“That amazing rascal Buck Ogilvy used to be a C. M. me that the money had been deposited in escrow there awaiting formal deed. That money puts the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company in the clear--no receivership for us now, my dear one. And I'm going right ahead with the building of the N.C.O.--while our holdings down on the San Hedrin double in value, for the reason that within three years they will be accessible and can be logged over the rails of the Northwestern Pacific!”
“Bryce,” Shirley declared, “haven't I always told you I'd never permit you to build the N.C.O.?”
“Of course,” he replied, “but surely you're going to withdraw your objections now.”
“I am not. You must choose between the N.C.O. and me.” And she met his surprised gaze unflinchingly.
“I do mean it. I have always meant it. I love you, dear, but for all that, you must not build that road.”
He stood up and towered above her sternly. “I must build it, Shirley. I've contracted to do it, and I must keep faith with Gregory of the Trinidad Timber Company. He's putting up the money, and I'm to do the work and operate the line. I can't go back on him now.”
“Not for my sake?” she pleaded. He shook his head. “I must go on,” he reiterated.
“Do you realize what that resolution means to us?” The girl's tones were grave, her glance graver.
She came closer to him. Suddenly the blaze in her violet eyes gave way to one of mirth. “Oh, you dear big booby!” she cried. “I was just testing you.” And she clung to him, laughing. “You always beat me down--you always win. Bryce, dear, I'm the Laguna Grande Lumber Company--at least, I will be to-morrow, and I repeat for the last time that you shall NOT build the N.C.O.--because I'm going to--oh, dear, I shall die laughing at you--because I'm going to merge with the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company, and then my railroad shall be your railroad, and we'll extend it and haul Gregory's logs to tidewater for him also. And--silly, didn't I tell you you'd never build the N.C.O.?”
“God bless my mildewed soul!” he murmured, and drew her to him.
In the gathering dusk they walked down the trail. Beside the madrone tree John Cardigan waited patiently.
“Well,” he queried when they joined him, “did you find my handkerchief for me, son?”
