he Grier man after the collision, of
his own arrest and fine of twenty-five cents and of the attitude of the
public and the Press. The old man was jubilant. "Say, you did the thing
in style. It was the only way to do it. You landed 'em with the protest
fair and easy. You're going to be a success in the business, I can see
that."

Carnac for a moment looked at his father meditatively. Then, seeing
the surprise in John Grier's face, he said: "No, I'm not going to be
a success in it, for I'm not going on with it. I've had enough. I'm
through."

"You've had enough--you're through--just when you've proved you can do
things as well as I can do them! You ain't going on! Great Jehoshaphat!"

"I mean it; I'm not going on. I'm going to quit in another month.
I can't stick it. It galls me. It ain't my job. I do it, but it's
artificial, it ain't the real thing. My heart isn't in it as yours is,
and I'd go mad if I had to do this all my life. It's full of excitement
at times, it's hard work, it's stimulating when you're fighting, but
other times it's deadly dull and bores me stiff. I feel as though I were
pulling a train of cars."

Slowly the old man's face reddened with anger. "It bores you stiff, eh?
It's deadly dull at times! There's only interest in it when there's a
fight on, eh? You're right; you're not fit for the job, never was and
never will be while your mind is what it is. Don't take a month to go,
don't take a week, or a day, go this morning after I've got your report
on what's been done. It ain't the real thing, eh? No, it ain't. It's
no place for you. Tell me all there is to tell, and get out; I've had
enough too, I've had my fill. 'It bores me stiff'!"

John Grier was in a rage, and he would listen to no explanation. "Come
now, out with your report."

Carnac was not upset. He kept cool. "No need to be so crusty," he said.

CHAPTER VI. LUKE TARBOE HAS AN OFFER

Many a man behind his horses' tails on the countryside has watched the
wild reckless life of the water with wonder and admiration. He sees
a cluster of logs gather and climb, and still gather and climb, and
between him and that cluster is a rolling waste of timber, round and
square.

Suddenly, a being with a red shirt, with loose prairie kind of hat,
knee-boots, having metal clamps, strikes out from the shore, running on
the tops of the moving logs till he reaches the jam. Then the pike-pole,
or the lever, reaches the heart of the difficulty, an