The Story of Wool

CHAPTER X
A PREDICTION THAT CAME TRUE

Mr. Clark agreed.

Therefore a clear July morning saw the vast herd winding its way up the steep incline of the mountainside. Sandy went on ahead, guiding the flock to the best pasturage and the freshest water-holes. The lambs trotted at their mother's sides or frisked after them with the playfulness of kittens. When a plentiful water supply and rich grass was found Sandy often delayed the upward march a week or more, that the flock might make the most of the lush herbage. When feed was meager there were days of scrambling up rocky stretches, and nights of patrolling the fold. Then more days of climbing would follow. Sometimes a scarcity of water forced them to press on against their will.

They had now reached a high elevation, but the warmth of the July weather rendered the coolness welcome. The sheep gladly sought out the forest shade or, when they were above the timber-line, rested in the shadow of the high rocks. This rough land seemed to be the favorite place for their sports, and Donald and his father were never tired watching them.

A single sheep would mount a boulder, from which vantage ground he would stand looking down at the herd. In a moment several of the flock would rush forward, butt him from the rock, and one of them would take his place, only to be driven down and succeeded by the next victor. The sheep often played this for a long time.

"It is a good game, too," declared Sandy, "for to rush up the side of a high rock like that and not slip back makes them sure-footed."

Another game the flock sometimes played was Follow the Leader, one old ewe marching ahead, followed by a line of sheep that went wherever she led them.

"They play it almost as well as we did at school," said Donald, much amused.

"That is a useful game too," went on Sandy. "By playing it the young lambs learn to follow the others, and do what they do. That is one way they get training to keep in the herd and obey the mind of the leader. It is really more of a lesson than a game. I suspect, though, they are like us—so long as they think it is a game they like to play it. Perhaps, now, if we were to hint to them it was a lesson they might never play it again."

Donald chuckled.

There were many times when it seemed to him that Sandy must be a boy of fourteen instead of a man of forty; yet the next moment the Scotchman would address him with the gravity of a grandfather, and immediately Donald felt very young indeed. A strange mixture of youth and wisdom was Sandy McCulloch!

As the lambs were now old enough to travel with the flock there was no further need for the Mexicans to linger on the range, and they therefore went back over the trail to busy themselves at the home ranch until shearing time. The camp-tender, too, did not now take time to make the difficult journey up into the mountains, but left supplies at a given spot in the lower pastures, or met some of the party half-way and delivered over the provisions. If the rations were left it fell to the lot of one of the campers on the upper range to ride down on the pony and bring back "the grub," as Sandy called it. Once when Mr. Clark went down it was only to find that the supplies had been scented out by a bear and dragged away; in consequence the party on the mountain were forced to get on without bread or fresh provisions until the tender made his next round.

At times it was Donald's turn to make this trip; on other days Sandy or Bernardo went. As there was always the chance of meeting a grizzly or a rattler the journey was not without its perils.

Thus the summer passed.

Then came the fall days, when threatened cold made it necessary to turn the heads of the herd toward the lower hills of the winter range. Downward they wended their way. Flurries of snow caught them unawares and at these blizzards Sandy's face always became grave, for it was in one of these sudden squalls that his father, Old Angus, had perished. Although the days were chilly and the nights still colder, Mr. Clark and Donald kept resolutely with the flock; but when they reached the lowlands and the Scotch herder directed his band of sheep toward the bronzed fields of sage-brush and dried hay lying along the river valley Donald and his father bade good-bye to Bernardo and Sandy and returned to the shelter of the home ranch.

Thornton welcomed them.

There was something new in his manner—a strange, unaccustomed dignity which lent to the man a charm he had never before possessed.

"Thornton did not shuffle toward us and look down as he usually does," observed Donald to his father when they were alone. "He is different, somehow. What is it?"

"I am not sure, son, but I cannot help feeling that Thornton has come to his best self. The best is in all of us. It is not, however, always uppermost. Perhaps it is going to triumph in Thornton."

There unquestionably was a change in the big rough man.

That evening he got out the books and went over all the accounts with Mr. Clark, telling him just what supplies he had ordered; what they had cost; and how much he had paid out in wages. In dealing with financial matters Mr. Clark was on his native heath. He studied the columns of figures critically. The accounts were correct to a cent, and he could readily see that every reasonable economy had been practiced in the management of the ranch.

"You have done well, Thornton," he said after he had finished looking over the bills and papers. "I am greatly obliged to you for your faithful work."

Donald saw a flush of pleasure rise to the man's cheek.

"My work has not always been faithful, Mr. Clark," Thornton declared with sudden determination. "I want to tell you, sir, that I was not setting out to be faithful to you at all. I wanted to get Johnson's place, and then I meant to run Crescent Ranch to please myself. I am going to confess the whole thing; I want to confess it because your confidence in me has made me ashamed of myself. You must have known somehow that I was not running things as they ought to be run, else you would never have come out here. Sandy knew it—so did all the old herders. Yet, save about the permits, you never have spoken a word of reproof, but have gone on trusting me. When you looked me so kindly in the eye and went away leaving me in care of the whole home ranch I somehow felt that you expected me to do the square thing."

His voice faltered.

Donald, who had been an uncomfortable listener, now rose and tried to steal out of the room unnoticed, but Thornton called him back.

"Do not go, lad. You may be owning Crescent Ranch some day, and I want you to hear what I have to say. There is not much more to tell. After you and your father had gone to the range with Sandy I sat down and thought it all over. Here I was, alone! There was no getting away from myself. I reviewed all the plans I had made—how I was going to stock some of my friends at Glen City with provisions and charge it up to Clark & Sons; how I was going to pad the accounts and keep the money—I went over the whole thing, and I felt mean as a cur. It came to me that it was a pretty poor game. Then another plan came into my mind. You were giving me a chance to be decent—why didn't I take it? I did. I have been absolutely honest about running the ranch while you have been gone, Mr. Clark. I can look you and Donald in the eye just as Sandy, José, Bernardo, and the other men do who have been working for your interest all these years."

Mr. Clark put out his hand.

"I am glad you told me this, Thornton," he said quietly, "and I believe you. See, here is a sheet of paper; it is scrawled over with letters and figures of every sort. Turn it over."

Wonderingly the man obeyed. Nothing was written on the other side. It was a blank page.

"You see there is nothing on that side," went on Donald's father. "We can there write what we will. Turn your own page the same way. Let us forget the past. Now for the future! Will you take the position as manager of Crescent Ranch?"

Thornton was aghast.

"I, sir! I? After all that has happened?" he contrived to stammer.

"Why not?"

"I couldn't do it, Mr. Clark. Not one of the men would believe in me. No, I am going to leave this place after the shearing is over, and go somewhere where no one knows me; there I can make a fresh start. And anyway, even if all this had not happened, I am not the man to be manager here. I have neither the confidence of the herders, nor the necessary knowledge about the flocks. But there is a man on Crescent Ranch who knows everything there is to know about sheep-raising—a man honest as the day, and who loves the place as if it was his own—Sandy McCulloch, sir. He is the only man for the position—there never has been any one else. Put him in as manager and you will never regret it."

Donald sprang up.

"Oh, father, do put Sandy in," he cried. "I never thought of Sandy as manager—he seems so young!"

"I have thought of him all along," Thornton continued. "That is why I was so ready with a word against him every chance I got. I have been afraid of him—afraid of his honesty and his goodness. It was not that he would tell tales about me; Sandy is too big-natured a man to do that. He would scorn to use a mean weapon. No, it was just because he was what he was that I feared him."

Mr. Clark was silent.

"You owe it to Old Angus, Sandy's father, to give the lad the place, sir," pleaded Thornton.

"And if I did what is to become of you, Thornton?" asked the owner slowly.

"Oh, I don't know. It does not matter. I will stay here until after the shearing, for it is a busy time and I might be of help. Then I can go and look up something else."

Donald watched his father as he bent forward and stirred the fire. The well-known little wrinkle had come in his forehead and the boy knew that his mind was busy.

"Thornton," said Mr. Clark at last, "have you relatives here in the West?"

"No, sir."

"Are you alone in the world?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to go East with Donald and me when we return to Boston after the shearing?"

Thornton regarded him blankly.

"I need another man in my office," explained the wool-broker. "You have proved yourself a good accountant. Furthermore it would be greatly to our advantage to have a reliable helper who is familiar with ranch affairs and knows Sandy, the new manager. Then if I wanted some one, as I often have in the past, to make the trip out here and attend to business for me, you could do it."

Thornton got up and walked to the window. They could not see his face. He stood with his back toward them, looking out into the darkness.

Then suddenly he wheeled and came to Mr. Clark's side.

"You took me by surprise, sir," he said unsteadily. "I cannot thank you. I know well it is another chance you are giving me. I will take it and go East, and there I will prove to you that in the future you can trust me."

"You have proved that already, Thornton," replied Donald's father, as he smiled up into the face of the ranchman and gripped his coarse brown hand.

After Thornton had left the room Donald and his father were silent.

At last the boy said:

"You were right about Thornton, father. He was honest with you, just as you predicted he would be."

"I believe if you expect the best of a man you will usually get it," replied Mr. Clark. "There is something big and honest in each of us which springs to meet the big and honest in somebody else. Appeal to that best side of people and it will respond. I have seldom known the rule to fail. Now just one thing more. Do not forget that this man has given us his confidence. It is a thing we must hold sacred. Never repeat what you have heard. And above all remember that Thornton deserves both admiration and respect, for it is only great natures that admit they have done wrong."

Donald nodded.

"I like Thornton better than I did before father," he said softly.

"So do I, son!"

CHAPTER XI
THE SHEARING

"I'm no pretending I ain't pleased," replied Sandy, beaming on the Mexican, "but dinna think I'm proud. If I do my work well pride may come; still, it's no time for it now."

"Of course you'll do it well—how could you help it! It is in your blood," José declared. "You have your father's own knack about the flocks. It is the real love for herding—a kind of part of you, it seems."

"I get it from generations of shepherds who have tended the black-faced sheep among the broom and the heather on the hills of Scotland, I doubt not," answered Sandy.

"Well, it stands you in good stead, however you come by it," José called over his shoulder as he moved off toward the pen where his sheep were.

"I hope it may stand me in good stead in the future, Don," Sandy said gravely to the boy beside him.

"I am sure it will. Isn't it splendid, Sandy, to see the herders all so pleased and ready to follow out your orders? I think nothing could have made me happier than to have you put in to manage the ranch."

"I'm verra, verra glad myself, laddie. It is a thing I never dared hope for, and I would not have wanted to take the job from Thornton. But since he is going East and is to be well provided for it makes everything right."

"And yet you telegraphed my father to come here, Sandy."

It was the first time the telegram had ever been mentioned between them.

Sandy hesitated.

"I felt your father should come out here and cast his eye over the place and, loving the ranch so well, I took it on myself to send for him. But I told no tales. It was his task to find the flaws if there were any. I am no certain what he found and I dinna want to hear. I simply know the snarls have straightened themselves out, and that Crescent Ranch is now going on better than it has in years. The men have all been glad for a glimpse of your father. It is no so much fun working for somebody you have never seen. It has been a great thing to have him come. And as for the herds—was there ever a finer sight?"

He swept his hand around dramatically.

On every side, in numbered pens, sheep were waiting to be sheared.

It was the first time Donald had seen the stock all together and it was indeed, as Sandy had declared, a fine sight.

The herders were not a little proud of the thickness of the fleeces of their respective flocks and much good-natured banter passed between them.

"Is it on corn-husks you have been feeding your ewes that they look so sickly?" called one Mexican to another.

The swarthy herdsman grinned.

"Mind your own band, Manuel Torquello! You haven't a fleece in your fold that will tip the scales at ten pounds."

Both men laughed and passed on.

"How much ought fleeces to weigh, Sandy?" asked Donald.

"From six to ten pounds—as the clip runs. Some are heavier, some lighter. It depends on the quality of the wool, and the amount of oil in it."

"I don't see why the shearing is not done at the ranch instead of driving all the sheep down here to Glen City," panted Donald as he tried to keep up with Sandy's strides.

"Why, you see, lad, it is much more convenient to have the wool clipped near the railroad. In that way we do away with carting it. The fleeces can be sheared, packed, weighed, and put right on the cars. Beside that, we get the power to run our plant from Glen City. Our shearing is done by electricity and not by hand, you know."

"It is mean of me to make you answer questions, Sandy, when you are in such a hurry," Donald ventured hesitatingly, "but I wish you had time to explain to me about the shearing."

Sandy was in a hurry—there was no denying that!

He and Donald had driven down from Crescent that morning, and were to meet Thornton and Mr. Clark as soon as possible at the shed where the shearing was to be done. Nevertheless, in spite of his haste, Sandy tried as he went along to answer Donald's question.

"There was a time long ago when all shearing was done by hand. In the spring bands of traveling shearers came from ranch to ranch and sheared the flocks for so much a day. Sometimes these men were Mexicans, sometimes Indians. As they made a business of shearing and nothing else they became verra skilful with the shears and could turn off many fleeces a day. It is an art to shear a sheep. Many a try must you have before you can do it. The smaller ranches still shear by hand, for it does not pay to run a power plant unless you have large flocks."

"I suppose a power plant does the work quicker," suggested Donald.

"No, I think good shearers can clip the fleeces almost as fast. The chief advantage in machinery is that it takes the wool off closer, and you do not need such skilled men to do the work. You just have to remember not to shear flocks this way in summer, for the wool would be cut so close that your sheep would be wild with flies and sunburn before their coats grew long enough to protect them."

They had now reached the plant, where they were to meet Donald's father and Thornton; they mounted the steps of the low building and went in. Immediately they were greeted by the whirr of wheels, the chatter of many herders, and the blatting of sheep.

Mr. Clark came forward.

"Well, Don," he said, "this is quite a sight, isn't it?"

"I should say it was! I had no idea shearing was done this way. It is just the way they clip horses or cut my hair."

His father smiled.

"Yes, it is done on the same principle. Let us watch this man here. He is just starting. I thought he would tie the feet of the sheep first, but he does not seem to be doing it; instead he is turning it up on its rump, and holding it with his left arm so its hoofs cannot touch the floor. They say sheep never kick or struggle if their feet are raised from the ground. Now he is starting with the shears. See! He is opening the wool by a cut down the right shoulder. How neatly the fleece comes off—almost in one piece, as if it was a jacket!"

"I guess that was a smooth-skinned sheep," laughed Donald, "or the shearer never could have done it so quickly."

The man who was shearing overheard him.

"It was a smooth-skinned one," he called. "Still, even the wrinkly Merinos loose their coats pretty fast. Watch and see. I have one right here."

Donald watched.

It was fascinating.

"I'd like to try it," he said glancing up at his father.

"I guess you'd have trouble!"

"I wouldn't mind the trouble if I wasn't afraid of cutting the sheep," replied the boy.

"Suppose you leave it until you come West the next time," called Sandy, who chanced to be passing and heard his words. "You mustn't do everything this trip, or you'll have nothing to look forward to when you come again."

"Perhaps it's as well for the sheep!" grunted the Mexican who was shearing.

"I shouldn't wonder!" answered Donald good-naturedly.

But what a charm there was in that crisp snip of the shears!

At last, however, Donald and his father moved on to where crews of men were busy at smooth board tables.

"What are they doing here?" Donald asked.

"They are tying fleeces," explained Mr. Clark.

"But don't they wash that dirty wool before they tie it up?" questioned the boy, astounded.

Sandy, who had joined them for the moment, laughed at Donald's disgust.

"You'd have us washing and ironing it, perhaps," he chuckled. "No, no! We used to wash all fleeces before they were clipped, 'tis true. But your father says that now buyers care little for them washed. Folks will pay about as much for good wool unwashed as washed. It is a lucky thing for us, because it saves us much trouble; more than that, it is better for the sheep not to be put through the water. The thick fleece stays damp for many days, and unless the creature is range-bred and therefore used to all weather it suffers a shock, and is liable to be sick. You can't shear a flock until about two weeks after washing, for not only must the fleece dry, but new yolk must form in the wool. If the wool is too dry the shears will not slip through it."

"But by the end of two weeks I should think the sheep would have his fleece all dirty again," objected Donald.

"That is just the point—he does."

"Why couldn't you wash the fleece after it is taken off?"

"We could. It is done sometimes. Your father can tell you that he sends off wool and has it scoured before selling it if a buyer wishes it done."

Mr. Clark nodded.

"But here," continued Sandy, "we wash no fleeces. We do take care, though, not to tie very dirty pieces in with the fleece. My father always insisted on the tying being honest. Only wool went into the bundle. You and your father must watch and see how quickly they do the tying."

As Sandy flitted away again Mr. Clark and Donald made their way to the long table where the boys who went about among the shearers and collected the fleeces were tossing them down.

Each fleece was spread out on the table, the belly and loose ends folded deftly inside; then the whole was fastened into a square bundle.

"It would seem as if any twine would do to tie a package like that, wouldn't it, Don?" said Mr. Clark.

"Of course."

"It is not so," went on his father. "There is nothing about which a wool-grower has to be more careful than about the twine with which he ties his fleeces. You must always avoid using a fiber twine—by that I mean hemp, or any variety having fibers which will break off in the wool. These fibers or particles get stuck in the fleeces, and later when the wool reaches the mill, the mill people do not like it. Either the bits of hemp have to be picked out—an endless job—or the wool is sent back. You can see that they could not dye wool with all these little particles in it. The hemp would take a different color from the rest of the wool, and would result in specked goods."

"What kind of twine do we use, father?" asked Donald, much interested.

"We use a paper twine. Other growers often tie their fleeces with glazed twine."

"I never should have thought twine could make so much trouble," mused the lad.

"You would think of it, though, if you had once been set to picking fiber out of wool as I was when I was a boy!" interrupted Sandy, as he darted past.

Donald and his father followed at the heels of the young Scotchman as he went through into another shed where the wool was being packed. Here lay great piles of tied fleeces and heaps of loose wool. About the shed stood wooden frames from the center of which swung burlap sacks used for packing the clip.

"Why do the men first stuff the two lower corners of the bags with wool and tie them?" the boy asked after he had looked on a few moments.

"We call those corners ears," replied his father. "Sacks of wool are not only awkward to handle but very heavy, and it is a help to have the corners, firmly tied, to take hold of."

Donald nodded. He was too busy looking about him to reply.

The men packing the wool took one of the burlap bags, fitted its mouth over a wooden hoop just the right size, and fastened the bag inside the frame in such a way that it hung its full length and just cleared the floor.

Then the packer began tossing wool into the sack.

When it was about half-full he jumped into it and tramped the fleeces down solidly.

Afterward he climbed out and another man wheeled a truck under the frame; then the packer freed the sack, and when it dropped it was promptly sewed up and wheeled to the scales, where it was weighed. Its weight was entered in a book by a man who kept the tally and the same figures were also roughly painted on the bag.

"And there's the end of it!" exclaimed Sandy, who came up and stood beside Donald as Mr. Clark walked away. "Now you know the wool business, Don!"

Donald shook his head.

"It will take me longer than this to know the wool business," he answered. "I mean when we get home, though, to get father to tell me the rest of it—about the selling and manufacturing."

"That part would be new to me too," said Sandy. "Here we have no selling; we do not even auction off our own wool, as you see, for our clip goes direct to our owners. But when a ranch sells its wool to other buyers the manager has lively days, I can tell you. Both Anchor and Star Ranch sell to brokers. They send out word that they have wool for sale and the Eastern buyers swarm here like flies. They bid on the wool—bid right against each other, even though sometimes they are the best of friends. The men get an idea of the price they want to pay by looking over the fleeces and seeing how they will grade up. Above everything else a wool buyer must have a trained eye, quick to detect the quality of the shipment offered for sale. That is what decides him on how high he will bid. After the buyers have got up to what they consider a reasonable price they stop bidding. The wool-grower must then accept the highest bid."

"But he may not be satisfied with the price," put in Donald.

"It makes no difference. They are supposed to make a fair bid on the clip."

"What if he shouldn't take it?"

"Why, then all the brokers who have bid on the wool leave town pledging each other not to bid on that particular shipment of wool for two weeks," replied Sandy.

"Why?" inquired Donald, opening his eyes.

"It is to protect the brokers. You can see the justice in it when you think a moment. These Easterners are busy men and they come a long way. They can't take a trip to some far-off ranch only to find the wool-grower has decided not to sell his fleeces; or that he will not sell them below a certain price. If a man really does not want to sell he must not get the buyers there; if he does he must be content with what they offer. Your father would have to buy his wool this way if he did not own Crescent Ranch; and even so he may send men to buy wool at outside ranches too, for all I know."

"I am going to ask him," Donald said.

"Do not ask him now. He might not want to talk his business over here. Wait until you get back East."

"I hate to think of going back home, Sandy," the boy declared, regret in his tones.

"All good things must come to an end, lad. You will go back, finish your schooling, go to college as your father wishes, and then, a gentleman grown, you will be choosing some work."

Sandy studied Donald keenly.

"Yes, I suppose that is just what I shall do. I am thinking some of studying law, Sandy."

The Scotchman's face fell, but Donald did not notice it.

"I've always thought I should like to stand up in court and make a great plea—a speech that would sweep people off their feet," went on Donald. "Or," he added reflectively, "I may be a judge."

Sandy scratched his head.

"There's a good bit step between studying law and being a judge," said he.

"Perhaps after all I may decide not to be a judge," ruminated Donald. "I have always wanted to manage a baseball team and I may think I would rather do that."

"Go on with you!" Sandy cried. "Next you'll be having yourself a lighthouse-keeper." Then he added wistfully: "But no matter what you are, laddie, dinna forget Crescent Ranch."

CHAPTER XII
HOME TO THE EAST

Donald did not return to school, since it was now so near June that to enter the class seemed useless; instead it was decided that he should have a tutor through the summer to help him make up the work he had lost, and thereby enable him to go on with his class in the fall. This tutor, however, had to be found, and until he was the boy was free from duties of every sort. It gave him a strange sense of loneliness to be with nothing to do. All his friends were in school—there was no one to play with.

"I think I'll go in to the office with you, father," he suggested one morning. "It is stupid staying round in Cambridge when all the fellows are slaving for their exams. I have been so busy while out on the ranch that now I do not know what to do with myself."

Mr. Clark agreed to the proposal cordially.

In consequence it came about that Donald joined Thornton at the large Boston warehouse. The store was not new to the boy, for he had often been there with his father; but to Thornton this part of the wool business was as novel as the first glimpses of ranching had been to Donald. The high building of yellow brick with floor after floor of hurrying men, the offices noisy with the hum of typewriters, the ring of telephones, the comings and goings of messenger-boys and mail-carriers—all this little universe of rush and confusion was an untried world to Thornton. Its strangeness dazed him.

Mr. Clark promptly placed him in the accounting department, but to his surprise Thornton foundered there helplessly. It was one thing to keep books amid the quiet and leisure of Crescent Ranch, and quite another to struggle with columns of figures in the riot of modern business surroundings. At the end of three days the Westerner looked gray and tired, and had accomplished nothing.

"I don't know what I am going to do with him, Don," announced Mr. Clark, much troubled. "I have brought him here from Idaho, and of course I am bound to look out for him; yet there does not seem to be an earthly thing he can do. My plan was to set him to keeping books in Cook's place, and send Cook out to Crescent Ranch to help Sandy. Sandy, you know, cannot handle accounts. Poor lad—he had little opportunity for schooling in his youth, and the financial side of his work is his one weak spot. He realizes this himself, and it was only on the condition that I send him an assistant that he would undertake the management of the ranch at all. I expected, as I say, that Cook would go; evidently, however, Thornton is not going to be able to fill his place. What shall I do with Thornton, Don? We must find a niche for him somehow."

Donald reflected a moment.

"Had you thought, father, of trying him up-stairs?" he asked.

"No, I hadn't. We need a foreman up there, but I had not considered Thornton for the position. That is a happy inspiration, son. We will give him a try. He may make good yet."

Accordingly Thornton was sent to the upper floors of the warehouse, where the wool was stored. Here were great piles of loose wool reaching from floor to ceiling. Some piles contained only the finest wool; other piles that which was next-best in quality; still other piles were made up of the coarser varieties. There were piles of scoured wool, piles of South American and Australian wool—wool, wool, wool everywhere!

With keen interest Thornton looked about him. He wandered from one vast pyramid of fleeces to another, catching up handfuls of the different varieties and examining them. Then he walked to where the men were busy opening the first spring shipments of wool from Crescent Ranch. The wool was emptied from the sacks onto the floor in great heaps, and crews of men—skilled in judging the fiber—set to work to sort it, separating the different qualities into piles. Donald, who was looking on, saw a smile pass over Thornton's face—the first smile that had brightened it in days. Then, almost instinctively, the ranchman rolled up his sleeves and began to grade wool with the other men. He worked rapidly, for he was thoroughly familiar with what he was doing.

The next day when Donald went up-stairs he found Thornton directing a lot of green hands who were packing the sorted, or graded wool, in bags. Later in the week it chanced that the man who weighed the wool fell ill and the Westerner took his place at the scales, seeing that the sacks of wool were correctly weighed and recorded, that they were sewed up strongly, and marked for shipping.

Gradually the men, recognizing Thornton's ability, began to defer to his judgment. The month was not out before Clark & Sons began to wonder what they had done before Thornton came. So familiar did he make himself with the stock that even Mr. Clark sent for and consulted him about orders and shipments.

"He is proving himself a thoroughly useful man, Don," declared Mr. Clark rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "His knowledge of the ranch and of the wool itself is invaluable. It is just a case of putting the peg into the proper hole. Thornton was like a fish out of water here in the office. Now he is in his element. I shall make him foreman of the shipping department—a position just suited to him, and which he will fill well."

"I am so glad he has made good, father," said Donald. "Now, what are you going to do about an assistant for Sandy? That is the next question to settle, I suppose. Have you found any one?"

"Not yet. I have had a great deal to do, Don. I shall, however, look up some one as soon as possible. In the meantime, before you start in with your tutor, and Thornton gets so rushed that he cannot be spared, I want to take you both to Mortonstown to visit the Monitor Mills. Thornton has never seen the manufacture of woolen goods and will be the more intelligent for doing so; as for you, I am anxious to have you complete the story of wool-growing which you began at Crescent Ranch. To stop short of visiting a mill now would be like reading the opening chapters of a book and never finishing the volume."

"I do want to know the rest of the story very much, father," Donald replied. "I told Sandy when I was out West that I hoped you would some time take me to a mill. Since we got home, though, you have been so busy that I did not like to ask you."

"That was thoughtful of you, son. Ordinarily I should have preferred to wait; it chances, however, that something has come up which obliges me to see the Monitor people right away. So I shall go out there to-morrow, taking Thornton with me, and if you like you may go also."

"Of course I'd like!" exclaimed Donald eagerly.

The next day proved to be so gloriously clear that instead of making the trip to Mortonstown by train Mr. Clark decided to run out in his touring-car. It was not a long ride—something over twenty-five miles—but to Thornton, unaccustomed to the luxury of a modern automobile, the journey was one of unalloyed delight.

"It is like riding in a sitting-room on wheels, isn't it?" he murmured with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Some day you will be having a car of your own, Thornton," Mr. Clark said, smiling.

"And riding to Idaho in it," put in Donald.

"Well, it is about the smoothest way I ever traveled!" declared the ranchman. "When we came East I thought that sleeping-car close to a moving palace; but this thing has the train beaten to a frazzle. You see I am used to jolting over rough roads in springless wagons, and it is something new to me to go along as if I was sliding down-hill on a velvet sofa-cushion."

Donald and his father heartily enjoyed the big fellow's pleasure.

As for Thornton, when the car came to a stop before the puffing Mortonstown mills it was with regret that he dragged himself from the seat. Still, he had the ride home in anticipation—that was a comforting thought.

Once within the mills, however, even the memory of the homeward journey faded from his mind. The vast buildings throbbing with the beat of engines, the click and whirr of bobbins, and the clash of machinery, blotted out everything else.

When they entered Mr. Munger, the manager, who was expecting them, came forward cordially.

"We were glad to hear by telephone that you were coming out to-day, Mr. Clark," he said. "Mr. Bailey, the president, is waiting to see you in his private office."

"Very well," answered Mr. Clark. "Now while I am talking with him I should greatly appreciate it if my son Donald, and my foreman, Mr. Thornton, might go over the works. They have never visited a woolen mill."

"We shall be delighted to show them about," answered Mr. Munger. "I will send some one with them."

Turning, the manager beckoned to a young man who was busy at a desk.

"This gentleman," continued he, "has been with us many years and will be able to answer all your questions. Take these visitors through the factory, Mac, show them everything, and bring them back here. Now if you are ready, Mr. Clark, we will join Mr. Bailey."

Donald and Thornton moved away, following their guide into a building just across the yard. Here wool was being sorted by staplers who were expert in judging its quality. They worked at frames covered with wire netting which allowed the dirt to sift through, and as they handled the material and tossed it into the proper piles they picked out straws, burrs, and other waste caught in it.

"This sorting must be carefully done," explained the bookkeeper who was showing them about, "or the wool will not take the dye well. Much depends on having the fleeces clear of waste. We also are very particular about the sorting. The finest wool, as you know, comes from the sides of the sheep; that clipped from the head and legs is coarse and stiff. All this we separate before we send the fleeces on to be scoured. In this next room you will see how the material is washed."

They passed on and next saw how steam was blown through the wool, not only removing the dirt but softening the fibers. The fleeces were also washed in many great bowls of soap and water.

"Here again we must exercise great care that the water is clean and the soap pure, or the wool will not dye perfectly. We use a kind of potash soap which we are sure is of the best make. Another thing which renders the scouring of wool difficult is that we must not curl or snarl it while we are washing it."

"I don't see how you can help it," Donald said.

"We can if we take proper care," returned the bookkeeper.

"And what is this other machine for?" inquired Thornton, pointing to one at the end of the room.