"Yes." He squared his tired shoulders. "But I am not beaten yet. You taught me never to give up, Cherry. If I have to go back home without a catch and see Hilliard take this plant over, why—I'll begin once more at something new, and some day I will succeed. But I sha'n't give up. I'll can what salmon we catch and then begin all over again next season."
"And—suppose you don't succeed? Suppose Hilliard won't carry you?"
"Then I shall try something else; maybe I shall go to mining again, I don't know. Anyhow, she would not let me grow disheartened if she were here, she wouldn't let me quit. She isn't that sort."
Cherry Malotte stirred and shifted her gaze uncertainly to the gleaming bay. Abreast of them the fleet of fishing-boats were drifting with the tide; in the distance others were dotted, clear away to where the opal ocean lay. A tug was passing, and she saw the sun flash from the cargo in its tow, while the faint echo of a song came wafting to her ears. She stood so for a long moment, fighting manfully with herself, then wheeled upon him suddenly. There was a new tone in her voice as she said:
"If you will let me have one of your launches, I may be able to help you."
"How?" he demanded, quickly.
"Never mind how—it's a long chance and hardly worth trying, but—may I take the boat?"
"Certainly," said he, "there's one lying at the dock."
He led her to the shore and saw her aboard, then waved good-bye and walked moodily back to the office, gratified that she should try to help him, yet certain that she could not succeed where he and George had failed.
"Fingerless" Fraser had breakfasted late, as was his luxurious custom, and shortly before noon, in the course of his dissatisfied meanderings, he found his friend in the office, lost in sombre thought. It was the first time in many weeks that he had seen this mood in Boyd, and after a fruitless effort to make him talk, he fell into his old habit of imaginary reading, droning away to himself as if from a printed page: