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Updated: June 20, 2025
That thrust like the haft of a spear into the heart of Fyfe's timberland. There was the Abbey-Monohan cottage, the three limits her brother controlled lying up against Fyfe's southern boundary.
Barlow laid the Waterbug alongside the float. He had already told her that Lefty Howe, with the greater part of Fyfe's crew, was extending and guarding Benton's fire-trail, and he half expected that Fyfe might have turned up there. Away back in the smoke arose spasmodic coughing of donkey engines, dull resounding of axe-blades. Barlow led the way.
To my knowledge for three years, prior to pulling you out of the water that time, he never spoke of Jack Fyfe without a sneer. He hates any one who beats him at anything. That ruction on the Tyee is a sample. He'll spend money, risk lives, all but his own, do anything to satisfy a grudge. That's one of the things that worries me. Charlie will be into anything that Fyfe is, for Fyfe's his friend.
While the chain was still chattering in the hawse pipe, the squat black hull of Jack Fyfe's tender rounded the nearest point. "Whistle him up, Sam," Benton ordered. "Jack can beat our time, and this bleeding must be stopped quick." The tender veered in from her course at the signal. Fyfe himself was at the wheel.
She was tempted to refuse just to see what he would do, but she reconsidered that. Without any logical foundation for the feeling, she was shy of pitting her will against Jack Fyfe's.
He would never have recourse to such littleness. Still, the biting contempt in Fyfe's voice when he said to Benton: "You underestimate Monohan. He'll play safe ... he's foxy." That stung her to the quick. That was not said for her benefit; it was Fyfe's profound conviction. Based on what? He did not form judgments on momentary impulse.
She was here now, in a five-dollar-a-week housekeeping room, foot-loose, free as the wind. That was Fyfe's last word to her. He had come with her to Seattle and waited patiently at a hotel until she found a place to live. Then he had gone away without protest. "Well, Stella," he had said, "I guess this is the end of our experiment.
"A Seattle yarder properly handled can do anything but climb a tree," Charlie had once boasted to her, in reference to his own machine. It seemed quite possible to Stella, watching Jack Fyfe's crew at work. Steam was up in the donkey. They carried a line from its drum through a snatch block ashore and jerked half a dozen logs crosswise before the scow in a matter of minutes.
A grin struggled for lodgment on Fyfe's freckled countenance. His blue eyes twinkled. "I suppose," he growled, "that's Charlie's idea of a joke, huh?" Stella turned away from the tiny garments, one little, hood crumpled tight in her hand. She laid her hot face against his breast and her shoulders quivered. She was crying. "Stella, Stella, what's the matter?" he whispered.
Thereupon, at Fyfe's suggestion, he imported a fellow countryman, another bland, silent-footed model of efficiency in personal service. Thereafter Stella's task of supervision proved a sinecure.
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