The week that ensued was remarkable for the amount of work Bryce
accomplished in the investigation of his father's affairs--also for a
visit from Donald McTavish, the woods-boss. Bryce found him sitting
in the private office one morning at seven o'clock.
"Hello, McTavish," he saluted the woods-boss cheerfully and extended
his hand for a cordial greeting. His wayward employee stood up, took
the proffered hand in both of his huge and callous ones, and held it
rather childishly.
"Weel! 'Tis the wee laddie hissel," he boomed. "I'm glad to see ye,
boy."
"You'd have seen me the day before yesterday--if you had been
seeable," Bryce reminded him with a bright smile. "Mac, old man, they
tell me you've gotten to be a regular go-to-hell."
"I'll nae deny I take a wee drappie now an' then," the woods-boss
admitted frankly, albeit there was a harried, hangdog look in his
eyes.
Bryce sat down at his desk, lighted his pipe, and looked McTavish
over soberly. The woods-boss was a big, raw-boned Scotsman, with a
plentiful sprinkling of silver in his thick mane of red hair, which
fell far down on his shoulders. A tremendous nose rose majestically
out of a face so strong and rugged one searched in vain for aught of
manly beauty in it; his long arms hung gorilla-like, almost to his
knees, and he was slightly stooped, as if from bearing heavy burdens.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193