“Oh, Bryce!” she cried sharply. But he did not hear her; he had hung up his receiver now.
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. Though in the late fifties, his years had touched him lightly; but John Barleycorn had not been so considerate. Bryce noted that McTavish was carrying some thirty pounds of whiskey fat and that the pupils of his fierce blue eyes were permanently distended, showing that alcohol had begun to affect his brain. His hands trembled as he stood before Bryce, smiling fatuously and plucking at the cuffs of his mackinaw. The latter realized that McTavish was waiting for him to broach the object of the visit; so with an effort he decided to begin the disagreeable task.
“Well, I guess we understand each other, Mac. Was there something else you wanted to see me about?”
McTavish sidled up to the desk. “Ye'll no be firin' auld Mac oot o' hand?” he pleaded hopefully. “Mon, ha ye the heart to do it--after a' these years?”