Kindred of the Dust | Page 8

been left entirely in their
mother's hands. Not so with young Donald, however--wherefore it was
a byword in Port Agnew that Donald was his father's son, a veritable
chip of the old block.
By some uncanny alchemy, hard cash appears to soften the heads and
relax the muscles of rich men's sons--at least, such had been old
Hector's observation, and on the instant that he first gazed upon the
face of his son, there had been born in him a mighty resolve that, come
what might, he would not have it said of him that he had made a fool of
his boy. And throughout the glad years of his fatherhood, with the stern
piety of his race and his faith, he had knelt night and morning beside
his bed and prayed his God to help him not to make a fool of
Donald--to keep Donald from making a fool of himself.

When Donald entered Princeton, his father decided upon an experiment.
He had raised his boy right, and trained him for the race of life, and
now The Laird felt that, like a thoroughbred horse, his son faced the
barrier. Would he make the run, or would he, in the parlance of the
sporting world, "dog it?" Would his four years at a great American
university make of him a better man, or would he degenerate into a
snob and a drone?
With characteristic courage, The Laird decided to give him ample
opportunity to become either, for, as old Hector remarked to Andrew
Daney: "If the lad's the McKaye I think he is, nothing can harm him.
On the other hand, if I'm mistaken, I want to know it in time, for my
money and my Port Agnew Lumber Company is a trust, and if he can't
handle it, I'll leave it to the men who can--who've helped me create
it--and Donald shall earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. Tools," he
added, "belong to the men that can use them."
When Donald started East for college, old Hector accompanied him as
far as Seattle. On the way up, there was some man-talk between them.
In his youth, old Hector had not been an angel, which is to state that he
had been a lumberjack. He knew men and the passions that beset
them--particularly when they are young and lusty--and he was far from
being a prude. He expected his son to raise a certain amount of wild
oats; nay, he desired it, for full well he knew that when the fires of
youth are quenched, they are liable to flare disgracefully in middle life
or old age.
"Never pig it, my son," was his final admonition. "Raise hell if you
must, but if you love your old father, be a gentleman about it. You've
sprung from a clan o' men, not mollycoddles."
"Hence the expression: 'When Hector was a pup,'" Donald replied
laughingly. "Well, I'll do my best, father--only, if I stub my toe, you
mustn't be too hard on me. Remember, please, that I'm only half
Scotch."
At parting, The Laird handed his son a check for twenty-five thousand
dollars.
"This is the first year's allowance, Donald," he informed the boy
gravely. "It should not require more than a hundred thousand dollars to
educate a son of mine, and you must finish in four years. I would not
care to think you dull or lazy."

"Do you wish an accounting, father?"
The Laird shook his head.
"Keeping books was ever a sorry trade, my son. I'll read the accounting
in your eye when you come back to Port Agnew."
"Oh!" said young Donald.
At the end of four years, Donald graduated, an honor-man in all his
studies, and in the lobby of the gymnasium, where the athletic heroes of
Princeton leave their record to posterity, Hector McKaye read his son's
name, for, of course, he was there for commencement. Then they spent
a week together in New York, following which old Hector announced
that one week of New York was about all he could stand. The tall
timber was calling for him.
"Hoot, mon!" Donald protested gaily. He was a perfect mimic of Sir
Harry Lauder at his broadest. "Y'eve nae had a bit holiday in all yer life.
Wha' spier ye, Hector McKaye, to a trip aroond the worl', wi' a wee
visit tae the auld clan in the Hielands?"
"Will you come with me, son?" The Laird inquired eagerly.
"Certainly not! You shall come with me. This is to be my party."
"Can you stand the pressure? I'm liable to prove an expensive traveling
companion."
"Well, there's something radically wrong with both of us if we can't get
by on two hundred thousand dollars, dad."
The Laird started, and then his Scotch sense of humor--and,