in which thought
gnawed at him like an ingrowing toenail. Everything seemed out of joint.
He found himself feverishly anxious for spring, for the stress and
strain of another tilt with Folly Bay. Sometimes he asked himself where
he would come out, even if he won all along the line, if he made money,
gained power, beat Gower ultimately to his knees, got back his land. He
did not try to peer too earnestly into the future. It seemed a little
misty. He was too much concerned with the immediate present, looming big
with possibilities of good or evil for himself. Things did not seem
quite so simple as at first. A great many complications, wholly
unforeseen, had arisen since he came back from France. But he was
committed to certain undertakings from which he neither wished nor
intended to turn aside,--not so long as he had the will to choose.

Christmas came again, and with it the gathering of the Ferraras for
their annual reunion,--Old Manuel and Joaquin, young Manuel and Ambrose
and Vincent. Steve they could speak of now quite casually. He had died
in his sea boots like many another Ferrara. It was a pity, of course,
but it was the chance of his calling. And the gathering was stronger in
numbers, even with Steve gone. Ambrose had taken himself a wife, a
merry round-cheeked girl whose people were coaxing Ambrose to quit the
sea for a more profitable undertaking in timber. And also Norman Gower
was there.

MacRae did not quite know how to take that young man. He had had stray
contacts with Norman during the last few weeks. For a rich man's son he
was not running true to form. He and Long Tom Spence had struck up a
partnership in a group of mineral claims on the Knob, that conical
mountain which lifted like one of the pyramids out of the middle of
Squitty Island. There had been much talk of those claims. Years ago Bill
Munro--he who died of the flu in his cabin beside the Cove--had staked
those claims. Munro was a young man then, a prospector. He had inveigled
other men to share his hopes and labors, to grubstake him while he drove
the tunnel that was to cut the vein. MacRae's father had taken a hand in
this. So had Peter Ferrara. But these informal partnerships had always
lapsed. Old Bill Munro's prospects had never got beyond the purely
prospective stage. The copper was there, ample traces of gold and
silver. But he never developed a showing big enough to lure capital.
When Munro died the claims had been long abandoned.

L