The French doors were open and John Taylor did not care to continue his discussion under the ears of the sleek Rowe who was writing hurriedly on a pad. When he was through he stood up and read what he had written, stroking his small mustache thoughtfully. Luke roused and strained to look over his shoulder.
"For me, Rowe?"
"Yes, Mr. Taylor. A telegram from McLellan. I will frame an answer."
He had stepped outside, the paper in his hand. His voice was slow, even and assured.
"What was it?"
"About the Blueberry hardwood."
"Oh!" Luke sat back, rubbing his nose with a knuckle. "He's looked it up?"
"Yes, sir. There are about three hundred thousand feet left."
"Three hunderd thousand!" He looked at Rowe with a decided glitter of rage. The secretary returned the stare and shook his head slowly. After a moment Luke's gaze wandered as he again rubbed his sharp nose with a thin knuckle. It came to rest on his son's face, enigmatic, speculative. His lips worked.
"Three hunderd thousand of hardwood logs," he mumbled, "an' the price of lumber gone hog-wild—eh!"
He settled back and his hands, palms up, lay relaxed on the chair arms. A queer smile played around his mouth and the wrath died in his eyes.
"Boy, a man's never so apt to be wrong as when he's too sure," he began. Rowe started to withdraw, but Luke's gesture stayed him. "I don't want to be wrong on this.—John an' me, Rowe, have been talkin' business. He's
