"But
he says he's got plenty that's six-eighths. Shall I--shall I git some
o' that?"
He waited the word, poised to go.
McLean had been kneeling upon the saw-dust strewn ground. Now he rose
and stood, feet apart, gazing down into that face, afire with
eagerness, uplifted to his. Quiet endured for a long time, and then,
at a chuckle from Allison, Steve wheeled--he wheeled just in time to
see Barbara Allison's brows arch and her lips curl in a queer little
smile. And suddenly Allison burst into a loud guffaw.
Caleb had never seen a change so swift as that which came over the
boy's face. The eager light faded from the gray eyes, until they were
purple where they had been gray before. And Caleb had never seen a
face grow so white--so white and set and dangerous. Stephen O'Mara's
head drooped, he turned and wavered away a step or two. Allison
stopped laughing, abruptly. Then McLean spoke.
"'Twas funny, mebby," he muttered. "But it was not so damned funny,
aither! An' I--I'll be goin' down now to teach that smith to kape his
funny jokes till afther hours."
He started toward the shop, and stopped again.
"It's all right, buddy," he said. "'Tis nothing that you need feel
badly about, for 'twas I who made the mistake. I should have sint you
out to estimate whether our spruce would cut two million feet or less,
an' you'd have come as close as mor-rtal man could, I'll wager.
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