eneral manager's home stood; but even at a distance of two blocks,
she recognized the young laird of Tyee in the cab with the engineer.

"Dear, dear!" this good soul murmured. "And such a nice young man,
too! I should think he'd have more consideration for his family, if
not for himself."

"Who's that?" Mr. Daney demanded, emerging from behind the Seattle
_Post-Intelligencer_.

"Donald McKaye."

"What about him?" Mr. Daney demanded, with slight emphasis on the
pronoun.

"Oh, nothing; only--"

"Only what?"

"People say he's unduly interested in Nan Brent."

"If he is, that's his business. Don't let what people say trouble you,
Mrs. Daney."

"Well, can I help it if people will talk?"

"Yes--when they talk to you."

"How do you know they've been talking to me, Andrew?" she demanded
foolishly.

"Because you know what they say." Andrew Daney rose from the wicker
deck-chair in which he had been lounging and leveled his index-finger
at the partner of his joys and sorrows. "You forget Donald McKaye and
that Brent girl," he ordered. "It's none of your business. All Don has
to say to me is, 'Mr. Daney, your job is vacant'--and, by Judas
Priest, it'll be vacant. Remember that, my dear."

"Nonsense, dear. The Laird wouldn't permit it--after all these years."

"If it comes to a test of strength, I'll lose, and don't you forget
it. Old sake's sake is all that saved me from a run-in with Donald
before he had been in command fifteen minutes. I refer to that Sawdust
Pile episode. You dissuaded me from doing my duty in that matter,
Mary, and my laxity was not pleasing to Donald. I don't blame him a
whit."

"Did he say anything?" she demanded, a trifle alarmed.

"No; but he looked it."

"How did he look, Andrew?"

"He looked," her husband replied, "like the Blue Bonnets coming over
the border--that's what he looked like. Then he went down to the
Sawdust Pile like a raging demon, cleaned it out in two twos, and put
it to the torch. You be careful what you say to people, Mary. Get that
boy started once, and he'll hark back to his paternal ancestors; and
if The Laird has ever told you the history of that old claymore that
hangs on the wall in The Dreamerie, you know that the favorite outdoor
sports of the McKaye tribe were fighting and foot-racing--with the
other fellow in front."

"The Laird is mild enough," she defended.

"Yes, he is. But when he was young, he could, and frequently did, whip
twice his weight in