So we're going to change
woods-bosses, and the new woods-boss will not be driven off the job,
because I'm going to stay up here a couple of weeks and break him in
myself. By the way, is Mac ugly in his cups?"
"Thank God, no," she answered fervently. "Drunk or sober, he has
never said an unkind word to me."
"But how do you manage to get money to clothe yourself? Sinclair
tells me Mac needs every cent of his two hundred and fifty dollars a
month to enjoy himself."
"I used to steal from him," the girl admitted. "Then I grew ashamed
of that, and for the past six months I've been earning my own living.
Mr. Sinclair was very kind. He gave me a job waiting on table in the
camp dining room. You see, I had to have something here. I couldn't
leave my father. He had to have somebody to take care of him. Don't
you see, Mr. Bryce?"
"Sinclair is a fuzzy old fool," Bryce declared with emphasis. "The
idea of our woods-boss's daughter slinging hash to lumberjacks. Poor
Moira!"
He took one of her hands in his, noting the callous spots on the
plump palm, the thick finger-joints that hinted so of toil, the nails
that had never been manicured save by Moira herself. "Do you remember
when I was a boy, Moira, how I used to come up to the logging-camps
to hunt and fish? I always lived with the McTavishes then.
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