Meantime he was duly thankful for daily progress. Materially that
destiny which he doubted seemed to smile on him.
Late in October, when the first southward flight of wild duck began to
wing over the valley, old Bill Hayes and Sam Ballard downed tools and
went to town. The itch of the wandering foot had laid hold of them.
The pennies burned their pockets. Ballard frankly wanted a change.
Hayes declared he wanted only a week's holiday, to see a show or two
and buy some clothes. He would surely be back.
"Yes, he'll be back," Mills commented with ironic emphasis. "He'll be
broke in a week and the first camp that pays his fare out will get
him. There's no fool like a logger. Strong in the back and weak in
the head--the best of us."
But Mills himself stayed on. What kept him, Hollister wondered? Did he
have some objective that centered about Myra Bland? Was the man a
victim of hopeless passion, lingering near the unobtainable because he
could not tear himself away? Was Myra holding him like a pawn in some
obscure game that she played to feed her vanity? Or were the two of
them caught in one of those inextricable coils which Hollister
perceived to arise in the lives of men and women, from which they
could not free themselves without great courage and ruthless disregard
of consequences?
Sometimes Hollister wondered if he himself were not overfanciful, too
sensitive to moods and impressions.
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