Kindred of the Dust. Peter B. Kyne

      The Laird pressed the button and the cannon boomed.

      "We've neglected that little ceremony since you've been away," he remarked, as Donald entered the room. "'Other times, other customs,' I dare say."

      He hurried up-stairs to dress for dinner (a formality which he disliked, but which appeared to please his wife and daughters), and Donald took his father's binoculars and went out on the terrace. It had occurred to him that he had not seen old Caleb Brent and Nan at the barbecue, and he wondered why. Through the glasses, he could make out the figure of a woman in the cupola window, and she was watching him through a long marine telescope.

      "There's my old friend Nan, grown to womanhood," Donald soliloquized, and waved his arm at her. Through the glasses, he saw her wave back at him.

VI

       Table of Contents

      The morning after the barbecue, Donald McKaye reported at eight o'clock to his father's faithful old general manager, Andrew Daney. Daney had grown gray in his father's service, and it was no part of Donald's plans to assign him to a back seat.

      "Well, Mr. Daney," he inquired affably, "what are your plans for the new hired man?"

      Old Daney looked up quizzically.

      "You do the planning here, Don," he replied.

      "You heard me say yesterday that there would be no changes, Mr. Daney. Of course, I haven't grown up in Port Agnew without learning something of my heritage, but, in view of the fact that I still have considerable to learn, suppose you indicate just where I ought to start."

      Daney was pleased at a deference he had not anticipated.

      "Start in the woods," he replied. "That's where your daddy started. Felling timber and handling it is rather a fine art, Don. I'd wrestle logs for a month and follow them down the Skookum to the log boom. Then I'd put in six months in the mill and six more in the factory, following it with three months on the dock, tallying, and three months of a hand-shaking tour out among the trade. After that, you may sit in at your father's desk, and I'll gradually break you in to his job."

      "That's a grand idea, and I'll act on it," Donald declared.

      "Well, it's too late to act on it to-day, Don. The up-river launch to the logging-camp left at seven o'clock. However, I have a job for you. We really need the Sawdust Pile for an extension of our drying-yard. Our present yard lies right under the lee of that ridge of which Tyee Head is an extension, and it's practically noon before the sun gets a fair chance at it. The Sawdust Pile gets the sun all day long, and the winds have an uninterrupted sweep across it. We can dry our cedar decking there in half the time it requires now."

      "But the Sawdust Pile is—"

      "A rat's nest, Don. There are a number of other shacks there now—some Greek fishermen, a negro, and a couple of women from the overflow of Tyee. It ought to be cleaned out."

      "I noticed those shacks last night, Mr. Daney, and I agree with you that they should go. But I haven't the heart to run old Caleb Brent off the Sawdust Pile. I gave it to him, you know."

      "Well, let Brent stay there. He's too old and crippled with rheumatism to attend to his truck-garden any more; so if you leave him the space for his house and a chicken-yard, he'll be satisfied. In fact, I have discussed the proposition with him, and he is agreeable."

      "Why did dad permit those other people to crowd him, Mr. Daney?"

      "While your father was in Europe with you, they horned in, claimed a squatter's right, and stood pat. Old Brent was defenseless, and while the boys from the mill would have cleaned them out if I had given the word, the Greeks and the negro were defiant, and it meant bloodshed. So I have permitted the matter to rest until your father's return."

      Donald reached for his hat.

      "Caleb Brent's squatter-right to that Sawdust Pile is going to be upheld," he declared. "I'll clean that colony out before sunset, or they'll clean me."

      "I'd proceed cautiously if I were you, Don. They have a host of friends up in Darrow, and we mustn't precipitate a feud."

      "I'm going over now and serve notice on them to vacate immediately." He grinned at old Daney. "A negro, a handful of Greeks, and those unfortunate women can't bluff the boss of Port Agnew, Mr. Daney."

      "They tell me there's a blind pig down there, also."

      "It will not be there after to-day," Donald answered lightly, and departed for the Sawdust Pile.

      As he came up to the gate in the neat fence Caleb Brent had built across the Sawdust Pile nine years before, a baby boy, of perhaps three years of age, rose out of the weeds in which he had been playing and regarded the visitor expectantly.

      "Hello, bub!" the young laird of Tyee greeted the child.

      "Hello!" came the piping answer. "Are you my daddy?"

      "Why, no, Snickelfritz." He ran his fingers through the tot's golden hair. "Don't you know your own daddy?"

      "I haven't any daddy," the child drawled.

      "No? Well, that's unfortunate." Donald stooped and lifted the tike to his shoulder, marveling the while that such a cherub could be the product of any of the denizens of the Sawdust Pile. At once, the boy's arms went round his neck and a velvet cheek was laid close to his. "You're an affectionate little snooks, aren't you?" Donald commented. "Do you live here?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Somebody's been teaching you manners. Whose little boy are you?"

      "Muvver's."

      "And who might mother be?"

      "Nan Brent."

      "Yo-ho! So you're Nan Brent's boy! What's your name?"

      "Donald Brent."

      "No; that isn't it, son. Brent is your mother's name. Tell me your father's name."

      "Ain't got no farver."

      "Well then, run along to your mother."

      He kissed the child and set him down just as a young woman came down the sadly neglected shell walk from Caleb Brent's little white house. Donald opened the gate and advanced to meet her.

      "I'm sure you must be Nan," he said, "although I can't be certain. I haven't seen Nan in six years."

      She extended her hand

      "Yes; I'm Nan," she replied, "and you're Donald McKaye. You're a man now, but somehow you haven't changed greatly."

      "It's fine to meet you again, Nan." He shook her hand enthusiastically.

      She smiled a little sadly.

      "I saw you at colors last night, Donald. When your flag came down and the gun was fired, I knew you'd remembered."

      "Were you glad?" he demanded, and immediately wondered why he had asked such a childish question.

      "Yes, I was, Donald. It has been a long time since—since—the gun has been fired—for me. So long since we were children, Donald."

      "You weren't at the barbecue yesterday. I missed you and Caleb. You two are very old friends of mine, Nan. Was it quite loyal of you to stay home?"

      "You're the only person that missed us, Donald," she answered, with just the suspicion of a tremor in her sweet voice. "But, then, we are accustomed to being left out of things."

      He made no effort to formulate an answer to this. Truth does not require an answer. Yet he was sensible of a distinct feeling of sympathy for her, and, manlike, he decided to change the topic of conversation.

      "You have neighbors on the Sawdust Pile, Nan."

      "Yes.