But Bryce contradicted him earnestly.  “It can be done,” he said.  “Gregory knows nothing of our financial condition.  Our rating in the reports of the commercial agencies is as good as it ever was, and a man’s never broke till somebody finds it out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if we can start building our road and have it half completed before Pennington jumps on us, Gregory will simply have to come to our aid in self-defense.  Once he ties up with us, he’s committed to the task of seeing us through.  If we fall, he must pick us up and carry us, whether he wants to or not; and I will so arrange the deal that he will have to.  I can do it, I tell you.”

John Cardigan raised his hand.  “No,” he said firmly, “I will not allow you to do this.  That way—­that is the Pennington method.  If we fall, my son, we pass out like gentlemen, not blackguards.  We will not take advantage of this man Gregory’s faith.  If he joins forces with us, we lay our hand on the table and let him look.”

“Then he’ll never join hands with us, partner.  We’re done.”

“We’re not done, my son.  We have one alternative, and I’m going to take it.  I’ve got to—­for your sake.  Moreover, your mother would have wished it so.”

“You don’t mean—­”

“Yes, I do.  I’m going to sell Pennington my Valley of the Giants.  Thank God, that quarter-section does not belong to the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company.  It is my personal property, and it is not mortgaged.  Pennington can never foreclose on it—­and until he gets it, twenty-five hundred acres of virgin timber on Squaw Creek are valueless—­nay, a source of expense to him.  Bryce, he has to have it; and he’ll pay the price, when he knows I mean business.”

With a sweeping gesture he waved aside the arguments that rose to his son’s lips.  “Lead me to the telephone,” he commanded; and Bryce, recognizing his sire’s unalterable determination, obeyed.

“Find Pennington’s number in the telephone-book,” John Cardigan commanded next.

Bryce found it, and his father proceeded to get the Colonel on the wire.  “Pennington,” he said hoarsely, “this is John Cardigan speaking.  I’ve decided to sell you that quarter-section that blocks your timber on Squaw Creek.”

“Indeed,” the Colonel purred.  “I had an idea you were going to present it to the city for a natural park.”

“I’ve changed my mind.  I’ve decided to sell at your last offer.”

“I’ve changed my mind, too.  I’ve decided not to buy—­at my last offer.  Good-night.”

Slowly John Cardigan hung the receiver on the hook, turned and groped for his son.  When he found him, the old man held him for a moment in his arms.  “Lead me upstairs, son,” he murmured presently.  “I’m tired.  I’m going to bed.”

When Colonel Seth Pennington turned from the telephone and faced his niece, Shirley read his triumph in his face.  “Old Cardigan has capitulated at last,” he cried exultingly.  “We’ve played a waiting game and I’ve won; he just telephoned to say he’d accept my last offer for his Valley of the Giants, as the sentimental old fool calls that quarter-section of huge redwoods that blocks the outlet to our Squaw Creek timber.”