And there was always Mills, Mills who wanted to make a stake and "get
to hell out of here", and who did not go, although the sum to his
credit in Hollister's account book was creeping towards a thousand
dollars, so fierce and unceasing an energy did Mills expend upon the
fragrant cedar.
Hollister himself accounted for no small profit. Like Mills, he worked
under a spur. He wrestled stoutly with opportunity. He saw beyond the
cedar on that green slope. With a living assured, he sought fortune,
aspired to things as yet beyond his reach,--leisure, an ampler way of
life, education for his children that were to be.
This measure of prosperity loomed not so distant. When he took stock
of his resources in October, he found himself with nearly three
thousand dollars in hand and the bulk of his cedar still standing.
Half that was directly the gain derived from a rising market. Labor
was his only problem. If he could get labor, and shingles held the
upper price levels, he would make a killing in the next twelve months.
After that, with experience gained and working capital, the forested
region of the British Columbia coast lay before him as a field of
operations.
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