crossed the room inside his head rocked back, as though, perhaps, he laughed to himself.
Young Taylor watched him go and then turned to his father.
"Logs?" he asked, rather bewildered. "Why, I don't know saw-logs from—"
"From bumble-bees," Luke finished for him with anger in his voice—and a smile in his eyes. "But, mebby your fortune's there, in them logs, boy. I'd 'a jumped at a gift like that—You've heard about logs all your life; likely you know more about logs than you do anything else—Well, there's your chance. Take it or leave it.—Course, think it over; think it over. There ain't any rush as far as I can judge by th' way you put in your time—Now run along, I got all stirred up, talkin' about Michigan Pine. Think it over, I'd say it was a handsome start—"
For a moment their gazes met, and apprehension ran through the younger man, for he did not like the sort of smile that clung to his father's eyes; did not like the forbidding set of his mouth.
"Very well, sir; I will think it over," he said, trying to cram his reply with dignity, and walked inside.
John stood before a mirror in the library, studying his own reflection. He did not like this, it struck at his conceit; it was distasteful, but there had been something else in his father's manner beside subtle derision—a challenge, perhaps. He sat down to think it over.
