He was a man
when I saw him last--such a man as these woods will never see again--
and I don't want to see him again until he's cold sober. I'll write
him a letter. As for you, Moira, you're fired, too. I'll not have you
waiting on table in my logging-camp--not by a jugful! You're to come
down to Sequoia and go to work in our office. We can use you on the
books, helping Sinclair, and relieve him of the task of billing,
checking tallies, and looking after the pay-roll. I'll pay you a
hundred dollars a month, Moira. Can you get along on that?"
Her hard hand closed over his tightly, but she did not speak.
"All right, Moira. It's a go, then. Hills and timber--timber and
hills--and I'm going to set you free. Perhaps in Sequoia you'll find
your Prince Charming. There, there, girl, don't cry. We Cardigans had
twenty-five years of faithful service from Donald McTavish before he
commenced slipping; after all, we owe him something, I think."
She drew his hand suddenly to her lips and kissed it; her hot tears
of joy fell on it, but her heart was too full for mere words.
"Fiddle-de-dee, Moira! Buck up," he protested, hugely pleased, but
embarrassed withal. "The way you take this, one would think you had
expected me to go back on an old pal and had been pleasantly
surprised when I didn't.
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