Within two weeks Thornton, Mr. Clark, and Donald were back in Massachusetts, and the thread of Eastern life was once more taken up.

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.

"WHAT IS THIS OTHER MACHINE?"