"An speakin' of I. W. W.'s—them Germans is slick some ways, an' blamed fools in another. With the I. W. W.'s. threatenin' the timber interests, these here Germans, that owns more mills an' standin' timber than any one else, is eggin' 'em on an' slippin' 'em money to keep 'em goin'. The I. W. W.'s., don't know that—an' I wouldn't neither except fer a lucky accident, an' I cashed in on it, too." The man paused and grinned knowingly. "In Duluth, it was, we pulled off a meetin' right under the nose of the police, an' not one of 'em in the hall. Called it a Socialist meetin', an' word was passed that they was a feller name of Mueller, from Germany, a student that was wised up to every wrinkle from blowin' up dams to wipin' out the Government. He come with greetin's from the 'brothers acrost the sea,' he said, an' what was more to the point, he brung along a nice fat package of cash money which he claimed had be'n raised by subscription fer to help the cause over here. I listened an' kep' a studyin' about where I'd saw this here Mueller before, but it didn't stand to reason I had, an' him just over from Germany. But they was somethin' about him made me sure I know'd him. He was dressed cheap an' woreglasses half an inch thick, an' they hadn't no barber be'n into his hair fer quite a spell; he'd needed a shave fer about three weeks, too, an' he looked like a reg'lar b'ilin' out wouldn't of hurt him none. Anyways, before the meetin' was over, I'd spotted him, so 'long about midnight, after the meetin' had be'n over about an hour I loafs down to the hotel. It was a cheap dump, a hang-out fer lumberjacks an' lake sailors, an' I know'd the clerk an' didn't have no trouble gittin' to his room.
"'Hello, von Kuhlmann,' I says, when he opens the door, an' with a wild look up an' down the hall to see if any one had heard, he reaches out an' yanks me in. Tried to bluff it out first, but it wasn't no use." Slue Foot grinned: "I come out in about a half an hour with five hundred dollars in my jeans. These here 'brothers from acrost the sea' is sure some donaters when you git 'em where you want 'em—'course this here student business was all bunk. But, what I ain't never be'n able to git onto is, what in thunder does the Syndicate want to be slippin' the I. W. W. money fer?"
"Are you an I. W. W.?" Connie shot the question directly.
Slue Foot hesitated a moment and then answeredevasively. "Git me right, kid, I'm anything that's agin' capital—an' I'm anything that's agin' the Government. First and foremostly, I'm fer Magee. No man kin make money by workin'. I've got money, an' I'm a-goin' to git more—an' I don't care how it's come by. I'm a wolf, an' I'll howl while the rabbit squeals! I'm a bird of prey! I'm a Government all my own! All Governments is birds of prey, an' beasts of prey. What do you see on their money, an' their seals, an' their flags—doves, an' rabbits, an' little fawns? No, it's eagles, an' bears, an' lions—beasts that rips, an' tears, an' crushes, an' kills!
"You're lucky to git to throw in with a man like me—to git started out right when yer young. If you wasn't smart, I wouldn't fool with ye, but I'll git mine, an' you'll git yourn—an' some day, von Kuhlmann's kind of let it slip, they's somethin' big comin' off. I don't know what he's drivin' at, but it's somethin' he's all-fired sure is a-goin' to happen—an' he's kind of hinted that when it comes he kin use a few like me to good advantage."
"What kind of a thing's coming off?"
"I jest told ye I don't know—mebbe the Syndicate's goin' to grab off all the timber they is, ormebbe it's figgerin' on grabbin' the hull Government, or the State—but whatever it is, he kin count on me bein' in on it—if he pays enough—an' by the time he pays it, I'd ort to know enough about the game so's I kin flop over to the other side an' sell him out. It's the ones that plays both ends from the middle that gits theirn—brains makes the money—not hands."
Slue Foot glanced out the window and turned tothe boy. "Here comes Saginaw. When he gits here I'll growl an' you sass. Remember to keep your ears open an' find out when Hurley's goin' to break out the rollways, an' where he's goin' to deliver the logs. I've tended to the brandin'—if they's anything more I'll let ye know." Slue Foot paused and scowled darkly: "An' don't try to double-cross me! They ain't nothin' I've told ye that ye could prove anyhow. An' even if ye could, it's just as you said, this outfit won't pay ye as much as what you'll git out of the deal by playin' square with me."
The door opened and Saginaw Ed entered, tointerrupt a perfect torrent of abuse from Slue Foot, and a rapid fire of recrimination from the boy. Presently the boss of Camp Two departed, threatening to have Connie fired for incompetence, as soon as he could get in a word with Hurley.
SLUE FOOT TURNED. "THINK Y'RE AWFUL SMART, DON'T YE?"
On the tote road at the edge of the clearing, Slue Foot turned and gazed at the little office. And as he gazed an evil smile twisted his lips: "Think yer awful smart, don't ye? Well, yer in on the scheme—'cause I need ye in. An' I'll use ye fer all there is in ye—but when cashin'-in time comes, yer goin' to be left whistlin' fer yourn—er my name ain't Slue Foot Magee!" Then the smile slowly faded from his face, and removing his cap, he thoughtfully scratched his head. "Only trouble is, heissmart—an' where'll I git off at, if it turns out he's toodoggonesmart?"
SAGINAW EDlistened as Connie detailed at length all that Slue Foot had told him. When the boy finished, the woodsman removed his pipe and regarded him thoughtfully: "Takin' it off an' on, I've know'd some consider'ble ornery folks in my time, but I never run acrost none that was as plumb crooked as this here specimen. Why, along side of him a corkscrew is straight as a stretched fiddle gut. He ain't square with no one. But, a man like him can't only go so far—his rope is short, an' when he comes to the end of it, they ain't a-goin' to be no knot fer to hang holt of. A man that's double-crossed folks like he has ain't got no right to expect to git away with it. If they don't no one else git him, the law will."
"Yes," answered the boy, "and we've got enough on him so that when the law gets throughwith him he's not going to have much time left for any more crookedness."
"How d'you figger on workin' it?" asked Saginaw.
Connie laughed: "I haven't had time to dope it out yet, but there's no use starting anything 'til just before the drive. Slue Foot's crowding 'em up there in Camp Two, putting every last log he can get onto the landings—he said he'd have close to three million feet branded with his own paint."
"Expects Hurley's goin' to let Long Leaf boss the drive agin, I s'pose an' the Syndicate crew do the sortin'!"
"I guess that's what's he's counting on," answered the boy. "Hurley will tend to that part. And now we know his scheme, the logs are safe—what we want is evidence. When we get him we want to get him right."
Saginaw Ed rose to go. "It's up to you, son, to figger out the best way. Whatever you say goes. Take yer time an' figger it out good—'cause you want to remember that the Syndicate owes ye some thirty-odd thousand dollars they stoled off ye last year, an'——"
"Thirty-odd thousand?"
"Sure—ye stood to clean up twenty thousan', didn't ye? Instead of which ye lost fourteen thousan'—that's thirty-four thousan', ain't it? An' here's somethin' fer to remember when yer dealin' with the Syndicate: Never law 'em if you can git out of it. They've got the money—an' you ain't got no square deal. Git the dope on 'em, an' then settle out o' court, with old Heinie Metzger."
When Saginaw had gone, Connie sat for hours at his desk thinking up plans of action, discarding them, revising them, covering whole sheets of paper with pencilled figures.
When, at last, he answered the supper call and crossed the clearing to the cook's camp, a peculiar smile twitched the corners of his lips.
"I've got to go up the road a piece an' figger on a couple of new skidways," said Saginaw, when the four who bunked in the office arose from the table. "It's good an' moonlight, an' I kin git the swampers started on 'em first thing in the morning."
"I'll go with you," decided the boy, "I've been cooped up all the afternoon, and I'll be glad of the chance to stretch my legs."
Leaving Hurley and Lon Camden, the twostruck off up one of the broad, iced log roads that reached into the timber like long fingers clutching at the very heart of the forest. The task of locating the skidways was soon finished and Saginaw seated himself on a log and produced pipe and tobacco. "Well, son," he said, "what's the game? I watched ye whilst we was eatin', an' I seen ye'd got it figgered out."
After a moment of silence, Connie asked abruptly: "How am I going to manage to get away for a week or ten days?"
"Git away!" exclaimed Saginaw. "You mean leave camp?"
The boy nodded: "Yes, I've got to go." He seated himself astride the log and talked for an hour, while Saginaw, his pipe forgotten, listened. When the boy finished Saginaw sat in silence, the dead pipe clenched between his teeth.
"Well, what do you think of it?"
The other removed the pipe, and spat deliberately into the snow. "Think of it?" he replied, "I never was much hand fer thinkin'—an' them big figgers you're into has got me woozy headed. Personal an' private, I'm tellin' ye right out, I don't think it'll work. It sounds good the way youspoke it, but—why, doggone it, that would be outfiggerin' theSyndicate!It would be lettin' 'em beat theirself at their own game! It can't be did! They ain't no one kin do it. It ain't on."
"What's the matter with it?" asked the boy.
"Matter with it! I can't find nothin' the matter with it—That's why it won't work!"
Connie laughed: "We'll make it work! All you've got to remember is that if any stranger comes into the camp asking for Hurley, you steer him up against Slue Foot. This von Kuhlmann himself will probably come, and if he does it will be all right—he knows Slue Foot by sight. The only thing that's bothering me is how am I going to ask Hurley for a week or ten days off? Frenchy's going in tomorrow, and I've got to go with him."
Saginaw Ed slapped his mittened hand against his leg: "I've got it," he exclaimed. "There was three new hands come in today—good whitewater men fer the drive. One of 'em's Quick-water Quinn. I've worked with him off an' on fer it's goin' on fifteen year. He'll do anything fer me, account of a little deal onct, which he believed I saved his life. I'll slip over to the men's camp an' write a letter to you. Then later, when we're allin the office, Quick-water, he'll fetch it over an' ask if you're here, an' give it to ye. Then ye read it, and take on like you've got to go right away fer a week er so. You don't need to make any explainin'—jest stick to it you've got to go. Hurley'll prob'ly rave round an' tell ye ye can't, an' bawl ye out, an' raise a rookus generally, but jest stick to it. If it gits to where ye have to, jest tell him you quit. That'll bring him 'round. He sets a lot of store by you, an' he'll let ye go if ye make him."
And so it happened that just as the four were turning in that night, a lumberjack pushed open the door. "Is they any one here name o' C. Morgan?" he asked.
Connie stepped forward, and the man thrust a letter into his hand: "Brung it in with me from the postoffice. They told me over to the men's camp you was in here."
Connie thanked the man, and carrying the letter to the light, tore it open and read. At the end of five minutes he looked up: "I've got to go out with Frenchy in the morning," he announced.
Hurley let a heavy boot fall with a thud, and stared at the boy as though he had taken leave ofhis senses. "Go out!" he roared, "What'ye mean, go out?"
"I've got to go for a week or ten days. It's absolutely necessary or I wouldn't do it."
"A wake er tin days, sez he!" Hurley lapsed into brogue, as he always did when aroused or excited. "An' fer a wake or tin days the books kin run theirsilf! Well, ye can't go—an' that's all there is to ut!"
"I've got to go," repeated Connie stubbornly. "If I don't go out with Frenchy, I'll walk out!"
The boss glared at him. "I know'd things wuz goin' too good to last. But Oi didn't think th' trouble wuz a-comin' from ye. Ye can tell me, mebbe, what, Oi'm a-goin' to do widout no clerk whoilst yer gaddin' round havin' a good toime? Ye can't go!"
"Steve can run the wanagan, and Lon, and Saginaw, and Slue Foot can hold their reports 'til I get back. I'll work night and day then 'til I catch up."
"They ain't a-goin' to be no ketch up!" roared Hurley. "Here ye be, an' here ye'll stay! Av ye go out ye'll stay out!"
Connie looked the big boss squarely in the eye:"I'm sorry, Hurley. I've liked you, and I've liked my job. But I've got to go. You'll find the books all up to the minute." Hurley turned away with a snort and rolled into his bunk, and a few minutes later, Connie blew out the lamp and crawled between his own warm blankets, where he lay smiling to himself in the darkness.
By lamplight next morning the boy was astir. He placed his few belongings in his turkey, and when the task was accomplished he noticed that Hurley was watching him out of the corner of his eye. He tied the sack as the others sat upon the edge of the bunks and drew on their boots. And in silence they all crossed the dark clearing toward the cook's camp.
With a great jangle of bells, Frenchy drew his tote-team up before the door just as they finished breakfast. Connie tossed his turkey into the sleigh and turned to Hurley who stood by with Lon Camden and Saginaw Ed. "I'll take my time, now," said the boy, quietly. "And good luck to you all!"
For answer the big boss reached over and, grabbing the turkey, sent it spinning into the boy's bunk. "Ye don't git no toime!" he bellowed."Jump in wid Frenchy now, an' don't be shtandin' 'round doin' nawthin'. Tin days ye'll be gone at the outsoide, an' av' ye ain't at yer disk here be th' 'leventh day, Oi'll br-reak ye in two an' grease saws wid the two halves av ye!" Reaching into his pocket, he drew forth a roll of bills. "How much money d'ye nade? Come spake up! Ye kin have all, or par-rt av ut—an' don't ye iver let me hear ye talk av quittin' agin, er Oi'll woind a peavy around yer head."
Connie declined the money and jumped into the sleigh, and with a crack of the whip, Frenchy sent the horses galloping down the tote road. When they were well out of hearing the Frenchman laughed. "Dat Hurley she lak for mak' de beeg bluff, w'at you call; she mak' you scairt lak she gon' keel you, an' den she giv' you all de mon' she got."
"He's the best boss in the woods!" cried the boy.
"Ouidat rat. Ba goss, we'n she roar an' bluff, dat ain' w'en you got for look out! Me—A'm know 'bout dat. A'm seen heem lick 'bout fifty men wan tam. Ovaire on——"
"Oh, come now, Frenchy—not fifty men."
"Well, was seex, anyhow. Ovaire on LeechLak' an'sacre!He ain' say nuttin', dat tam—joos' mak' hees eyes leetle an' shine lak deloup cervier—an' smash, smash, smash! An', by goss, 'bout twenty of dem feller, git de busted head."
Connie laughed, and during all the long miles of the tote road he listened to the exaggerated and garbled stories of the Frenchman—stories of log drives, of fights, of bloody accidents, and of "hants" and windagoes. At the railroad, the boy helped the teamster and the storekeeper in the loading of the sleigh until a long-drawn whistle announced the approach of his train. When it stopped at the tiny station, he climbed aboard, and standing on the platform, waved his hand until the two figures whisked from sight and the train plunged between its flanking walls of pine.
In Minneapolis Connie hunted up the office of the Syndicate, which occupied an entire floor, many stories above the sidewalk, of a tall building. He was a very different looking Connie from the roughly clad boy who had clambered onto the train at Dogfish. A visit to a big department store had transformed him from a lumberjack into a youth whose clothing differed in no marked particularfrom the clothing of those he passed upon the street. But there was a difference that had nothing whatever to do with clothing—a certain something in the easy swing of his stride, the poise of his shoulders, the healthy bronzed skin and the clear blue eyes, that caused more than one person to pause upon the sidewalk for a backward glance at the boy.
Connie stepped from the elevator, hesitated for a second before a heavily lettered opaque glass door, then turned the knob and entered, to find himself in a sort of pen formed by a low railing in which was a swinging gate. Before him, beyond the railing, dozens of girls sat at desks their fingers fairly flying over the keys of their clicking typewriters. Men with green shades over their eyes, and queer black sleeves reaching from their wrists to their elbows, sat at other desks. Along one side of the great room stood a row of box-like offices, each with a name lettered upon its glass door. So engrossed was the boy in noting these details that he started at the sound of a voice close beside him. He looked down into the face of a girl who sat before a complicated looking switchboard.
"Who do you wish to see?" she asked.
Connie flushed to the roots of his hair. It was almost the first time in his life that any girl had spoken to him—and this one was smiling. Off came his hat. "Is—is Heinie Metzger in?" he managed to ask. Connie's was a voice tuned to the big open places, and here in the office of the Syndicate it boomed loudly—so loudly that the girls at the nearer typewriters looked up swiftly and then as swiftly stooped down to pick up imaginary articles from the floor; the boy could see that they were trying to suppress laughter. And the girl at the switchboard? He glanced from the others to this one who was close beside him. Her face was red as his own, and she was coughing violently into a tiny handkerchief.
"Caught cold?" he asked. "Get your feet dry, and take a dose of quinine, and you'll be all right—if you don't get pneumonia and die. If Heinie ain't in I can come again." Somehow the boy felt that he would like to be out of this place. He felt stifled and very uncomfortable. He wondered if girls always coughed into handkerchiefs or clawed around on the floor to keep from laughing at nothing. He hoped she would say that Heinie Metzger was not in.
"Have you a card?" the girl had recovered from her coughing fit, but her face was very red.
"A what?" asked the boy.
"A card—your name."
"Oh, my name is Connie Morgan."
"And, your address?"
"Ma'am?"
"Where do you live?"
"Ten Bow."
"Where? Is it in Minnesota?"
"No, it's in Alaska—and I wish I was back there right now."
"And, your business?"
"I want to see Heinie Metzger about some logs."
A man passing the little gate in the railing whirled and glared at him. He was a very disagreeable looking young man with a fat, heavy face, pouchy eyes of faded blue, and stiff, close-cropped reddish hair that stuck straight up on his head like pig's bristles. "Looks like he'd been scrubbed," thought Connie as he returned glare for glare. The man stepped through the gate and thrust his face close to the boy's.
"Vat you mean, eh?"
"Are you Heinie Metzger?"
"No, I am notHerrMetzger.Untit pays you you shall be civil to your betters. You shall sayHerrMetzger,oderMister Metzger.Unthe has got not any time to be mit poys talking. Vat you vanted? If you got pusiness, talk mit me. I amHerrvon Kuhlmann, confidential secretary toHerrMetzger."
"I thought you were the barber," apologized the boy. "But anyhow, you won't do. I want to see Heinie Metzger, or 'hair' Metzger, or Mister Metzger, whichever way you want it. I want to sell him some logs."
The other sneered: "Logs! He wants to sell it some logs!Unthow much logs you got—on de vagon a load, maybe? Ve dondt fool mit logs here, exceptingly ve get anyhow a trainload—untHerrMetzger dondt mention efen, less dan half a million feets. Vere iss your logs?"
"I've got 'em in my pocket," answered the boy. "Come on, Dutchy, you're wasting my time. Trot along, now; and tell this Metzger there's a fellow out here that's got about eight or nine million feet of white pine to sell——"
"Vite pine! Eight million feets! You krasy?" The man stooped and swung open the little gate."Come alongmitme,untif you trying some foolishnessmitHerrMetzger, you vish you vas some blace else to have stayed avay." He paused before a closed door, and drawing himself very erect, knocked gently. A full minute of silence, then from the interior came a rasping voice:
"Who is it?"
"It is I, sir, von Kuhlmann, at your service,untI havemitme one small poy who say he has it some logs to sell."
Again the voice rasped from behind the partition—a thin voice, yet, in it's thinness, somehow suggesting brutality: "Why should you come to me? Why don't you buy his logs and send him about his business?"
Von Kuhlmann cleared his throat nervously: "He says it iss vite pine—eight million feets."
"Show him in, you fool! What are you standing out there for?"
Von Kuhlmann opened the door and motioned Connie to enter:
"HerrMorgan," he announced, bowing low.
"Connie Morgan," corrected the boy quickly, as he stepped toward the desk and offered his hand to the small, grey-haired man, with the enormouseyeglasses, and the fierce upturned mustache. "I suppose you are Heinie Metzger," he announced.
The man glared at him, his thin nostrils a-quiver. Then, in a dry, cackling voice, bade Connie be seated, giving the extended hand the merest touch. Von Kuhlmann withdrew noiselessly, and closed the door. Metzger opened a drawer and drew forth a box of cigars which he opened, and extended toward the boy. Connie declined, and replacing the cigars, the man drew from another drawer, a box of cigarettes, and when the boy declined those he leaned back in his chair and stared at Connie through his glasses, as one would examine a specimen at the zoo.
HE LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND STARED AT CONNIE THROUGH HIS GLASSES, AS ONE WOULD EXAMINE A SPECIMEN AT THE ZOO.
HE LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND STARED AT CONNIE THROUGH HIS GLASSES, AS ONE WOULD EXAMINE A SPECIMEN AT THE ZOO.
"Young man, how do I know you have any logs?" the question rasped suddenly from between half-closed lips.
"You don't know it," answered the boy. "That's why I came here to tell you."
"White pine, you said," snapped the man, after a pause. "Eight million feet?"
"Yes, white pine—at least eight million, maybe nine, and possibly more, if we continue to have good luck."
"Where are these logs?"
"On our landings on Dogfish River."
"Dogfish! You're the man from Alaska that bought the McClusky tract?"
"I'm his partner."
"Show a profit last year?"
"No. But we only had one camp then, and this year we have two and each one has cut more than the one we had last year."
"Who did you sell to, last year?"
"Baker & Crosby."
"Satisfied with their boom scale?"
"Well, no, we weren't. That's why we thought we'd offer the cut to you this year, if you want it."
"Want it! Of course we want it—that is, if the price is right."
"What will you pay?"
HerrHeinrich Metzger removed his glasses and dangled them by their wide black ribbon, as he glanced along his thin nose. "Sure you can deliver eight million feet?" he asked.
"Yes, our foreman reports eight million already on the rollways, or in the woods all ready for the rollways. Yes, I can be sure of eight million."
"We have a big contract," said Metzger, "thatis just about eight million feet short of being filled. If we can be sure of getting the entire eight million in one lump, we could afford to pay more—much more, in fact, than we could if there was anything short of eight million feet."
Connie nodded: "There will be eight million feet, at least," he repeated. "What will you pay?"
For a long time the other was silent, then he spoke: "It is a large deal," he said. "There are many things to consider. Lest we make haste too quickly, I must have time to consider the transaction in all it's phases. Meet me here one week from today, at eleven o'clock, and I will give you a figure."
"A week is a long time," objected the boy, "And I am a long way from home."
"Yes, yes, but there are others—associates of mine in the business with whom I must consult." The boy had risen to go, when the man stayed him with a motion. "Wait," he commanded. "Your name is——?"
"Morgan—Connie Morgan."
"To be sure—Connie Morgan." He picked the receiver from the hook of his desk phone. "Get me the Laddison Hotel," he commanded,and hung up the receiver. "The delay is of my own making, therefore I should pay for it. You will move your luggage into the Laddison Hotel, which is the best in the city, and shall remain there until our deal is closed, at the expense of this company——"
"But," objected the boy, "suppose the deal don't go through?"
"The expense will be ours whether the deal goes through or not. You see, I am confident that we can deal."
The telephone rang and Metzger made the arrangements, and again, turned to the boy. "Each evening at dinner time, you are to ask at the desk for an envelope. In the envelope you will receive a ticket to the theatre. This, also, at our expense." He smiled broadly. "You see, we treat our guests well. We do not wish them to become tired of our city, and we wish those with whom we have dealings to think well of us."
CONNIE MORGANleft the office of the Syndicate, and once more upon the sidewalk, filled his lungs with the keen air. "It's going to work!" "It's going to work!" he repeated over and over to himself as he made his way toward the store where he had left his discarded clothing stuffed into a brand new brown leather suitcase. The boy returned unhesitatingly to the store, not by means of street signs, but by the simple process of back-trailing. Trained in observation, his eyes had unfailingly registered the landmarks in his brain—even when that brain had been too busy wondering what was to be the outcome of his conference with Heinie Metzger, to know that it was receiving impressions. It was this trained habit of observation that had enabled him to select his wearing apparel and the brown leather suitcase. He hadsimply studied the passengers on the train, and selecting a man who looked well dressed, had copied his apparel and even his suitcase.
The clerk at the store directed him to his hotel, and a few minutes later he stood in the window of a thickly carpeted room, and stared out over the roofs of buildings. "It's—it's like the mountains," he mused, "stretching away, peak after peak, as far as you can see, and the streets are the canyons and the valleys—only this is more—lonesome." Tiring of looking out over the roofs, he put on his overcoat and spent the afternoon upon the streets, admiring the goods in the store windows and watching the people pass and repass upon the sidewalks. It was a mild, sunshiny afternoon and the streets were thronged with ladies, the browns, and greys, and blacks, and whites of their furs making a pretty kaleidoscope of colour.
At the Union Station he procured a folder and after looking up the departure of trains, returned to his hotel. He walked back at the time when factories, stores, and office buildings were disgorging their human flood onto the streets, and the boy gazed about him in wonder as he elbowed his way along the sidewalk. He smiled to himself."I guess I don't know much about cities. In the store I was wondering where in the world they were going to find the people to buy all the stuff they had piled around, and when I was looking out the window, I wondered if there were enough people in the world to live in all the houses—and now I'm wondering if there is enough stuff to go around, and enough houses to hold 'em all."
In this room Connie glanced at his watch, performed a hasty toilet, and hurried into the elevator. "Gee, it's most six!" he muttered, "I bet I'm late for supper." He was surprised to find men in the lobby, sitting about in chairs or talking in groups, as they had been doing when he left in the afternoon. "Maybe they don't have it 'til six," he thought, and seating himself in a leather chair, waited with his eyes on the clock. Six o'clock came, and when the hand reached five minutes after, he strolled to the desk. "Anything here for me?" he asked. The clerk handed him an envelope. "Heinie's making good," thought the boy, and then, trying not to look hungry, he turned to the clerk: "Cook hollered yet?" he asked casually.
The man smiled: "Grill's down stairs," he announced, pointing to a marble stairway at the other end of the room.
"I ain't too late, am I?" asked the boy.
"Too late! Too late for what?"
"For supper. It ain't over is it?"
"The grill is open from eight in the morning until midnight," explained the man, and as Connie turned away, he called after him: "Oh, Mr. Morgan——"
"Connie Morgan," corrected the boy gravely.
"Well, Connie, then—you are not to pay your checks, just sign them and the waiter will take care of them."
"That suits me," smiled Connie, and as he crossed the tiled floor he muttered: "If they hadn't wasted so much space making the office and rooms so big, they wouldn't have to eat in the cellar. In Fairbanks or Skagway they'd have made four rooms out of that one of mine." At the door of the grill a man in black met him, conducted him through a maze of small tables at which men and women were eating, and drew out a chair at a table placed against the wall. Another man in black appeared, filled a glass with water from a fat bottle, and flipped a large piece of cardboard infront of him. Connie scanned the printed list with puckered brow. Way down toward the bottom he found three words he knew, they were tea, coffee, milk. The man in black was waiting at his side with a pencil poised above a small pad of paper. "Go ahead, if you want to write," said the boy, "I won't bother you any—I'm just trying to figure out what some of these names mean."
"Waiting for your order, sir."
"Don't 'sir' me. You mean you're the waiter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'm hungry, suppose you beat it out and bring me my supper."
"What will it be, sir? I will take your order, sir."
"Cut out that 'sir,' I told you. If these things they've got down here stand for grub, you'll just have to bring along the whole mess, and I'll pick out what I want."
"Might I suggest, s——"
"Look here," interrupted the boy, grasping the idea. "If any of these names stand for ham and eggs, or beefsteak, or potatoes, or bread and butter, you bring 'em along."
The man actually smiled, and Connie feltrelieved. "Whose place is that?" he indicated a chair across the table.
"Not reserved, sir."
Connie glanced around the room: "You ain't very busy, now. Might as well bring your own grub along, and if you can ever remember to forget that 'sir' business, we'll get along all right—I'm lonesome."
When the waiter returned with a tray loaded with good things to eat, Connie again indicated the empty chair. "Against the rules," whispered the waiter, remembering to leave off the "sir."
Connie did justice to the meal and when he had finished, the man cleared the dishes away and set a plate before him upon which was a small bowl of water and a folded napkin. "What's that?" asked the boy, "I drink out of a glass."
"Finger bowl," whispered the waiter. "Do you wish a dessert?"
"Might take a chance on a piece of pie," answered the boy, "here take this along. I washed up-stairs."
When the waiter presented his check, Connie took the pencil from his hand, signed it, and passed it back.
"Very good. One moment, 'til I verify this at the desk." He hurried away, and returned a moment later. "Very good," he repeated.
Connie handed him a dollar: "I'm going to be here a week," he said, "I want three good square meals a day, and it's up to you to see that I get 'em. No more lists of stuff I can't read. No more 'yes sir,' 'no sir,' 'very good sir.'"
The waiter pocketed the dollar: "Thank you, s—. Very good. Always come to this table. I will reserve this place for you. You will find your chair tilted, so. I shall speak to the head waiter."
Connie went directly to his room and putting on his cap and overcoat, returned to the lobby and again approached the man at the desk: "What time does the show start?" he asked.
"Curtain rises at eight-fifteen."
"Where is it?"
"Which one?"
The boy reached for his envelope and handed the ticket to the clerk.
"Metropolitan," informed the man, with a glance at the cardboard. "Marquette, between Third and Fourth." The boy glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past seven. Hurrying to NicolletAvenue, he walked rapidly to the depot and accosted a uniformed official: "Is the seven-fifty-five for Brainard in yet?"
"Naw, third gate to yer right, where them folks is waitin'."
Connie turned up his collar, pulled his cap well down over his eyes, and strolled to the edge of the knot of people that crowded close about one of the iron gates. His eyes ran rapidly over each face in the crowd without encountering the object of his search, so he appropriated an inconspicuous seat on a nearby bench between a man who was engrossed in his newspaper, and an old woman who held a large bundle up on her lap, and whose feet were surrounded with other bundles and bags which she insisted upon counting every few minutes. Closely the boy scrutinized each new arrival as he joined the waiting group. Beyond the iron grill were long strings of lighted coaches to which were coupled engines that panted eagerly as they awaited the signal that would send them plunging away into the night with their burden of human freight.
Other trains drew in, and Connie watched the greetings of relatives and friends, as they rushed to meet the inpouring stream of passengers. Itseemed to the lonely boy that everybody in the world had someone waiting to welcome him but himself. He swallowed once or twice, smiled a trifle bitterly, and resumed his scrutiny of the faces. A man bawled a string of names, there was a sudden surging of the crowd which rapidly melted as its members were spewed out into the train shed. A few stragglers were still hurrying through the gate. The hands of a clock pointed to seven-fifty-four, and Connie stood up. As he did so, a man catapulted down the stairs, and rushed for the gate. He was a young man, clothed in the garb of a woodsman, and as he passed him, Connie recognized the heavy face of von Kuhlmann.
"That's just what I've been waiting for," he spoke aloud to himself, after the manner of those whose lives are cast in the solitudes. The man glanced up from his newspaper, and the old woman regarded him with a withering scowl, and gathered her bundles more closely about her feet.
The play that evening was a musical comedy, and during the entire performance the boy sat enthralled by the music and the dazzling costumes. He was still in a daze when he reached his hotel, and once more stood in his room and gazed outover the city of twinkling lights. He turned from the window and surveyed his apartment, the thick carpet, the huge brass bed, the white bath tub in the tiny room adjoining, with its faucets for hot and cold water, the big mirror that reflected his image from head to foot—it seemed all of a piece with the play.
Instantly the boy's imagination leaped the snow-locked miles and he saw the tiny cabin on Ten Bow, the nights on the snow-trail when he had curled up in his blankets with the coldly gleaming stars for his roof; he saw the rough camp on Dogfish and in a flash he was back in the room once more. "This ain't realliving," he muttered, once more glancing about him, "It's—it's like the show—like living in a world of make-believe."
Undressing, he drew the white tub nearly full of water. "I'm going to make it just as hot as I can stand it. Any one can take a bath in cold water." He wallowed in the tub for a long time, dried himself with a coarse towel, and rummaging in his new suitcase, produced a pair of pink pyjamas which had been highly recommended by the clerk at the big store. Very gingerly he donned the garments and for some moments stood and viewed himselfin the mirror. "Gee," he muttered, "I'm sure glad Waseche Bill ain't here!" and switching out the light, he dived into bed.
VERY GINGERLY HE DONNED THE GARMENTS AND FOR SOME MOMENTS STOOD AND VIEWED HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR.
VERY GINGERLY HE DONNED THE GARMENTS AND FOR SOME MOMENTS STOOD AND VIEWED HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR.
Promptly at eleven o'clock, one week from the day he arrived in Minneapolis, Connie Morgan again presented himself at the office of the Syndicate. That he had been expected was evidenced by the fact that the girl at the switchboard did not ask him any questions. She greeted him by name, and touching a button beneath the edge of her desk summoned a boy who conducted him to Metzger's private office. The lumber magnate received him with an oily smile: "Promptly on the minute," he approved. "That's business. Sit here and we will see whether two business men are able to make their minds meet in a contract that will be profitable to both." The man placed the points of his fingers together and sighted across them at Connie. "In the first place," he began, "the quantity of logs. You are sure you can deliver here at our mills at least eight million feet?"
"Yes."
"Because," continued the man, "owing to the conditions of a contract we have on hand, any less than eight million feet would be practically of novalue to us whatever. That is, we have concluded to rely entirely upon your logs to fulfill our big contract, and should you fail us, the other contract would fail, and we would be at the expense of marketing the lumber elsewhere."
"How much more than eight million feet could you use?" asked the boy.
"As much more as you can deliver. Say, anything up to ten million."
Connie nodded: "That's all right," he assented, "and the price?"
"Ah, yes—the price." Metzger frowned thoughtfully. "What would you say to twenty dollars a thousand?"
Connie shook his head. "I can get twenty-five anywhere."
"Well, twenty-five?"
Again the boy shook his head. "You told me you could pay liberally for the logs if you could be sure of getting them all in one lot," he reminded. "I can get twenty-five, anywhere, and by hunting out my market I can boost it to thirty."
Metzger's frown deepened. "What is your price?" he asked.
"Fifty dollars."
"Fifty dollars!" The man rolled his eyes as if imploring high heaven to look down upon the extortion. "Ridiculous! Why the highest price ever paid was forty!"
"We'll make a new record, then," answered the boy calmly.
"Forty dollars—if you must have it," offered the man. "Forty dollars or nothing. And, even at forty, we must insist on inserting a protective clause in the contract."
"A protective clause?"
"Yes, it is this way. If we assume to pay such an outrageous price for your logs, we must insist upon being protected in case you fail to deliver. Suppose, for instance, something prevented your delivering the logs, or part of them at our mills. Say, you could deliver only four or five million. We could not pay forty dollars for them, because our price is fixed with the understanding that we are to receive eight million."
"That's fair enough," answered the boy; "we'll fix that. If we don't deliver eight million, then you take what we do deliver at twenty dollars."
Metzger pondered. "And you will bind yourself to sell to us, and not to others, if you deliver a short cut?"
"Sure we will."
"Well, there is fairness in your offer. We will say, then, that we are to pay you forty dollars a thousand for any amount between eight and ten million, and only twenty dollars if you fail to deliver at least eight million."
"I said fifty dollars," reminded the boy.
"And I say we cannot pay fifty! It is unheard of! It is not to be thought of! It is exorbitant!"
Connie arose and reached for his cap: "All right," he answered. "The deal's off." At the door he paused, "I liked your hotel, and the shows," he said, but Metzger cut him short:
"The hotel and the shows!" he cried. "Bah! it is nothing! Come back here. You are an extortionist! You know you have us at your mercy, and you are gouging us! It is an outrage!"
"See here, Metzger." The man flinched at the use of his name, shorn of any respectfulHerr, or Mister. But he listened. "It's my business to get as much for those logs as I can get. There is nothing more to talk about. If you want 'em at fifty dollars, take 'em, if you don't—good-bye."
Muttering and grumbling, the man motioned him back to his seat. "We've got to have the logs," he whined, "but it is a hard bargain you drive. One does not look for such harshness in the young. I am disappointed. How would forty-five do?"
"Fifty."
"Well, fifty, then!" snapped Metzger, with a great show of anger. "But look here, if we go up ten dollars on our part, you come down ten dollars on your part! We will pay fifty dollars a thousand for all logs between eight and ten million—and ten dollars a thousand for all logs delivered short of eight million—and you bind yourself to sell us your entire drive on those terms."
"That's a deal," answered the boy. "And our crew to work with yours at the sorting gap. When will you have the papers?"
"Come back at two," growled the man, shortly.
When Connie had gone, Metzger touched one of a row of buttons upon his desk, and von Kuhlmann entered, and standing at military attention, waited for his superior to speak.
For a full minute Metzger kept him standing without deigning to notice him. Then, scribblingfor a moment, he extended a paper toward his subordinate. "Have a contract drawn in conformity with these figures," he commanded.
Von Kuhlmann glanced at the paper. "He agreed? As it iss so said here in America—he bite?"
Metzger's thin lip writhed in a saturnine grin: "Yes, he bit. I strung him along, and he has an idea that he is a wonderful business man—to hold out against me for his price. Ha, little did he know that the top price interested me not at all! It was the lesser figure that I was after—and you see what it is, von Kuhlmann—ten dollars a thousand!"
The other made a rapid mental calculation: "On the deal, at five million feet, we make, at the least, more than three hundred thousand!"
Metzger nodded: "Yes! That is business!" he glared into von Kuhlmann's face, "This deal is based onyourreport. If you have failed us——!"
Von Kuhlmann shuddered: "I haff not fail. I haff been on Dogfish, and I haff mit mine eyes seen the logs. I haff talk mit Hurley, the boss. He iss mit us. Why should he not be mit us? We pay him well for the logs from which comes thepaint off. He haff brand with the dissolving paint three million feets. Mineself I apply vateruntfrom the ends, I rub the paint, in each rollway, here and there, a log."
Metzger pencilled some figures on a pad. "If you have failed us," he repeated, "we payfour hundred thousanddollars for eight million feet.Four hundred thousand!And we lose forty dollars a thousand on the whole eight million feet. Because we expect to pay this Hurley ten dollars a thousand for the three million feet branded with the dissolving paint—and also to pay ten dollars a thousand for the five million that will be delivered under the contract." The man paused and brought his fist down on the desk: "Ha, these Americans!" the thin lips twisted in sneering contempt, "they pride themselves upon their acumen—upon their business ability. They boast of being a nation of traders! They have pride of their great country lying helpless as a babe—a swine contentedly wallowing in its own fat, believing itself secure in its flimsy sty—little heeding the Butcher, who watches even as he whets his knife under the swine's very eyes, waiting—waiting—waiting only for—The Day!" At the words both Metzger and vonKuhlmann clicked their heels and came to a stiff military salute. Standing Metzger, continued: "Traders—business men—bah! It is the Germans who are the traders—the business men of the world. Into the very heart of their country we reach, and they do not know it. Lumber here, iron there, cotton, wool, railroads, banks—in their own country, and under protection of their own laws we have reached out our hands and have taken; until today Germany holds the death-grip upon American commerce, as some day she will hold the death-grip upon America's very existence. When the Butcher thrusts the knife the swine dies. And, we, the supermen—the foremost in trade, in arms, in science, in art, in thought—we, the Germans, will that day come into our place in the sun!"
"Der Tag!" pronounced von Kuhlmann, reverently, and with another clicking salute, he retired.
At two o'clock Connie found himself once more in Metzger's office. The head of the Syndicate handed him a copy of a typed paper which the boy read carefully. Then, very carefully he read it again.
"This seems to cover all the points. It suits me. You made two copies, did you?"
Metzger nodded. "And, now we will sign?" he asked, picking up a pen from the desk, and touching a button. Von Kuhlmann appeared in the doorway. "Just witness these signatures," said Metzger.
"If it's just the same to you, I saw Mike Gillum, one of your foremen, waiting out there; I would rather he witnessed the signing."
"What's this? What do you mean?"
"Nothing—only I know Mike Gillum. He's honest. I'd like him to witness."
"Send Gillum in!" commanded Metzger, glaring at the boy, and when the Irishman appeared, he said brusquely. "Witness the signature to a contract for the sale of some logs." Arranging the papers he signed each copy with a flourish, and offered the pen to Connie.
The boy smiled. "Why, I can't sign it," he said. "You see, I'm a minor. It wouldn't be legal. It wouldn't bind either one of us to anything. If the deal didn't suit me after the logs were here, I could claim that I had no right to make the contract, and the courts would uphold me. Or, if it didn't suit you, you could say 'It is a mere scrap of paper.'"
Metzger jerked the thick glasses from his nose and glared at the boy. "What now? You mean you have no authority to make this contract? You have been jesting? Making a fool of me—taking up my time—living at my expense—and all for nothing?"
Connie laughed at the irate magnate: "Oh, no—not so bad as that. I have the authority to arrange the terms because I am a partner. It is only the legal part that interferes. Hurley, our walking boss has the power of attorney signed by my partner, who is not a minor. Hurley is authorized to sell logs and incur indebtedness for us. I will have to take those contracts up to our camp and get his signature. Then everything will be O.K."
Metzger scowled: "Why did you not have this Hurley here?"
"What, and leave a couple of hundred men idle in the woods? That would not be good business, would it? I'll take the contracts and have them signed and witnessed, and return yours by registered mail within two days."
The head of the Syndicate shot a keen sidewise glance at the boy who was chatting with Mike Gillum, as he selected a heavy envelope, slippedthe two copies of the contract into it, and passed it over. Connie placed the envelope in an inner pocket and, buttoning his coat tightly, bade Metzger good-bye, and passed out of the door.
Alone in the office Metzger frowned at his desk, he drew quick, thin lined figures upon his blotting pad: "These Americans," he repeated contemptuously under his breath. "To send a boy to do business withme—a past master of business! The fools! The smug, self-satisfied, helpless fools—I know not whether to pity or to laugh! And, yet, this boy has a certain sort of shrewdness. I had relied, in case anything went wrong with our plan, upon voiding the contract in court. However, von Kuhlmann is clever. He has been this week on the field. His judgment is unerring.He is German!"
Late that evening, clad once more in his woodsman's garb, Connie Morgan sat upon the plush cushion of a railway coach, with his new leather suitcase at his feet, and smiled at the friendly twinkling lights of the farm-houses, as his train rushed northward into the night.
CONNIE MORGANdid not leave the train at Dogfish Spur, but kept on to the county seat. In the morning he hunted up the sheriff, a bluff woodsman who, until his election to office, had operated as an independent stumpage contractor.
"Did you arrest three I. W. W.'s in Mike Gillum's camp on Willow River a while back?" he asked, when the sheriff had offered him a chair in his office in the little court-house.
"D'you mean those two-legged skunks that tried to brain Hurley when he was bringin' 'em in fer tryin' to burn out his camp?"
"Those are the ones."
"They're here. An' by the time they got here they know'd they hadn't be'n on no Sunday-school picnic, too. Doc swore out the warrants, an' Ideputized Limber Bill Bradley, an' Blinky Hoy to go an' fetch 'em in. 'Treat 'em kind,' I tells 'em when they started. But, judgin' by looks when they got 'em out here, they didn't. You see, them boys was brought up rough. Limber Bill mixed it up with a bear one time, an' killed him with a four-inch jack-knife, an' Blinky Hoy—they say he eats buzz-saws fer breakfast. So here they be, an' here they'll stay 'til June court. They started hollerin' fer a p'liminary hearin', soon as they got here, but I know'd Hurley was strainin' hisself fer a good showin' this year, an' wouldn't want to stop an' come down to testify, so I worked a technicality on 'em to prevent the hearin'."
"A technicality?"
"Yeh, I shuck my fist in under their nose an' told 'em if they demanded a hearing, they'd git it. But it would be helt up in Hurley's camp, an' Limber Bill, an' Blinky Hoy would chaperoon 'em up, an' provided they was enough left of 'em to bother with after the hearin' them same two would fetch 'em back. So they changed their minds about a hearin', and withdraw'd the demand."
Connie laughed: "I'm Hurley's clerk, and I justdropped down to tell you that if those fellows should happen to ask you how you got wind of where they were hiding, you might tell them that Slue Foot Magee tipped them off."
"If they'd happen to ask!" exclaimed the sheriff. "They've b'en tryin' every which way they know'd how to horn it out of me, ever since they got out here. What about Slue Foot? I never did trust that bird—never got nothin' on him—but always livin' in hopes."
"I happen to know that Slue Foot is an I. W. W., and if these fellows think he doubled-crossed them, they might loosen up with some interesting dope, just to even things up. You see, it was Slue Foot who advised them to go to Willow River."
"O-ho, so that's it!" grinned the sheriff. "Well, mebbe, now they'll find that theykinpump me a little after all."
"And while I'm here I may as well swear out a couple of more warrants, too. You are a friend of Hurley's, and you want to see him make good."
"You bet yer life I do! There's a man! He's played in hard luck all his life, an' if he's got a chanct to make good—I'm for him."
"Then hold off serving these warrants 'til justbefore the break-up. When the thaw comes, you hurry up to Hurley's camp, and nab Slue Foot." The sheriff nodded, and Connie continued: "First I want him arrested for conspiring with the Syndicate in the theft of thirty-four thousand dollars' worth of logs during April and May of last year."
"With the Syndicate—stealin' logs!"
"Yes, if it hadn't been for that, Hurley would have made good last year."
The sheriff's lips tightened: "If we can only rope in Heinie Metzger! He ruined me on a dirty deal. I had stumpage contracts with him. Then he tried to beat me with his money for sheriff, but he found out that John Grey had more friends in the woods than the Syndicate had. Go on."
"Then, for conspiring to defraud certain sawyers by shading their cut. Then, for the theft of three thousand, five hundred dollars from Denny O'Sullivan. And, last, for conspiracy with the Syndicate to steal some three million feet of logs this year."
The sheriff looked at the boy in open-eyed astonishment. "D'you mean you kinprooveall this?"
"I think so. I can prove the theft of the money,and the shading the cut—when it comes to the timber stealing, with the Syndicate's money back of 'em, we'll have a harder time. But I've got the evidence."
The sheriff grinned: "Well, when Slue Foot let go, he let go all holts, didn't he? If you've got the evidence to back you up, like you say you have, Slue Foot'll be usin' a number instead of a name fer the next lifetime er so."
Shortly after noon of the tenth day, following his departure from camp, Connie stepped off the train at Dogfish Spur, to find Frenchy waiting for him with the tote-team. "Hurley say, 'you go long an' git de kid. She gon' for com' today—tomor'—sure, an' I ain' wan' heem git all tire out walkin' in.' Hurley lak you fine an' Saginaw lak you, but Slue Foot, she roar an' growl w'en you ain' here. Bye-m-bye, Hurley tell heem 'shut oop de mout', who's runnin' de camp?' an Slue Foot gon' back to Camp Two mad lak tondaire."
The trip up was uneventful. Frenchy's "gran' team" was in fine fettle, and just as the men were filing into the cook's camp for supper, he swung the team into the clearing with a magnificent whoop and flourish.
After supper, in the office, Lon Camden began to shuffle his reports, arranging them day by day for the boy's convenience. Saginaw and Hurley filled their pipes, and the former, with a vast assumption of nonchalance, removed his boots and cocked his heels upon the edge of his bunk. Hurley hitched his chair about until it faced the boy, and for a space of seconds glared at him through narrowed eyes.
"Ye made a mistake to come back! Ye dhirty little thayfe! An' me offerin' to lind ye money!" The blood left Connie's face to rush back to it in a surge of red, and his lips tightened. "Oh, ye don't nade to pertind ye're insulted," the huge man's voice trembled with suppressed rage. "Ye had me fooled. Oi'd of soon caught wan av me own b'ys in a dhirty game—Oi thought that well av ye. But whin Slue Foot com' ragin' down whin he heer'd ye'd gon' for a wake er so, Oi misthrusted there was a rayson, so Oi tuk a luk at th' books, an' ut didn't take me long to find out yer dhirty cut-shadin' scheme."
Connie met the glare eye for eye. "Yes," he answered, "it is a dirty deal, isn't it? I don't blame you fer bein' mad. I was, too, when Ithrew in with it—so mad I came near spilling the beans."
Hurley was staring open mouthed. "Well, av all th' nerve!" he choked out the words.
"But I held onto myself," continued the boy, "and now we've got the goods on Slue Foot—four ways from the jack. You noticed I kept a record of just how much has been shaved off from each man's cut? If I hadn't you would never have tumbled to the deal, no matter how long you studied the books. We are going to return that money to the sawyers who have it coming—but not yet. We want those false vouchers issued first. By the way, how much do you figure we've got on the landings, now?"
"Eight million, seven hundred thousan'—and clost to three hundred thousan' layin' down. Th' thaw's right now in th' air—'an we're t'rough cuttin'. Tomorrow all hands wor-rks gittin' the logs to the rollways. But what's that to ye? An' what d'ye mane settin' there ca'm as a lake on a shtill noight, an' admittin' ye wuz in on a low-down swindle? An-ny wan 'ud think ye wuz accused av shwoipin' a doughnut off the cook!"
"I'll come to that directly," answered the boy."First, I wish you'd sign this contract. Saginaw or Lon will witness the signature. And we can get it into the mail tomorrow."
"Contrack!" roared Hurley, snatching the paper from the boy's hand. The boss's eyes ran rapidly over the typewritten page, and with a low exclamation he moved the chair to the light. For ten minutes there was tense silence in the little office. Then Hurley looked up. "Fifty dollars a thousan'!" he gasped. "Fer an-nything from eight to tin million! Tin dollars a thousan', fer an-nything less nor eight million! From th' Syndicate!" With a bellow of rage the big boss leaped from his chair and stood over the boy. "Niver Oi've wanted to paste a man so bad!" he foamed. "Oi said ye wuz shmar-rt—an' ye ar-re. But ye ain't shmar-rt enough to put this over on me—ye an' Slue Fut—yer game is bushted!" He shook the paper under the boy's nose. "Somehow, ye figger on soide-thrackin' enough av thim logs to turn in less thin eight million—an the Syndicate gits the cut fer tin dollars a thousan'—an' ye an' Slue Fut divoides up the price av the logs that's missin'."
Connie laughed. "You've hit the idea prettywell, boss—only you've got the wrong boot on the wrong foot."
"What d'ye mane wid yer boots and futs? Oi see yer game, an' Oi know now ut it wuz Slue Fut had a hand in the lasht year's loosin'. Wait 'til Oi git me hands on thot dhirty cur! Wait—" In his wrath the man hurled the paper to the floor, and reached for his mackinaw with one hand, and his peavy with the other.
Lon Camden sat looking on with bulging eyes, and beyond the stove Saginaw Ed shook with silent mirth as he wriggled his toes in his thick woollen socks.
"Hold on, Hurley," said Connie, as he rescued the precious contract from the floor. "Just sit down a minute and let's get this thing straight. As soon as the thaw sets in, John Grey will be up to tend to Slue Foot. I swore out three or four warrants against him, besides what the I. W. W.'s are going to spill."
"John Grey—warrants—I. W. W.'s." The man stood as one bewildered. "An' the kid ca'm as butter, flashin' contracks aroun' th' office, an' ownin' up he's a thayfe—an' Saginaw a-laughin' to hisself." He passed a rough hand across his forehead as the peavy crashed to the floor. "Mebbe, ut's all here," he babbled weakly. "Mebbe thim I. W. W.'s give me wan crack too many—an' me brain's let go."
"Your brain's all right," said Connie. "Just sit down and light your pipe, and forget you're mad, and listen while I explain."
Hurley sank slowly into his chair: "Sure, jist fergit Oi'm mad. Jist set by quiet an' let ye ate th' doughnut ye shwoiped off th' cook. Don't say nawthin' whoilst ye an' Slue Fut an' the Syndicate steals th' whole outfit. Mebbe if Oi'd take a little nap, ut wid be handier fer yez." The man's words rolled in ponderous sarcasm. Lon Camden arose and fumbled in his turkey. A moment later he tendered the boss a small screw-corked flask.
"I know it's again' orders in the woods, boss. But I ain't a drinkin' man—only keep this in case of accident. Mebbe a little nip now would straighten you out."
Hurley waved the flask aside: "No, Oi'm off thot stuff fer good! Ut done me har-rm in me younger days—but ut kin do me no more. Av Oi ain't going crazy, Oi don't nade ut. Av Oi am, ut'sbetther to be crazy an' sober, thin crazy an' drunk. Go on, b'y. Ye was goin' to mention somethin', Oi believe—an' av me name's Jake Hurley, ut betther be a chinful. In the first place, what business ye got wid contracks, an' warrants, an-nyhow?"
"In the first place," grinned the boy, "I'm a partner of Waseche Bill, and one of the owners of this outfit. Here are the papers to show it." While Hurley studied the papers, Connie proceeded: "We got your report, and then a letter from Mike Gillum saying that you were in the pay of the Syndicate——"
Hurley leaped to his feet: "Moike Gillum says Oi wuz in the pay of th' Syndicate! He's a dhirty——"
"Yes, yes—I know all about that. Slue Foot is the man who is in the pay of the Syndicate—and he borrowed your name." Hurley subsided, somewhat, but his huge fists continued to clench and unclench as the boy talked. "So I came down to see what the trouble was. It didn't take me long, after I had been with you for a while, to find out that you are square as a die—and that Slue Foot is as crooked as the trail of a snake. I pretended to throw in with him, and he let me in onthe cut-shading—and later on the big steal—the scheme they worked on you last winter, that turned a twenty-thousand-dollar profit into a fourteen-thousand-dollar loss. When I got onto his game, I asked for a leave of absence and went down and closed the deal with the Syndicate—or rather, I let Heinie Metzger and von Kuhlmann close a deal with me. I had doped it all out that, if Metzger believed Slue Foot could prevent the delivery of part of the logs, he'd offer most anything for the whole eight million, because he knew he would never have to pay it, providing he could get the figure way down on anything less than eight million. So I stuck out for fifty dollars a thousand on the eight million, and he pretended it was just tearing his heart out; at the same time I let him get me down to ten dollars a thousand on the short cut—And we don't care how little he offered for that, becausewe're going to deliver the whole cut!"
Hurley was staring into the boy's face in open-mouthed incredulity. "An' ye mane to say, ye wint to Minneapolis an' hunted up Heinie Metzger hisself, an' let him make a contrack that'll lose him three or foor hundred thousan' dollars?Heinie Metzger—the shrewdest lumberman in the wor-rld. Th' man that's busted more good honest min than he kin count! Th' man that howlds th' big woods in the holler av his hand! An' ye—a b'y, wid no hair on his face, done thot? Done ut deliberate—figgered out befoor hand how to make Heinie Metzger bate hisself—an' thin went down an'done ut?"