Things have certainly gone to the devil," he
continued.
"No fault of mine," Sinclair protested. "I've never paid any
attention to matters outside the office. Your father looked after
everything else."
Bryce looked at Sinclair. The latter was a thin, spare, nervous man
in the late fifties, and though generally credited with being John
Cardigan's manager, Bryce knew that Sinclair was in reality little
more than a glorified bookkeeper--and a very excellent bookkeeper
indeed. Bryce realized that in the colossal task that confronted him
he could expect no real help from Sinclair.
"Yes," he replied, "my father looked after everything else--while he
could."
"Oh, you'll soon get the business straightened out and running
smoothly again," Sinclair declared confidently.
"Well, I'm glad I started on the job to-day, rather than next Monday,
as I planned to do last night."
He stepped to the window and looked out. At the mill-dock a big steam
schooner and a wind-jammer lay; in the lee of the piles of lumber,
sailors and long-shoremen, tallymen and timekeeper lounged, enjoying
the brief period of the noon hour still theirs before the driving
mates of the lumber-vessels should turn them to on the job once more.
To his right and left stretched the drying yard, gangway on gangway
formed by the serried rows of lumber-piles, the hoop-horses placidly
feeding from their nosebags while the strong-armed fellows who piled
the lumber sat about in little groups conversing with the mill-hands.
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