The Valley of the Giants

by Peter B. Kyne

  CHAPTER XII

  The days passed swiftly, as they have a habit of passing after one hasdiscovered one's allotted task in life and has proceeded to performit. Following his discovery of the outrage committed on his father'ssanctuary, Bryce wasted considerable valuable time and effort in afutile endeavour to gather some further hint of the identity of thevandals; but despairing at last, he dismissed the matter from his mind,resolving only that on Thursday he would go up into Pennington's woodsand interview the redoubtable Jules Rondeau. Bryce's natural inclinationwas to wait upon M. Rondeau immediately, if not sooner, but therecollection of his dinner engagement at the Pennington home warned himto proceed cautiously; for while harbouring no apprehensions as to theoutcome of a possible clash with Rondeau, Bryce was not so optimistic asto believe he would escape unscathed from an encounter. Experience hadimpressed upon him the fact that in a rough-and-tumble battle nobody isquite so thoroughly at home as a lumberjack; once in a clinch withsuch a man, even a champion gladiator of the prize ring may well feelapprehensive of the outcome.

  Wednesday evening at five o'clock Mr. Sinclair, the manager, cameinto Bryce's office with a handful of folded papers. "I have here," heannounced in his clerky voice with a touch of solemnity to it, "a trialbalance. I have not had time to make an exact inventory; but in orderto give you some idea of the condition of your father's affairs, I haveused approximate figures and prepared a profit-and-loss account."

  Bryce reached for the papers.

  "You will note the amount charged off to profit and loss under the headof 'Pensions,'" Sinclair continued. "It amounts approximately to twothousand dollars a month, and this sum represents payments to crippledemployees and the dependent families of men killed in the employ of theCompany."

  "In addition to these payments, your father owns thirty-two thirty-acrefarms which he has cleared from his logged-over lands. These littlefarms are equipped with bungalows and outbuildings built by your fatherand represent a considerable investment. As you know, these farms arewonderfully rich, and are planted in apples and berries. Other landscontiguous to them sell readily at two hundred dollars an acre, and soyou will see that your father has approximately two hundred thousanddollars tied up in these little farms."

  "But he has given a life-lease at nothing a year for each farm to formeremployees who have been smashed beyond the possibility of doing the hardwork of the mill and woods," Bryce reminded the manager. "Hence you mustnot figure those farms among our assets."

  "Why not?" Sinclair replied evenly. "Formal leases have never beenexecuted, and the tenants occupy the property at your father'spleasure."

  "I think that will be about as far as the discussion on that point needproceed," Bryce replied smilingly. "My father's word has always beenconsidered sufficient in this country; his verbal promise to pay hasalways been collateral enough for those who know him."

  "But my dear boy," Sinclair protested, "while that sort of philanthropyis very delightful when one can afford the luxury, it is scarcelypractical when one is teetering on the verge of financial ruin. Afterall, Bryce, self-preservation is the first law of human nature, andthe sale of those farms would go a long way toward helping the CardiganRedwood Lumber Company out of the hole it is in at present."

  "And we're really teetering on the edge of financial ruin, eh?" Brycequeried calmly.

  "That is expressing your condition mildly. The semi-annual payment ofinterest on the bonded indebtedness falls due on July first--and we'regoing to default on it, sure as death and taxes. Colonel Penningtonholds a majority of our bonds, and that means prompt suit forforeclosure."

  "Well, then, Sinclair," Bryce retorted, carefully pigeon-holing thedocuments the manager had handed him, "I'll tell you what we'll do. Forfifty years my father has played the game in this community like a sportand a gentleman, and I'll be damned if his son will dog it now, at thefinish. I gather from your remarks that we could find ready sale forthose thirty-two little farms?"

  "I am continually receiving offers for them."

  "Then they were not included in the list of properties covered by ourbonded indebtedness?"

  "No, your father refused to include them. He said he would take a chanceon the financial future of himself and his boy, but not on his helplessdependents."

  "Good old John Cardigan! Well, Sinclair, I'll not take a chance on themeither; so to-morrow morning you will instruct our attorney to drawup formal life-leases on those farms, and to make certain they areabsolutely unassailable. Colonel Pennington may have the lands sold tosatisfy a deficiency judgment against us, but while those life-leasesfrom the former owner are in force, my father's proteges cannot bedispossessed. After they are dead, of course, Pennington may take thefarms--and be damned to him."

  Sinclair stared in frank amazement at his youthful superior. "You arethrowing away two hundred thousand dollars," he said distinctly.

  "I haven't thrown it away--yet. You forget, Sinclair, that we're goingto fight first--and fight like fiends; then if we lose--well, thetail goes with the hide, By the way, Sinclair, are any of those farmsuntenanted at the present time?"

  "Yes. Old Bill Tarpey, who lost his three boys in a forest fire overon the San Hedrin, passed out last week. The Tarpey boys died in theCardigan employ, and so your father gave Bill the use of a farm out nearFreshwater."

  "Well, you'd better be his successor, Sinclair. You're no longer a youngman, and you've been thirty years in this office. Play safe, Sinclair,and include yourself in one of those life-leases."

  "My dear boy--"

  "Nonsense! United we stand, divided we fall, Sinclair; and let there beno moaning of the bar when a Cardigan puts out to sea."

  Smiling, he rose from his desk, patted the bewildered Sinclair on thelatter's grizzled head, and then reached for his hat. "I'm dining outto-night, Sinclair, and I wouldn't be a kill-joy at the feast, for aripe peach. Your confounded figures might make me gloomy; so we'll justreserve discussion of them till to-morrow morning. Be a sport, Sinclair,and for once in your life beat the six o'clock whistle. In other words,I suggest that you go home and rest for once."

  He left Sinclair staring at him rather stupidly.