thunderous roar of a falling redwood grew fainter and fainter as the
forest receded from the bay shore, and at last the whine of the saws
silenced these sounds forever in Sequoia.

At forty John Cardigan was younger than most men at thirty, albeit he
worked fourteen hours a day, slept eight, and consumed the remaining
two at his meals. But through all those fruitful years of toil he had
still found time to dream, and the spell of the redwoods had lost
none of its potency. He was still checker-boarding the forested
townships with his adverse holdings--the key-positions to the timber
in back of beyond which some day should come to his hand. Also he had
competition now: other sawmills dotted the bay shore; other three-
masted schooners carried Humboldt redwood to the world beyond the
bar, over which they were escorted by other and more powerful steam-
tugs. This competition John Cardigan welcomed and enjoyed, however,
for he had been first in Humboldt, and the townsite and a mile of
tidelands fronting on deep water were his; hence each incoming
adventurer merely helped his dream of a city to come true.

At forty-two Cardigan was the first mayor of Sequoia. At forty-four
he was standing on his dock one day, watching his tug kick into her
berth the first square-rigged ship that had ever come to Humboldt Bay
to load a cargo of clear redwood for foreign delivery. She was a big
Bath-built clipper, and her master a lusty down-Easter, a widower
with one daughter who had come with him around the Horn. John
Cardigan saw this girl come up on the quarter-deck and stand by with
a heaving-line in her hand; calmly she fixed her glance upon him, and
as the ship was shunted in closer to the dock, she made the cast to
Cardigan. He caught the light heaving-line, hauled in the heavy
Manila stern-line to which it was attached, and slipped the loop of