built a very pretty little public library.

Having organized his new garbage system (the garbage was to be towed
twenty miles to sea and there dumped), The Laird forbade further
dumping on the Sawdust Pile. When the necessity for more dredger-work
developed, in order to keep the deep channel of the Skookum from
filling, he had the pipes from the dredger run out to the Sawdust Pile
and covered the unsightly spot with six feet of rich river-silt up to
the level of the piling.

"And now," said Hector McKaye to Andrew Daney, his general manager,
"when that settles, we'll run a light track out here and use the
Sawdust Pile for a drying-yard."

The silt settled and dried, and almost immediately thereafter a
squatter took possession of the Sawdust Pile. Across the neck of the
little promontory, and in line with extreme high-water mark on each
side, he erected a driftwood fence; he had a canvas, driftwood, and
corrugated-iron shanty well under way when Hector McKaye appeared on
the scene and bade him a pleasant good-morning.

The squatter turned from his labor and bent upon his visitor an
appraising glance. His scrutiny appearing to satisfy him as to the
identity of the latter, he straightened suddenly and touched his
forelock in a queer little salute that left one in doubt whether he
was a former member of the United States navy or the British
mercantile marine. He was a threadbare little man, possibly sixty
years old, with a russet, kindly countenance and mild blue eyes; apart
from his salute, there was about him an intangible hint of the sea. He
was being assisted in his labors by a ragamuffin girl of perhaps
thirteen years.

"Thinking of settling in Port Agnew?" The Laird inquired.

"Why, yes, sir. I thought this might make a good safe anchorage for
Nan and me. My name is Caleb Brent. You're Mr. McKaye, aren't you?"

The Laird nodded.

"I had an idea, when I filled this spot in and built that bulkhead,
Mr. Brent, that some day this would make a safe anchorage for some of
my lumber. I planned a drying-yard here. What's that you're building,
Brent? A hen-house?"

Caleb Brent flushed.

"Why, no, sir. I'm making shift to build a home here for Nan and me."

"Is this little one Nan?"

The ragamuffin girl, her head slightly to one side, had been regarding
Hector McKaye with alert curiosity mingled with furtive apprehension.
As he glanced at her now, she remembered her manners and dropped him a
courtesy--an electric