His habits were simple.

He shared camp life with his gangs.
The only visible signs of wealth consisted of a big, shimmering diamond stone of ice and fire that glittered and burned on one of his fingers, and the dainty, beautiful thoroughbred mare he rode between camps and across the country on business.
No man of McLean's gangs could honestly say that he ever had been overdriven or underpaid.

The Boss never had exacted any deference from his men, yet so intense was his personality that no man of them ever had attempted a familiarity.

They all knew him to be a thorough gentleman, and that in the great timber city several millions stood to his credit.
He was the only son of that McLean who had sent out the finest ships ever built in Scotland.

That his son should carry on this business after the father's death had been his ambition.