The Valley of the Giants (Once Upon a Time in California). Peter B. Kyne

And you HAVE enjoyed your little run, haven't you?” he concluded wistfully.

      “I have, Dad.” Bryce's great hand closed over the back of his father's neck; he shook the old man with mock ferocity. “Stubborn old lumberjack!” he chided.

      John Cardigan shook with an inward chuckle, for the loving abuse his boy had formed a habit of heaping on him never failed to thrill him. Instinctively Bryce had realized that to-night obvious sympathy copiously expressed was not the medicine for his father's bruised spirit; hence he elected to regard the latter's blindness as a mere temporary annoyance, something to be considered lightly, if at all; and it was typical of him now that the subject had been discussed briefly, to resolve never to refer to it again. He released his hold on the old man's neck and tapped the latter's gray head lightly, while with his tongue he made hollow-sounding noises against the roof of his mouth.

      “Ha! I thought so,” he declared. “After your fifty-odd years in the lumber business your head has become packed with sawdust—”

      “Be serious and talk to me, Bryce.”

      “I ought to send you to bed without your supper. Talk to you? You bet I'll talk to you, John Cardigan; and I'll tell you things, too, you scandalous bunko-steerer. To-morrow morning I'm going to put a pair of overalls on you, arm you with a tin can and a swab, and set you to greasing the skidways. Partner, you've deceived me.”

      “Oh, nonsense. If I had whimpered, that would only have spoiled everything.”

      “Nevertheless, you were forced to cable me to hurry home.”

      “I summoned you the instant I realized I was going to need you.”

      “No, you didn't, John Cardigan. You summoned me because, for the first time in your life, you were panicky and let yourself get out of hand.”

      His father nodded slowly. “And you aren't over it yet,” Bryee continued, his voice no longer bantering but lowered affectionately. “What's the trouble, Dad? Trot out your old panic and let me inspect it. Trouble must be very real when it gets my father on the run.”

      “It is, Bryce, very real indeed. As I remarked before, I've lost your heritage for you.” He sighed. “I waited till you would be able to come home and settle down to business; now you're home, and there isn't any business to settle down to.”

      Bryce chuckled, for he was indeed far from being worried over business matters, his consideration now being entirely for his father's peace of mind. “All right,” he retorted, “Father has lost his money and we'll have to let the servants go and give up the old home. That part of it is settled; and weak, anemic, tenderly nurtured little Bryce Cardigan must put his turkey on his back and go into the woods looking for a job as lumberjack ... Busted, eh? Did I or did I not hear the six o'clock whistle blow at the mill? Bet you a dollar I did.”

      “Oh, I have title to everything—yet.”

      “How I do have to dig for good news! Then it appears we still have a business; indeed, we may always have a business, for the very fact that it is going but not quite gone implies a doubt as to its ultimate departure, and perhaps we may yet scheme a way to retain it.”

      “Oh, my boy, when I think of my years of toil and scheming, of the big dreams I dreamed—”

      “Belay all! If we can save enough out of the wreck to insure you your customary home comforts, I shan't cry, partner. I have a profession to fall back on. Yes, sirree. I own a sheep-skin, and it says I'm an electrical and civil engineer.”

      “What!”

      “I said it. An electrical and civil engineer. Slipped one over on you at college, John Cardigan, when all the time you thought I was having a good time. Thought I'd come home and surprise you.”

      “Bu-bu-but—”

      “It drives me wild to have a man sputter at me. I'm an electrical and civil engineer, I tell you, and my two years of travel have been spent studying the installation and construction of big plants abroad.” He commenced to chuckle softly. “I've known for years that our sawmill was a debilitated old coffee-grinder and would have to be rebuilt, so I wanted to know how to rebuild it. And I've known for years that some day I might have to build a logging railroad—”

      “My dear boy! And you've got your degree?”

      “Partner, I have a string of letters after my name like the tail of a comet.”

      “You comfort me,” the old man answered simply. “I have reproached myself with the thought that I reared you with the sole thought of making a lumberman out of you—and when I saw your lumber business slipping through my fingers—”

      “You were sorry I didn't have a profession to fall back on, eh? Or were you fearful lest you had raised the usual rich man's son? If the latter, you did not compliment me, pal. I've never forgotten how hard you always strove to impress me with a sense of the exact weight of my responsibility as your successor.”

      “How big are you now?” his father queried suddenly.

      “Well, sir,” Bryce answered, for his father's pleasure putting aside his normal modesty, “I'm six feet two inches tall, and I weigh two hundred pounds in the pink of condition. I have a forty-eight-inch chest, with five and a half inches chest-expansion, and a reach as long as a gorilla's. My underpinning is good, too; I'm not one of these fellows with spidery legs and a barrel-chest. I can do a hundred yards in ten seconds; I'm no slouch of a swimmer; and at Princeton they say I made football history. And in spite of it all, I haven't an athletic heart.”

      “That is very encouraging, my boy—very. Ever do any boxing?”

      “Quite a little. I'm fairly up in the manly art of self-defence.”

      “That's good. And I suppose you did some wrestling at your college gymnasium, did you not?”

      “Naturally. I went in for everything my big carcass could stand.”

      The old man wagged his head approvingly, and they had reached the gate of the Cardigan home before he spoke again. “There's a big buck woods-boss up in Pennington's camp,” he remarked irrelevantly. “He's a French Canadian imported from northern Michigan by Colonel Pennington. I dare say he's the only man in this country who measures up to you physically. He can fight with his fists and wrestle right cleverly, I'm told. His name is Jules Rondeau, and he's top dog among the lumberjacks. They say he's the strongest man in the county.” He unlatched the gate. “Folks used to say that about me once,” he continued wistfully. “Ah, if I could have my eyes to see you meet Jules Rondeau!”

      The front portal of the quaint old Cardigan residence opened, and a silver-haired lady came out on the porch and hailed Bryce. She was Mrs. Tully, John Cardigan's old housekeeper, and almost a mother to Bryce. “Oh, here's my boy!” she cried, and a moment later found herself encircled by Bryce's arms and saluted with a hearty kiss.

      As he stepped into the familiar entrance-hall, Bryce paused, raised his head and sniffed suspiciously, like a bird-dog. Mrs. Tully, arms akimbo, watched him pleasurably. “I smell something,” he declared, and advanced a step down the hall for another sniff; then, in exact imitation of a foxhound, he gave tongue and started for the kitchen. Mrs. Tully, waddling after, found him “pointing” two hot blackberry pies which had but a few minutes previous been taken from the oven. He was baying lugubriously.

      “They're wild blackberries, too,” Mrs. Tully announced pridefully. “I remembered how fond you used to be of wild-blackberry pie—so I phoned up to the logging-camp and had the woods-boss send a man out to pick them.”

      “I'm still a pie-hound, Mrs. Tully, and you're still the same dear, thoughtful soul. I'm so glad now that I had sense enough to think of you before I turned my footsteps toward the setting sun.” He patted her gray head. “Mrs. T.,” he declared, “I've brought you a nice big collar of Irish lace—bought it in Belfast, b'gosh. It comes down around your neck and buckles right here with an old ivory cameo I picked up in Burma and which formerly was the property of a Hindu queen.”

      Mrs.