At the close of January the men still received "reg’lar pay," to quote Mason, but the books showed that the manager’s salary was accumulating to his credit. Other accounts indicated that the junior partner was overdrawing. He had his impulses of industry and economy when he tried to balance a considerable delinquency by spending an interval at the mills; but he always annulled the results by a yet deeper plunge, and his only systematic restriction was in deferring to take a house in town. Forrest was thinking of Kingsley while he finished his rounds of the mills. It was at the close of a bleak day; there was an increasing wind; ragged cloud scurried overhead, the forerunner of the black masses driving up in the southwest. Philip was presumably in Victoria. He had not heard from him for a week. "But," he told himself, as he came down the steps from the landing to the walk, "it’s useless to bother the Judge with this side of it, now. It’s as he says, he can’t understand things fully until he is on the ground." He stopped at the branch to Kingsley’s house to speak to the old watchman, who was stumping up from the lower dock. "Well, Mason," he said, "it’s another blow." "Ay, sir." The old sailor swung around to look at the running sea. He knew the ships over the harbor were taking precautions against the growing storm; stretching an extra hawser, dropping a second and third anchor, clearing decks. But there was no vessel at the Freeport wharves; the bark that had sailed that morning left no other receiving. "Keep the slab-fire low, Mason, and have an eye to the boom." "Ay, ay, sir." "And, Mason, go back and put the signal out for the _Success_. Let me know when she’s in sight." "Ay, sir?" The old sailor’s voice took a rising inflection; his unlovely features worked. "Yes," said Forrest, "I’m going over to Seattle for the doctor. Little Si is worse." He turned then, and went up to the gate. Louise heard him on the steps and met him at the door. He followed her silently in to that inner room where little Silas lay. His head was propped high with pillows and the place sounded with his labored breathing. Forrest stood for a moment watching him: the heaving of the breast under the loose white gown; the flutter of the half-closed eyelids; the milky whiteness of the forehead between the crayon-like brows and rings of tumbled hair. The child was very lovable; he had always shown his fondness for him in demonstrative, winning ways; and in the earlier stages of his illness he had called for him, begging to be carried or rocked, and Forrest had devoted late hours to him, sharing the mother’s vigil; ready with the comfort and security of his strong arms. Now, while he looked at the unconscious face, this large-hearted, homeless, home-loving man seemed to feel a small hand on his heart-strings; the touch tightened when the baby coughed.