"a dude, an' you don't know what's goin' on wif your logs an' you let a woman make money for you—That's what Milt says."
"Waf-wog! waf-wog!" shrilled Bessie as a raft rounded the far bend.
The children discarded Taylor, who had served his purpose with them for that day. He rose and went on, and they did not even turn to wave farewell.
"So I need a guardian—and I'm a damned dude—and I don't know what is going on with my logs—and I'm letting a woman make money for me—"
He looked up through the pines and laughed ruefully.
"I'll be damned if I don't have to plead guilty on two counts!" he said. "And—I'm not sure of the others."
Later he added:
"And she always says what she thinks, and she doesn't say anything about me. Therefore," making the mathematical symbol of deduction in the air with a forefinger, "she doesn't think about me at all."
It was that evening. Helen Foraker was at her desk and looked up with surprise as Taylor entered, for it was the first time he had been in her house since their business agreement.
"Did you ever stop to think," he began without preface, "that I don't know much about what's going on?"
"I have it right here; the daily reports from the mill," she said.
"Not that," smiling. "Those are your figures and I'd like to be able to know whether they're right or not. Not because I doubt you, but because this is my job.
