es," he finished, and stepped down off the platform.

From the heart of the crowd a lumberjack cried, "Ya-hoo-o-o-o-o!" as
only a lusty lumberjack can cry it. "He's a chip of the old block!"
cried another, and there were cheers and some tears and a general rush
forward to greet the new master, to shake his hand, and pledge
allegiance to him.

When the reception was over, old Hector took charge of the homely
games and athletic contests, and the day's delights culminated in a
log-burling contest in the Skookum, in which the young laird
participated. When, eventually, he fell in the river and was counted
out, old Hector donned his son's calked boots and, with a whoop such
as he had not emitted in forty years, entered the lists against the
young fellows. In the old days in the Michigan woods, when burling was
considered a magnificent art of the lumberjack, he had been a
champion, and for five minutes he spun his log until the water foamed,
crossing and recrossing the river and winning the contest unanimously.
From the bank, Mrs. McKaye and his daughters watched him with
well-bred amusement and secret disapproval. They could never forget,
as he could, that he was The Laird of Tyee; they preferred more
dignity in the head of the house.

The McKaye family drove home along the cliff road at sunset. Young
Donald paused on the terrace before entering the house, and, stirred
by some half-forgotten memory, he glanced across the bight to the
little white house far below on the Sawdust Pile. The flag was
floating from the cupola, but even as he looked, it came fluttering
down.

Donald turned toward the McKaye flag. It was still floating. "The old
order changeth," he soliloquized, and hauled it down, at the same time
shouting to his father within the house:

"Hey, dad; fire the sunset gun!"

The Laird pressed the button and the cannon boomed.

"We've neglected that little ceremony since you've been away," he
remarked, as Donald entered the room. "'Other times, other customs,' I
dare say."

He hurried up-stairs to dress for dinner (a formality which he
disliked, but which appeared to please his wife and daughters), and
Donald took his father's binoculars and went out on the terrace. It
had occurred to him that he had not seen old Caleb Brent and Nan at
the barbecue, and he wondered why. Through the glasses, he could make
out the figure of a woman in the cupola window, and she was watching
him through a long marine telescope.