k. I know that."

"It's a vacation you need," insisted Welton chuckling, "--or else you're
in love. Isn't that, is it?"

"No," Bob laughed quite wholeheartedly. "It isn't that."

"You haven't got a better job, have you?" Welton joked.

Bob considered. "Yes; I believe I have," he said at last; "at least I'm
hoping to get it."

Welton looked at him closely; saw that he was in earnest.

"What is it?" he asked curtly.

Bob, suddenly smitten with a sense of the futility of trying to argue
out his point of view here in the woods, drew back.

"Can't tell just yet," said he.

Welton climbed down from the stump; stood firmly for a moment, his
sturdy legs apart; then moved forward down the trail.

"I'll raise his ante, whatever it is," he said abruptly at length. "I
don't believe in it, but I'll do it. I need you."

"You've always treated me better than I ever deserved," said Bob
earnestly, "and I'll stay all summer, or all next winter--until you feel
that you do not need me longer; but I'm sure that I must go."

For two days Welton disbelieved the reality of his intention. For two
days further he clung to a notion that in some way Bob must be
dissatisfied with something tangible in his treatment. Then, convinced
at last, he took alarm, and dropped his facetious attitude.

"Look here, Bob," said he, "this isn't quite fair, is it? This is a big
piece of timber. It needs a man with a longer life in front of him than
I can hope for. I wanted to be able to think that in a few years, when I
get tired I could count on you for the heavy work. It's too big a
business for an old man."

"I'll stay with you until you find that young man," said Bob. "There are
a good many, trained to the business, capable of handling this
property."

"But nobody like you, Bobby. I've brought you up to my methods. We've
grown up together at this. You're just like a son to me." Welton's
round, red face was puckered to a wistful and comically pathetic twist,
as he looked across at the serious manly young fellow.

Bob looked away. "That's just what makes it hard," he managed to say at
last; "I'd like to go on with you. We've gotten on famously. But I
can't. This isn't my work."

Welton laboured in vain to induce him to change his mind. Several times
he considered telling Bob the truth--that all this timber belonged
really to Jack Orde, Bob's father, and that his, Welton's interest in it
was merely that of the active partner in the industry.