And in
September, when the huckleberries were ripe, we used to go out and
pick them together. Poor Moira! Why, we're old pals, and I'll be shot
if I'm going to see you suffer."
She glanced at him shyly, with beaming eyes. "You haven't changed a
bit, Mr. Bryce. Not one little bit!"
"Let's talk about you, Moira. You went to school in Sequoia, didn't
you?"
"Yes, I was graduated from the high school there. I used to ride the
log-trains into town and back again."
"Good news! Listen, Moira. I'm going to fire your father, as I've
said, because he's working for old J.B. now, not the Cardigan Redwood
Lumber Company. I really ought to pension him after his long years in
the Cardigan service, but I'll be hanged if we can afford pensions
any more--particularly to keep a man in booze; so the best our old
woods-boss gets from me is this shanty, or another like it when we
move to new cuttings, and a perpetual meal-ticket for our camp dining
room while the Cardigans remain in business. I'd finance him for a
trip to some State institution where they sometimes reclaim such
wreckage, if I didn't think he's too old a dog to be taught new
tricks."
"Perhaps," she suggested sadly, "you had better talk the matter over
with him."
"No, I'd rather not. I'm fond of your father, Moira.
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