“Have my old desk put in order for me.  I’m back in the harness and back to stay, and at that I’m not so certain it isn’t the best thing for me, under the present circumstances.  I dare say,” he added, with a sudden change of tone, “the news is all over Port Agnew this morning.”

Mr. Daney nodded.

“You will procure Donald’s resignation as President and have him endorse the stock I gave him in order to qualify as a director of the company.  We’ll hold a directors’ meeting this afternoon and I’ll step back into the presidency.”

“Very well, sir.”

“You will cause a notice to be prepared for my signature, to be spread on the bulletin board in each department, to the effect that Donald McKaye is no longer connected in any way with the Tyee Lumber Company.”

“Damn it, man,” Daney roared wrathfully, “have you no pride?  Why wash your dirty linen in public?”

“You are forgetting yourself, my good Andrew.  If you do not wish to obey my orders I shall have little difficulty inducing your assistant to carry out my wishes, I’m thinking.”  The Laird’s voice was calm enough; apparently he had himself under perfect control, but—­the Blue-Bonnets-coming-over-the-Border look was in his fierce gray eyes; under his bushy iron-gray brows they burned like campfires in twin caverns at night.  His arms, bowed belligerently, hung tense at his side, his great hands opened and closed, a little to the fore; he licked his lips and in the brief silence that followed ere Mr. Daney got up and started fumbling with the combination to the great vault in the corner, old Hector’s breath came in short snorts.  He turned and, still in the same attitude, watched Daney while the latter twirled and fumbled and twirled.  Poor man!  He knew The Laird’s baleful glance was boring into his back and for the life of him he could not remember the combination he had used for thirty years.

Suddenly he abandoned all pretense and turned savagely on The Laird.

“Get out of my office,” he yelled.  “I work for you, Hector McKaye, but I give you value received and in this office I’m king and be damned to you.”  His voice rose to a shrill, childish treble that presaged tears of rage.  “You’ll be sorry for this, you hard-hearted man.  Please God I’ll live to see the day your dirty Scotch pride will be humbled and you’ll go to that wonderful boy and his wife and plead for forgiveness.  Why, you poor, pitiful, pusillanimous old pachyderm, if the boy has dishonored you he has honored himself.  He’s a gallant young gentleman, that’s what he is.  He has more guts than a bear.  He’s married the girl, damn you—­and that’s more than you would have done at his age.  Ah, don’t talk to me!  We were young together and I know the game you played forty years ago with the girl at the Rat Portage—­yes, you—­you with your youth and your hot passions—­turning your big proud back on your peculiar personal god to wallow in sin and enjoy it.”