"'Twon't pay you to do that at the present price of redwood lumber."

"I'm in no hurry. I can wait for better times."

"Well, when better times arrive, you'll find that John Cardigan owns
the only water-front property on this side of the bay where the
water's deep enough to let a ship lie at low tide and load in
safety."

"There is deep water across the bay and plenty of water-front
property for sale. I'll find a mill-site there and tow my logs
across."

"But you've got to dump 'em in the water on this side. Everything
north of Cardigan's mill is tide-flat; he owns all the deep-water
frontage for a mile south of Sequoia, and after that come more tide-
flats. If you dump your logs on these tide-flats, they'll bog down in
the mud, and there isn't water enough at high tide to float 'em off
or let a tug go in an' snake 'em off."

"You're a discouraging sort of person," the Colonel declared
irritably. "I suppose you'll tell me now that I can't log my timber
without permission from Cardigan."

Old Bill spat at another crack; his faded blue eyes twinkled
mischievously. "No, that's where you've got the bulge on John,
Colonel. You can build a logging railroad from the southern fringe of
your timber north and up a ten per cent. grade on the far side of the
Squaw Creek watershed, then west three miles around a spur of low