heumatism
to attend to his truck-garden any more; so if you leave him the space
for his house and a chicken-yard, he'll be satisfied. In fact, I have
discussed the proposition with him, and he is agreeable."

"Why did dad permit those other people to crowd him, Mr. Daney?"

"While your father was in Europe with you, they horned in, claimed a
squatter's right, and stood pat. Old Brent was defenseless, and while
the boys from the mill would have cleaned them out if I had given the
word, the Greeks and the negro were defiant, and it meant bloodshed.
So I have permitted the matter to rest until your father's return."

Donald reached for his hat.

"Caleb Brent's squatter-right to that Sawdust Pile is going to be
upheld," he declared. "I'll clean that colony out before sunset, or
they'll clean me."

"I'd proceed cautiously if I were you, Don. They have a host of
friends up in Darrow, and we mustn't precipitate a feud."

"I'm going over now and serve notice on them to vacate immediately."
He grinned at old Daney. "A negro, a handful of Greeks, and those
unfortunate women can't bluff the boss of Port Agnew, Mr. Daney."

"They tell me there's a blind pig down there, also."

"It will not be there after to-day," Donald answered lightly, and
departed for the Sawdust Pile.

As he came up to the gate in the neat fence Caleb Brent had built
across the Sawdust Pile nine years before, a baby boy, of perhaps
three years of age, rose out of the weeds in which he had been playing
and regarded the visitor expectantly.

"Hello, bub!" the young laird of Tyee greeted the child.

"Hello!" came the piping answer. "Are you my daddy?"

"Why, no, Snickelfritz." He ran his fingers through the tot's golden
hair. "Don't you know your own daddy?"

"I haven't any daddy," the child drawled.

"No? Well, that's unfortunate." Donald stooped and lifted the tike to
his shoulder, marveling the while that such a cherub could be the
product of any of the denizens of the Sawdust Pile. At once, the boy's
arms went round his neck and a velvet cheek was laid close to his.
"You're an affectionate little snooks, aren't you?" Donald commented.
"Do you live here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Somebody's been teaching you manners. Whose little boy are you?"

"Muvver's."

"And who might mother be?"

"Nan Brent."

"Yo-ho! So you're Nan Brent's boy! What's your name?"

"Donald Brent."

"No; that isn't it, son. Brent is your mother's name. Tell me your
father