As Bryce looked, a puff of white steam appeared over the roof of the
old sawmill, and the one o'clock whistle blew. Instantly that scene
of indolence and ease turned to one of activity. The mill-hands
lounging in the gangways scurried for their stations in the mill; men
climbed to the tops of the lumber-piles, while other men passed
boards and scantlings up to them; the donkey-engines aboard the
vessels rattled; the cargo-gaffs of the steam schooner swung outward,
and a moment later two great sling-loads of newly sawed lumber rose
in the air, swung inward, and descended to the steamer's decks.
All about Bryce were scenes of activity, of human endeavour; and to
him in that moment came the thought: "My father brought all this to
pass--and now the task of continuing it is mine! All those men who
earn a living in Cardigan's mill and on Cardigan's dock--those
sailors who sail the ships that carry Cardigan's lumber into the
distant marts of men--are dependent upon me; and my father used to
tell me not to fail them. Must my father have wrought all this in
vain? And must I stand by and see all this go to satisfy the
overwhelming ambition of a stranger?" His big hands clenched. "No!"
he growled savagely.
"If I stick around this office a minute longer, I'll go crazy," Bryce
snarled then.
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