A pink tongue roved the lips behind the whiskers and the bright eyes studied Taylor's face again. He took off his glasses, which had been shoved back on his forehead, and swung one stubby leg slowly.
"Have you seen your father's logs?"
"I've seen the logs. They happen to be mine though."
"Yours, eh? What are you going to do with them?"
"That's what I came here to ask you."
"Why to me?"
"Men in town tell me you know all there is to know about logging and I need expert advice."
The old editor wheezed a laugh.
"Meet any of my political enemies?"
"If I did, I didn't find it out."
"They're lax! Wait until fall an' election time and you'll hear what a scoundrel I am—hum-m-m—It's advice you're after, eh? Since you've come to me, then, I'll get personal right off. How much do these logs stand you in where they are?"
Taylor moved uneasily.
"My pride, sir—all of it." The foot stopped swinging. "My father gave them to me for my start. He was quite sure that I would fall down. I'm inclined to think that he wants me to fall down."
The editor's eyes lost some of their brightness and something like concern showed there.
"That's too bad, son. It's a heavy investment and the job's a tough one. Do you know anything about logging yourself?"
"Nothing. Except that with logs thirteen miles from a railroad, with snow gone, the owner is up against it."
A pause.
