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 good intentions to become active at once lasted until he reached Detroit. There he dawdled a week with his friend Dick Mason and other pals, and it was not until one afternoon when he telephoned McLellan, his father's attorney, that he was stirred to action again.

"Mr. McLellan, this is John Taylor—Yes—Oh, several days—On my way to White's camp to look after logs that are there—Father gave them to me, and I thought—"

"Gave them to you!" came a rather startled voice. "What for?"

"A dowry!"

"You mean, you're going to try to do something with them?"

"Of course," vaguely alarmed by the tone. "I thought perhaps you had some suggestions."

A pause.

"By George. I haven't a suggestion to my back, John! You know the situation of course."

"Why—yes," hesitantly.

"All right. Help you out if I can; good-bye."

The situation? McLellan's voice had been rather dumbfounded. What situation? And his father's warning to withhold his thanks until he saw the logs—Rowe's smile when Luke first proposed the gift.

He did not like it; there was something here which alarmed him.