"It's not a question of buying and logging," he said.
Rowe paused in the act of striking a match.
"You don't want to buy?" he asked incredulously.
"It couldn't be bought, in the first place; and it isn't ready for harvest yet—you see, Rowe—"
He sat forward and for half an hour talked of Foraker's Folly, of the country adjacent, of what it had been, of what it was now; talked of Thad Parker and his wife's death. He did not mention Jim Harris; some undefined warning checked the bitter sentence at his teeth and he went on from Michigan pine plains to lumber markets and supply—He was careful to explain clearly, to make no over-statement. He went into the history of Helen's forest, told what he knew of the forest practice thereof, of the fire prevention, of the thinnings, the income and the future plans.
"I see," said Rowe when he had finished, and looked through the window with a malignant twinkle in his black eyes. "It's a case of—of taking some of the money that was made from Michigan pine to grow more Michigan pine."
"Exactly!"
"And—perhaps making some of that fortune perform a duty which most men wouldn't recognize: putting it to work to help pay for some of the ruin it made of this country?"
"You get the idea, Rowe!" Taylor burst out enthusiastically, and stopped shortly. He did not like the straightening of the other's arm in its coat sleeve as Rowe raised his cigar to his lips. It smacked of a gesture of triumph and Rowe continued staring through the window.
