Orde looked at his son, and his voice fell from its chaffing tone. "Good
luck, boy," said he, and leaned from his saddle to touch the young man
on the shoulder.
They emerged into the clearing about the mill. Bob looked on the
familiar scene with the new eyes of a great spiritual uplift. The yellow
sawdust and the sawn lumber; the dark forest beyond; the bulk of the
mill with its tall pines; the dazzling plume of steam against the very
blue sky, all these appealed to him again with many voices, as they had
years before in far-off Michigan. Once more he was back where his blood
called him; but under conditions which his training and the spirit of
the new times could approve. His heart exulted at the challenge to his
young manhood.
As he rode by the store he caught sight within its depths of Merker
methodically waiting on a stolid squaw.
"No more economic waste, Merker!" he could not forbear shouting; and
then rocked in his saddle with laughter over the man's look of slow
surprise. "It's his catchword," he explained to Orde. "He's a slow,
queer old duck, but a mighty good sort for the place.
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