I
generally contrive to meet him on the trail."
He bade her good-bye and started down the trail, his stick tapping
against the old logging-cable stretched from tree to tree beside the
trail and marking it.
Shirley was tremendously relieved. She did not wish to meet Bryce
Cardigan to-day, and she was distinctly grateful to John Cardigan for
his nice consideration in sparing her an interview. She seated
herself in the lumberjack's easy-chair so lately vacated, and chin in
hand gave herself up to meditation on this extraordinary old man and
his extraordinary son.
A couple of hundred yards down the trail Bryce met his father.
"Hello, John Cardigan!" he called. "What do you mean by skallyhooting
through these woods without a pilot? Eh? Explain your reckless
conduct."
"You great overgrown duffer," his father retorted affectionately, "I
thought you'd never come." He reached into his pocket for a
handkerchief, but failed to find it and searched through another
pocket and still another. "By gravy, son," he remarked presently, "I
do believe I left my silk handkerchief--the one Moira gave me for my
last birthday--up yonder. I wouldn't lose that handkerchief for a
farm. Skip along and find it for me, son. I'll wait for you here.
Don't hurry."
"I'll be back in a pig's whisper," his son replied, and started
briskly up the trail, while his father leaned against a madrone tree
and smiled his prescient little smile.
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