“I’m going, Mr. McConnell. I’ll make it go. I must make it go. I must—I will!”
Never during his seven months’ acquaintance with the young man had McConnell heard that tone in Paul’s voice or seen that look on his face. To him Paul had been simply “a nice quiet young feller,” but here was a man speaking, a man with something of iron in his make-up, with a flaming passion in his soul.
His report to his “wimmin folk” was quite sufficient to indicate that his talk with the young man had been somewhat of a revelation to him. He was humbled to discover that neither of them was in the very least surprised by what he had to tell them. But then he never had been able to quite keep up with their mental processes. In the face of some startling discovery such as the one he had just made he would catch a look flashing from one to the other, a look of mutual understanding between themselves and of amused pity for him.
“O’ course he’s a man. And he’ll be a big man too some day,” said Ma quietly.
“But he’s such a quiet young feller,” protested Pa.
“Quiet?” said Molly, with unexpected vehemence. “Say, Pa, where have you been keepin’ yourself? You’d oughter seen him tie ‘Squatty’ up in a knot till he squealed like a pig stuck in a gate. Say! I seen his eyes that night and I felt like a snake was runnin’ down the spine o’ my back. Quiet? So’s forked lightning.”
“Well, I never knowed,” said the abashed McConnell humbly, and again with chastened spirit he detected that glance of superior knowledge and pity flash from mother to daughter.
“It’s a pity he’s got to go to Vancouver,” said Ma. There was an eager light in Molly’s eyes as she glanced at her mother. “Why don’t you offer him a job, Pa? You need a smart man for foreman and time-keeper for them tie camps of yours next winter. Goodness knows you lose money enough for want of a bookkeeper.”
“He’s awful smart with books and things,” said Molly.
At the tremor in her voice Pa McConnell gave her a sharp look. Where Molly was concerned he was keenly alive.