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The Laird appeared promptly in response to this message, and the two men walked slowly down the hall to the reception-room. Daney closed the door and resolutely faced The Laird. "The doctors and the nurses tell me things, sir, they're afraid to tell you," he began.
The interior of the car was unoccupied save for Donald's clothing and personal effects which some thoughtful person at The Dreamerie had sent down to him. He hazarded a guess that the cool and practical Elizabeth had realized his needs. Returning to the mill office, Mr. Daney sat at his desk and started to look over the mail.
I'll remember him handsomely at Christmas, and see that I do not forget this, Andrew. What is his name?" "Let me think." Mr. Daney bent his head, tipped back his hat and massaged his brow before replying. "I think that when he worked for the Tyee Lumber Company he was known as Donald McKaye." He looked up. The old Laird's face was ashen. "Thank you, Andrew," he managed to murmur presently.
He longed to evade the issue he realized that Daney was crowding him always, setting traps for him, driving him relentlessly toward a reconciliation that was abhorrent to him. "I have no objection. She cannot afford the expense of a Seattle hospital, I daresay, and I do not desire to oppress her." The following day Mr.
For a few seconds, they faced each other like a pair of belligerent game-cocks. Then said Daney: "How do you know his heart was broken?" Dirty Dan didn't know.
Daney knew your wishes in the matter; if he had forgotten them, he might have remembered mine, and if he had forgotten both, it would have been the decent thing to have thrown them out on his own responsibility." So that was what lay at the bottom of his son's perturbation! The Laird was relieved. "Andrew's a good man, but he always needed a leader, Donald," he replied.
Boy and man, I've loved that ahem! son of yours. Why, he always did have guts. Keep your filthy money. The boy's credit is good with me. I'm no pauper, even I if do work for you. I work for fun. Understand. Or do you, Hector McKaye?" "If you dare to loan my son as much as a thin dime I'll fire you out of hand." Mr. Daney jeered.
Then, her impish nature asserting itself, she literally smashed out the opening bars of the Wedding March from Lohengrin, and shouted with glee when her mother, a finger in each ear, fled from the room. Mr. Daney worked through a stack of mail with his stenographer, dismissed her, and, in the privacy of his sanctum, lighted his pipe and proceeded to mend his fences.
"As I recall it, he'll be three years old in October." "Since, you're a married woman, Mrs. Daney," The Laird began, with old-fashioned deprecation for the blunt language he was about to employ, "you'll admit that the child wasn't found behind one of old Brent's cabbages. This is the year 1916." But Mrs. Daney anticipated him.
His demeanor appeared to say: "This is my work, and I'm proud of it." To Daney's profound amazement, The Laird smiled benignantly and thrust out his hand, which Mr. Daney shook gingerly, as one might a can of nitroglycerin. "I thank you more than you will ever realize, Andrew, for taking this matter out of my hands.
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