But Bryce contradicted him earnestly. “It can be done,” he said. “Gregory knows nothing of our financial condition. Our rating in the reports of the commercial agencies is as good as it ever was, and a man's never broke till somebody finds it out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if we can start building our road and have it half completed before Pennington jumps on us, GREGORY WILL SIMPLY HAVE TO COME TO OUR AID IN SELF-DEFENSE. Once he ties up with us, he's committed to the task of seeing us through. If we fall, he must pick us up and carry us, whether he wants to or not; and I will so arrange the deal that he will have to. I can do it, I tell you.”
John Cardigan raised his hand. “No,” he said firmly, “I will not allow you to do this. That way—that is the Pennington method. If we fall, my son, we pass out like gentlemen, not blackguards. We will not take advantage of this man Gregory's faith. If he joins forces with us, we lay our hand on the table and let him look.”
“Then he'll never join hands with us, partner. We're done.”
“We're not done, my son. We have one alternative, and I'm going to take it. I've got to—for your sake. Moreover, your mother would have wished it so.”
“You don't mean—”
“Yes, I do. I'm going to sell Pennington my Valley of the Giants. Thank God, that quarter-section does not belong to the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company. It is my personal property, and it is not mortgaged. Pennington can never foreclose on it—and until he gets it, twenty-five hundred acres of virgin timber on Squaw Creek are valueless—nay, a source of expense to him. Bryce, he has to have it; and he'll pay the price, when he knows I mean business.”
With a sweeping gesture he waved aside the arguments that rose to his son's lips. “Lead me to the telephone,” he commanded; and Bryce, recognizing his sire's unalterable determination, obeyed.
“Find Pennington's number in the telephone-book,” John Cardigan commanded next.