"She," gesturing, "sent me here," John said.
Helen entered and the men rose, the old editor bowing with a mixture of courtliness and paternal affection.
"Sit down, Helen," he said gently. "Mr. Taylor says you sent him to me."
"Indirectly. I asked him to locate Pancake's best logger. I knew who it would be, but I didn't want to send him to you because I didn't want to risk suspicion."
"Suspicion?"
She nodded. "What have you told Mr. Taylor?"
She glanced at John and Bryant said:
"He brings a problem I can't solve. It isn't in the book."
"Give up?" The girl's eyes danced.
"Give up," said the other, bowing.
"And you?" Taylor merely shrugged for reply.
"Then my proposal won't have much competition!"
The editor's fat leg stopped swinging. "Your proposal? You mean you want to buy these logs?"
"No. I want to handle them, though, and maybe saw the lumber."
"Saw it!" The desk chair rocked forward with a wail of its old springs. "How in the world, Helen, are you going to get it to the mill? It's sixteen miles by road and that means—"
"That hauling is impossible, but there is the river!"
She looked at Taylor with that and he quickly retorted:
"River? You can't float hardwood!"
It was one of the few facts of logging on which he was sure and he thought, for the moment, that his ignorance was being imposed upon, but she said:
"The ash, basswood and hemlock, except the butt-logs, will float. You remember the cedar poles I cut two years
