LITMIR.BIZ

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a chance to appraise him critically while pretending to look past him to the tumbled, snow-covered ranges to their right.

      She saw a big, supple, powerful man of twenty-five or six, with the bearing and general demeanour of one many years his elder. His rich, dark auburn hair was wavy, and a curling lock of it had escaped from the band of his cap at the temple; his eyes were brown to match his hair and were the striking feature of a strong, rugged countenance, for they were spaced at that eminently proper interval which proclaims an honest man. His nose was high, of medium thickness and just a trifle long—the nose of a thinker. His ears were large, with full lobes—the ears of a generous man. The mouth, full-lipped but firm, the heavy jaw and square chin, the great hands (most amazingly free from freckles) denoted the man who would not avoid a fight worth while. Indeed, while the girl was looking covertly at him, she saw his jaw set and a sudden, fierce light leap up in his eyes, which at first sight had seemed to her rather quizzical. Subconsciously he lifted one hand from the wheel and clenched it; he wagged his head a very little bit; consequently she knew his thoughts were far away, and for some reason, not quite clear to her, she would have preferred that they weren't. As a usual thing, young men did not go wool-gathering in her presence; so she sought to divert his thoughts to present company.

      “What a perfectly glorious country!” she exclaimed. “Can't we stop for just a minute to appreciate it?”

      “Yes,” he replied abstractedly as he descended from the car and sat at her feet while she drank in the beauty of the scene, “it's a he country; I love it, and I'm glad to get back to it.”

      Upon their arrival at the rest-house, however, Bryce cheered up, and during dinner was very attentive and mildly amusing, although Shirley's keen wits assured her that this was merely a clever pose and sustained with difficulty. She was confirmed in this assumption when, after sitting with him a little on the porch after dinner, she complained of being weary and bade him good-night. She had scarcely left him when he called:

      “George!”

      The half-breed slid out of the darkness and sat down beside him. A moment later, through the open window of her room just above the porch where Bryce and George Sea Otter sat, Shirley heard the former say:

      “George, when did you first notice that my father's sight was beginning to fail?”

      “About two years ago, Bryce.”

      “What made you notice it?”

      “He began to walk with his hands held out in front of him, and sometimes he lifted his feet too high.”

      “Can he see at all now, George?”

      “Oh, yes, a little bit—enough to make his way to the office and back.”

      “Poor old governor! George, until you told me this afternoon, I hadn't heard a word about it. If I had, I never would have taken that two-year jaunt around the world.”

      George Sea Otter grunted. “That's what your father said, too. So he wouldn't tell you, and he ordered everybody else to keep quiet about it. Myself—well, I didn't want you to go home and not know it until you met him.”

      “That was mighty kind and considerate of you, George. And you say this man Colonel Pennington and my father have been having trouble?”

      “Yes—” Here George Sea Otter gracefully unburdened himself of a fervent curse directed at Shirley's avuncular relative; whereupon that young lady promptly left the window and heard no more.

      They were on the road again by eight o'clock next morning, and just as Cardigan's mill was blowing the six o'clock whistle, Bryce stopped the car at the head of the street leading down to the water-front. “I'll let you drive now, George,” he informed the silent Sea Otter. He turned to Shirley Sumner. “I'm going to leave you now,” he said. “Thank you for riding over from Red Bluff with me. My father never leaves the office until the whistle blows, and so I'm going to hurry down to that little building you see at the end of the street and surprise him.”

      He stepped out on the running-board, stood there a moment, and extended his hand. Shirley had commenced a due and formal expression of her gratitude for having been delivered safely in Sequoia, when George Sea Otter spoke:

      “Here comes John Cardigan,” he said.

      “Drive Miss Sumner around to Colonel Pennington's house,” Bryce ordered, and even while he held Shirley's hand, he turned to catch the first glimpse of his father. Shirley followed his glance and saw a tall, powerfully built old man coming down the street with his hands thrust a little in front of him, as if for protection from some invisible assailant.

      “Oh, my poor old father!” she heard Bryce Cardigan murmur. “My dear old pal! And I've let him grope in the dark for two years!”

      He released her hand and leaped from the car. “Dad!” he called. “It is I—Bryce. I've come home to you at last.”

      The slightly bent figure of John Cardigan straightened with a jerk; he held out his arms, trembling with eagerness, and as the car continued on to the Pennington house Shirley looked back and saw Bryce folded in his father's embrace. She did not, however, hear the heart-cry with which the beaten old man welcomed his boy.

      “Sonny, sonny—oh, I'm so glad you're back. I've missed you. Bryce, I'm whipped—I've lost your heritage. Oh, son! I'm old—I can't fight any more. I'm blind—I can't see my enemies. I've lost your redwood trees—even your mother's Valley of the Giants.”

      And he commenced to weep for the third time in fifty years. And when the aged and helpless weep, nothing is more terrible. Bryce Cardigan said no word, but held his father close to his great heart and laid his cheek gently against the old man's, tenderly as a woman might. And presently, from that silent communion of spirit, each drew strength and comfort. As the shadows fell in John Cardigan's town, they went home to the house on the hill.

      CHAPTER VII

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      Shirley Sumner's eyes were still moist when George Sea Otter, in obedience to the instructions of his youthful master, set her, the French maid, and their hand-baggage down on the sidewalk in front of Colonel Seth Pennington's house. The half-breed hesitated a moment, undecided whether he would carry the hand-baggage up to the door or leave that task for a Pennington retainer; then he noted the tear-stains on the cheeks of his fair passenger. Instantly he took up the hand-baggage, kicked open the iron gate, and preceded Shirley up the cement walk to the door.

      “Just wait a moment, if you please, George,” Shirley said as he set the baggage down and started back for the car. He turned and beheld her extracting a five-dollar bill from her purse. “For you, George,” she continued. “Thank you so much.”

      In all his life George Sea Otter had never had such an experience—he, happily, having been raised in a country where, with the exception of waiters, only a pronounced vagrant expects or accepts a gratuity from a woman. He took the bill and fingered it curiously; then his white blood asserted itself and he handed the bill back to Shirley.

      “Thank you,” he said respectfully. “If you are a man—all right. But from a lady—no. I am like my boss. I work for you for nothing.”

      Shirley did not understand his refusal, but her instinctive tact warned her not to insist. She returned the bill to her purse, thanked him again, and turned quickly to hide the slight flush of annoyance. George Sea Otter noted it.

      “Lady,” he said with great dignity, “at first I did not want to carry your baggage. I did not want to walk on this land.” And with a sweeping gesture he indicated the Pennington grounds. “Then you cry a little because my boss is feeling bad about his old man. So I like you better. The old man—well, he has been like father to me and my mother—and we are Indians. My brothers, too—they work for him. So if you like my boss and his old man, George Sea Otter would go to hell for you pretty damn' quick. You bet you my life!”

      “You're

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