Kindred of the Dust | Page 5

acres in extent; and, with the passage of years,
this became about two-thirds filled with the waste from the town. Had
The Laird ever decided to lay claim to the Sawdust Pile, there would
have been none in Port Agnew to contest his title; since he did not
claim it, the Sawdust Pile became a sort of No Man's Land.
After The Laird erected his factory and began to salvage his waste, the
slab fire went out forever for lack of fuel, and the modicum of waste
from the mill and factory, together with the sawdust, was utilized for
fuel in an electric-light plant that furnished light, heat, and power to the
town. Consequently, sawdust no longer mercifully covered the trash on
the Sawdust Pile as fast as this trash arrived, and, one day, Hector
McKaye, observing this, decided that it was an unsightly spot and not
quite worthy of his town of Port Agnew. So he constructed a barge
somewhat upon the principle of a patent dump-wagon, moored it to the
river-bank, created a garbage monopoly in Port Agnew, and sold it for
five thousand dollars to a pair of ambitious Italians. With the proceeds
of this garbage deal, The Laird built a very pretty little public library.
Having organized his new garbage system (the garbage was to be

towed twenty miles to sea and there dumped), The Laird forbade
further dumping on the Sawdust Pile. When the necessity for more
dredger-work developed, in order to keep the deep channel of the
Skookum from filling, he had the pipes from the dredger run out to the
Sawdust Pile and covered the unsightly spot with six feet of rich
river-silt up to the level of the piling.
"And now," said Hector McKaye to Andrew Daney, his general
manager, "when that settles, we'll run a light track out here and use the
Sawdust Pile for a drying-yard."
The silt settled and dried, and almost immediately thereafter a squatter
took possession of the Sawdust Pile. Across the neck of the little
promontory, and in line with extreme high-water mark on each side, he
erected a driftwood fence; he had a canvas, driftwood, and
corrugated-iron shanty well under way when Hector McKaye appeared
on the scene and bade him a pleasant good-morning.
The squatter turned from his labor and bent upon his visitor an
appraising glance. His scrutiny appearing to satisfy him as to the
identity of the latter, he straightened suddenly and touched his forelock
in a queer little salute that left one in doubt whether he was a former
member of the United States navy or the British mercantile marine. He
was a threadbare little man, possibly sixty years old, with a russet,
kindly countenance and mild blue eyes; apart from his salute, there was
about him an intangible hint of the sea. He was being assisted in his
labors by a ragamuffin girl of perhaps thirteen years.
"Thinking of settling in Port Agnew?" The Laird inquired.
"Why, yes, sir. I thought this might make a good safe anchorage for
Nan and me. My name is Caleb Brent. You're Mr. McKaye, aren't
you?"
The Laird nodded.
"I had an idea, when I filled this spot in and built that bulkhead, Mr.
Brent, that some day this would make a safe anchorage for some of my
lumber. I planned a drying-yard here. What's that you're building, Brent?
A hen-house?"
Caleb Brent flushed.
"Why, no, sir. I'm making shift to build a home here for Nan and me."
"Is this little one Nan?"
The ragamuffin girl, her head slightly to one side, had been regarding

Hector McKaye with alert curiosity mingled with furtive apprehension.
As he glanced at her now, she remembered her manners and dropped
him a courtesy--an electric, half-defiant jerk that reminded The Laird of
a similar greeting customarily extended by squinch-owls.
Nan was not particularly clean, and her one-piece dress, of heavy blue
navy-uniform cloth was old and worn and spotted. Over this dress she
wore a boy's coarse red-worsted sweater with white-pearl buttons. The
skin of her thin neck was fine and creamy; the calves, of her bare
brown legs were shapely, her feet small, her ankles dainty.
With the quick eye of the student of character, this man, proud of his
own ancient lineage for all his humble beginning, noted that her hands,
though brown and uncared-for, were small and dimpled, with long,
delicate fingers. She had sea-blue eyes like Caleb Brent's, and, like his,
they were sad and wistful; a frowsy wilderness of golden hair, very fine
and held in confinement at the nape of her neck by the simple expedient
of a piece of twine, showed all too plainly the lack of a mother's care.
The Laird returned Nan's courtesy with a patronizing inclination of his
head.
"Your