“Why?” demanded Bob.

“Well,” said Baker quaintly, “because you seem to have licked me fair and square; and I never want a man who can lick me to remain where he is likely to do so.”

At this point Orde, who had up to now remained quietly a spectator, spoke up.

“Bob,” said he, “is already fairly intimately connected with certain interests, which, while not so large as water power, are enough to keep him busy.”

Baker turned to him joyously.

“List’ to the voice of reason!” he cried.  “I’m sorry he won’t come with us; but the next best thing is to put him where he won’t fight us.  I didn’t know he was going back to your timber—­”

Bob opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again at a gesture from his father.

Baker glanced at the clock.

“Well,” he remarked cheerfully, “come over to the Club with me to lunch, anyway.”

Bob stared at him incredulously.  Here was the man who had employed against him every expedient from blackmail to physical violence; who had but that instant been worsted in a bald attempt at larceny, nevertheless, cheerfully inviting him out to lunch as though nothing had happened!  Furthermore, his father, against whose ambitions one of the deadliest blows had been aimed, was quietly reaching for his hat.  Baker looked up and caught Bob’s expression.

“Come, come!” said he; “forget it!  You and I speak the language of the same tribe, and you can’t get away from it.  I’m playing my game, you’re playing yours.  Of course, we want to win.  But what’s the use of cutting out lots of bully good people on that account?”

“You don’t stick to the rules,” insisted Bob stoutly.

“I think I do,” said Baker.  “Who’s to decide?  You believe one way, I believe another.  I know what you think of my methods in business; and I’d hate to say what I think of you as the blue ribbon damn fool in that respect.  But I like you, and I’m willing to admit you’ve got stuff in you; and I know damn well you and your father and I can have a fine young lunch talking duck-shooting and football.  And with all my faults you love me still, and you know you do.”  He smiled winningly, and hooked his arm through Bob’s on one side and his father’s on the other.  “Come on, you old deacon; play the game!” he cried.

Bob laughed, and gave in.

XXXIX

Bob took his father with him back to headquarters.  They rode in near the close of day; and, as usual, from the stovepipe of the roofless kitchen a brave pillar of white smoke rose high in the shadows of the firs.  Amy came forth at Bob’s shout, starched and fresh, her cheeks glowing with their steady colour, her intelligent eyes alight with interest under the straight, serene brows.  At sight of Orde, the vivacity of her manner quieted somewhat, but Bob could see that she was excited about something.  He presented his father, who dismounted and greeted her with a hearty shake of the hand.