"Here's your wages
to the fifteenth. It's the last Cardigan check you'll ever finger.
I'm terribly sorry, but I'm terribly in earnest."
"Who will ye pit in ma place?"
"I don't know. However, it won't be a difficult task to find a better
man than you."
"I'll nae let him work." McTavish's voice deepened to a growl. "You
worked that racket on my father. Try it on me, and you'll answer to
me--personally. Lay the weight of your finger on your successor, Mac,
and you'll die in the county poor-farm. No threats, old man! You know
the Cardigans; they never bluff."
McTavish's glance met the youthful master's for several seconds; then
the woods-boss trembled, and his gaze sought the office floor. Bryce
knew he had his man whipped at last, and McTavish realized it, too,
for quite suddenly he burst into tears.
"Dinna fire me, lad," he pleaded. "I'll gae back on the job an' leave
whusky alone."
"Nothing doing, Mac. Leave whiskey alone for a year and I'll
discharge your successor to give you back your job. For the present
however, my verdict stands. You're discharged."
"Who kens the Cardigan woods as I ken them?" McTavish blubbered.
"Who'll swamp a road into timber sixty per cent. clear when the
mill's runnin' on foreign orders an' the owd man's calling for clear
logs? Who'll fell trees wi' the least amount o' breakage? Who'll get
the work out o' the men? Who'll--"
"Don't plead, Mac," Bryce interrupted gently.
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