Orde did not go home. Instead, he walked down Main Street to the
docks where he jumped into a rowboat lying in a slip, and with a few
rapid strokes shot out on the stream. In his younger days he had
belonged to a boat club, and had rowed in the "four." He still
loved the oar, and though his racing days were past, he maintained a
clean-lined, rather unstable little craft which it was his delight
to propel rapidly with long spoon-oars whenever he needed exercise.
To-day, however, he was content to drift.
The morning was still and golden. The crispness of late fall had
infused a wine into the air. The sky was a soft, blue-gray; the
sand-hills were a dazzling yellow. Orde did not try to think; he
merely faced the situation, staring it in the face until it should
shrink to its true significance.
One thing he felt distinctly; yet could not without a struggle bring
himself to see. The California lands must be mortgaged. If he
could raise a reasonable sum of money on them, he would still be
perfectly able to meet his notes. He hated fiercely to raise that
money.
It was entirely a matter of sentiment. Orde realised the fact
clearly, and browbeat his other self with a savage contempt.
Nevertheless his dream had been to keep the western timber free and
unencumbered--for Bobby.
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