“So that’s the way you elect to work it, eh?” he queried.  “I told Daney to pay you my salary when I quit.”

“I like to feel that I’m earning my stipend,” Donald replied, “so it pleases me to draw the wages of the job I’m working at.  When I’m thoroughly acquainted with all the jobs in the Tyee Lumber Company, or at least have a good working knowledge of them, I think I’ll be a better boss.”

The Laird took his son’s big brown hands in his and looked at the palms.

“I rather think I like it so,” he answered.  “A man whose hands have never bled or whose back has never ached is a poor man to judge a labor dispute.  ’Twould improve you if you were a married man and had to live on that for a week, less twenty-five cents for your hospital dues.  The choppers pay a dollar a month toward the hospital, and that covers medical attendance for them and their families.”

Donald laughed and flipped a quarter over to the cashier, then turned and handed ten dollars to a wiry little chopper standing in line.

“I was feeling so good this morning I bet Sandy my week’s pay I could fell a tree quicker than he and with less breakage.  He won in a walk,” he explained to The Laird.

“Come with me,” his father ordered, and led him into the office.

From the huge safe he selected a ledger, scanned the index, and opened it at a certain account headed, “Sandy dough.”  To Sandy’s credit each month, extending over a period of fifteen years, appeared a credit of thirty dollars.

“That’s what it’s costing me to have discovered Sandy,” his father informed him; “but since I had served an apprenticeship as a chopper, the time required to discover Sandy was less than half an hour, I watched him one day when he didn’t know who I was—­so I figured him for a man and a half and raised him a dollar a day.  He doesn’t know it, however.  If he did, he’d brag about it, and I’d have to pay as much to men half as good.  When he’s chopped for us twenty years, fire him and give him that.  He’s earned it.  Thus endeth the first lesson, my son.  Now come home to dinner.”

After dinner, Donald returned to town to buy himself some working-clothes at the general store.  His purchases completed, he sought the juvenile department.

“I want some kid’s clothing,” he announced.  “To fit a child of three.  Rompers, socks, shoes—­the complete outfit.  Charge them to my account and send them over to Nan Brent at the Sawdust Pile.  I’ll give you a note to enclose with them.”

Notwithstanding the fact that she was an employe of the Tyee Lumber Company, the girl who waited on him stared at him frankly.  He noticed this and bent upon her a calm glance that brought a guilty flush to her cheek.  Quickly she averted her eyes, but, nevertheless she had a feeling that the young laird of Tyee was still appraising her, and, unable to withstand the fascination peculiar to such a situation, she looked at him again to verify her suspicions—­and it was even so.  In great confusion she turned to her stock, and Donald, satisfied that he had squelched her completely, went into the manager’s office, wrote, and sealed the following note to Nan Brent: