Near the centre of the tunnel-like trail, where the shadows deepened, Donald stopped short with every sense alert. Without knowing why, he suddenly felt a quick sense of danger. A dark form rose in front of them and slunk into the woods.
In passing the spot where the Breed had disappeared, Donald had an uncanny feeling that the burning eyes of Connie’s devoted guardian were fixed on him and he felt a crinkly chill creep up his spine. It was with a feeling of relief that they emerged from the obscurity of the timber and caught the friendly gleam of light from their cabin window on the lake-shore far below.
The following day their work brought Donald and his companions to the top of the falls near Connie’s fairy nest. The melting snows from above had swelled the water until it filled the narrow gorge to the brim.
As Donald viewed the thundering river he was impressed by the potential power in the mighty surge of water that flung itself in a cascade of foam to the rocks below. “Good place for a dam!” he shouted to Gillis, as he pointed to the narrow canyon and then to the slanting walls that formed a natural basin.
That night, while Andy pursued his studies on flowers, Donald covered several sheets of notepaper with drawings and figures. He became so deeply engrossed in his work that he sat up long after the others had gone to bed. At breakfast he placed the result of his night’s work near Gillis’s plate. “Jack, I believe we could put in an electric mill that would be successful,” he said earnestly.
Gillis studied the papers carefully, then passed them to Douglas. “Might be done,” he said non-committally. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout electricity; do you?”
“I’ve had a little experience,” admitted Donald modestly.
Douglas, who had been poring over the drawings, spoke emphatically. “I’ll bet Dad would be interested in this. I’ve heard him say that all mills would be electrically driven sometime. He’s up-to-date—always willing to listen to new ideas.”
“But old ‘Moss-back’ ain’t,” growled Gillis.
“One of the office men by name of Renwick. He’s one of them narrow-’tween-the-eyes, psalm-singin’ old has-beens that sez ‘tut tut’ every time he hears a logger say ‘damn.’ His health is poor, so they’re goin’ to send him up here to take charge of this mill. Thanks be, I’m goin’ to have charge in the woods, so I won’t have nothin’ to do with him.”