"So he's commenced to worry about other generations, has he? So he's got to be one of the old women in pants! I s'pose he thinks I'm a devastator, that I was little better than a crook when I took off my pine! So he wants me to use my money to wash away my sins, does he?"
He half rose from his chair and a purple rage swept into his face, making his hard eyes watery, making his lips tremble. "So he's one—"
A maid rapped and entered with a package and Luke broke short. But perhaps he had no words, anyhow, to relieve the seethe of passion that was in his heart.
"For you, Mr. Rowe," the girl said.
"These are photographs I took yesterday," he said, breaking the string. "I had the finishing rushed—I knew—"
"Eh? What's this? Pictures?" Luke's anger was neutralized for the moment by his interest. "Pictures of the pine, Rowe?"
"Yes, sir—see—"
He spread the damp prints on the table before him and Luke with unsteady hands adjusted his spectacles and leaned forward to see. For a lengthy interval he scanned the dozen photographs, going from one to the other, dropping back to study some feature that caught special attention, scarcely breathing; gradually his hands shut down closer on the chair arms and a snapping light appeared in his blue eyes, a hungry light, a glad light, fierce in its hunger and in its joy.
"Pine!" he muttered, almost reverently. "Michigan White Pine, Rowe! Baby pine! Good God—it's small—but thick as hair on a dog!"
