filling, he had the pipes from the dredger run out to the Sawdust Pile
and covered the unsightly spot with six feet of rich river-silt up to
the level of the piling.

"And now," said Hector McKaye to Andrew Daney, his general manager,
"when that settles, we'll run a light track out here and use the
Sawdust Pile for a drying-yard."

The silt settled and dried, and almost immediately thereafter a
squatter took possession of the Sawdust Pile. Across the neck of the
little promontory, and in line with extreme high-water mark on each
side, he erected a driftwood fence; he had a canvas, driftwood, and
corrugated-iron shanty well under way when Hector McKaye appeared on
the scene and bade him a pleasant good-morning.

The squatter turned from his labor and bent upon his visitor an
appraising glance. His scrutiny appearing to satisfy him as to the
identity of the latter, he straightened suddenly and touched his
forelock in a queer little salute that left one in doubt whether he
was a former member of the United States navy or the British
mercantile marine. He was a threadbare little man, possibly sixty
years old, with a russet, kindly countenance and mild blue eyes; apart
from his salute, there was about him an intangible hint of the sea. He
was being assisted in his labors by a ragamuffin girl of perhaps
thirteen years.

"Thinking of settling in Port Agnew?" The Laird inquired.

"Why, yes, sir. I thought this might make a good safe anchorage for
Nan and me. My name is Caleb Brent. You're Mr. McKaye, aren't you?"