this. He'll nae stand for sic treatment o' an auld employee.”
Bryce's temper flared up. “You keep away from my father. You've worried him enough in the past, you drunkard. If you go up to the house to annoy my father with your pleadings, McTavish, I'll manhandle you.” He glanced at his watch. “The next train leaves for the woods in twenty minutes. If you do not go back on it and behave yourself, you can never go back to Cardigan woods.”
“I will nae take charity from any man,” McTavish thundered. “I'll nae bother the owd man, an' I'll nae go back to yon woods to live on yer bounty.”
“Well, go somewhere, Mac, and be quick about it. Only—when you've reformed, please come back. You'll be mighty welcome. Until then, however, you're as popular with me—that is, in a business way—as a wet dog.”
“Ye're nae the man yer faither was,” the woods-boss half sobbed. “Ye hae a heart o' stone.”
“You've been drunk for fifteen days—and I'm paying you for it, Mac,” Bryce reminded him gently. “Don't leave your check behind. You'll need it.”
With a fine show of contempt and rage, McTavish tore the check into strips and threw them at Bryce. “I was never a mon to take charity,” he roared furiously, and left the office. Bryce called after him a cheerful good-bye, but he did not answer. And he did not remain in town; neither did he return to his shanty in the woods. For a month his whereabouts remained a mystery; then one day Moira received a letter from him informing her that he had a job knee-bolting in a shingle mill in Mendocino County.