Page:Harold Titus--Timber.djvu/9

 Florida moon hung low over the river, flanked, for Luke Taylor and his son John, by a yellow pine and a moss-bearded oak. The night was mild and young John was dressed in summer clothing, but Luke sat drawn into his mink-lined overcoat, as if the outlook from the wide verandah of his winter home were of the bleak north instead of the edge of the tropics. His withered hands lay on the arm of the wicker chair and his cold eyes stared straight before him.

"So you think I owe you that, do you?"

John shifted uneasily and ran a big white hand through his light hair.

"You see, father, if I'm to have an even start with other men of my—sort, it's necessary."

Luke grunted skeptically.

"Of course I could start out now and find a job, go to work for some of my friends who are no better equipped to hold an advantage over me than I am over them, but who've been—who've had fathers who helped them."

"You mean it's work you don't want?" Luke asked, still watching the river.

"Of course not; I'm not afraid of work, but I don't want to put in the best years of my life grubbing when I might be building."

"A flying start—that's what you want, eh?"