"Well, I'm back, like the cat that couldn't stay away," Mills said.
The same queer undercurrent of melancholy, of sadness, the same hint
of pain colored his words,--a subtle matter of inflection, of tone.
The shadowy expression of some inner conflict hovered in his dark
eyes. Again Hollister felt that indefinable urge of sympathy for this
man who seemed to suffer with teeth grimly clenched, so that no
complaint ever escaped him. A strange man, tenacious of his black
moods.
"How's everything?" Mills asked. "You've made quite a hole here since
I left. Can I go to work again?"
"Sure," Hollister replied. "This summer will just about clean up the
cedar here. You may as well help it along, if you want to work."
"It isn't a case of wanting to. I've got to," Mills said under his
breath. Already he was at his old trick of absent staring into space,
while his fingers twisted tobacco and paper into a cigarette. "I'd go
crazy loafing. I've been trying that. I've been to Alaska and to
Oregon, and blew most of the stake I made here in riotous living.
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