"If it's my own affair," came back Manson with growing resentment, "why not leave it at that? Did you never make any money out of a thing you didn't believe in?"
"Yes," said Filmer slowly, "I have, but after that I believed in it, and said so. It was only fair to the fellow behind it."
Manson went stolidly back to his square stone office, where he took out his broker's statement for the previous month and stared at it silently. Already he knew the figures by heart. Another two point rise in Consolidated stock and he would realize his net profit of one hundred thousand dollars. He ran over his own scribbled figures on the back of the statement, as he had gone over them many times before. They were quite right. For weeks past his selling order had been in, been acknowledged, and now at any moment the thing might be done. It might even have already been done. The blood rushed to his head at the thought. How many other chief constables, he wondered, had amassed fortunes from behind their forbidding gray stone walls? Then he thought of his wife and children, and his eyes softened, while the broker's statement in his big hand trembled ever so slightly. He smiled at that, and it came to his mind that perhaps statements in other men's hands sometimes trembled at the thought of their wives and children and the fortunes that—and here Manson felt vaguely uncomfortable and, getting up, slowly locked his desk.
Just at that moment, Filmer, who had returned to his office, was sitting staring at a half-section of steel rail that lay in his hand. It was smooth and highly polished, a thin slice of the very first product of Clark's last and greatest undertaking. He experienced a quite extraordinary sensation at feeling the thing, and it snatched his mind back seven years till again in the Town Hall he heard a magnetic voice assuring the citizens that the town lacked just three essentials—experience, money and imagination, and that the speaker would supply them all. It was a far cry from that evening to the deep drone of the rail mill, and Filmer, detaching himself from the picture in which he formed a part, began now to perceive its dramatic vitality. Were Clark taken out the whole thing seemed to fall to pieces.
And up at the See House, the bishop was examining just such another section of rail, while the gold of his episcopal ring shone beside the gray of steel. To him it meant many things, but chiefly it was prophetic of that which would soon put an end to the detachment and loneliness of the scattered communities to which he ministered. Holding the thing thus, his heart went out to Clark, and he yearned with a great longing over the spirit of this man who so reveled in the joy of creation. His eyes wandered to the Evangeline. She lay at anchor just off shore. A thin film of smoke slid from her funnel, and he could see the Indian pilot swabbing down her smooth teak decks. Then, in sudden impulse, he smiled and, laying the rail section on top of a half finished sermon, wrote a short note, and, calling his man servant, instructed him to wait for an answer.
A little later the note reached Clark in his office, where he sat motionless under the sway of a slight reaction. At the moment he did not want to work. He was continuously conscious of ribbons of red hot rails that streamed like fluted snakes from under the gigantic rolls, and they seemed to be boring their way into his brain. He had shipped thousands of tons to the railway company and there were thousands more to go. In a week or so he would get a formal acceptance of his product, and then— He stretched himself a little wearily and pressed his eyes till a red and compelling blur brought its transient solace. And just then his secretary came in with the bishop's note.
Dear Mr. Clark:
I am off this afternoon for a five day cruise of visits amongst the islands of Lake Huron. Won't you come with me? I know it would be good for me and think it might give you what I'm sure is a much needed rest. My Mercury, I mean the hired man, awaits your answer.
Yours faithfully,JAMES, ALGOMA.
P. S. I never attempt to proselytize my guests.
For a moment he puzzled over the signature, and finally made out that it was the bishop's Christian name followed by that of his diocese, for this was the first letter he had received from the prelate. Then he felt a sudden throb of impulse. He had a natural liking for the bishop and this, with his insatiable appetite for new experiences, prompted an acceptance. He touched the bell, and his secretary reappeared.
"I am going away for five days," he paused, adding with a smile—"on missionary work. I haven't any idea where we are going and don't want to be disturbed. I'll be back before we receive the results of the United Railway Company's tests. That's all."
It was mid-afternoon when the Evangeline, gliding smoothly over the polished surface of the bay, drew in towards the Consolidated dock, and Clark, watching from the shadow of a mountain of bales of pulp assembled for shipment, saw the Indian pilot amidship at the wheel and the bishop, in a big, coarse, straw hat, standing in the slim bow, a coil of rope in his hands and a broad smile on his big sunburnt face.
"Catch!" The bight of the rope whistled through the air and struck smartly at his guest's feet.
The latter laughed, picked it up and made fast. It struck him suddenly that it was curious the bishop should be throwing him a rope. Then he reflected that it was the bishop and not himself who needed help.
The former was very gay, his kindly face alight with amusement and anticipation. Presently came a throb from the engine room, and the Evangeline sheered off down the river, past the new St. Marys where staring red brick buildings shouldered up out of the old time houses, past the See Mouse, while a flag fluttered jerkily down from the tall mast at whose top it flew when the bishop was at home, past the American side, where Clark's big power house stretched its gray length at the edge of the river, and on till they came to the long point that closes the upper reach, and just then both men turned and looked up stream at the vanishing bulk of the huge structures beside the rapids, and the flat line of tremulous foam that marked the rapids themselves. The voice of them was, at this distance, mute.
The yacht glided on and still neither spoke, Clark was full of the thought that, for the second time in seven years, he had deliberately left his work. Four hours ago the thing would have seemed grotesque, but glancing at the bishop's broad back, he realized that here was a friendly interceptor to whom he had been wise to yield. The miles slid smoothly by, and still neither talked. Each was busy with the contented reflection that in the other he had found one who possessed the gift of understanding silence.
The Evangeline rested that evening not far from where Clark had anchored so recently. He sat motionless, breathing in the welcome benison of the spot, till the Indian pilot put out port and starboard lamps whose soft red and green shone steadily into the gathering dusk.
"Is there a mission here?" asked the visitor presently.
"No, but there's the best bass fishing in Lake Huron," grunted the bishop placidly, already busy with rods and bait. "The mission is ten miles on. Now we're going to catch our breakfast—there's an excellent spot just opposite that big cedar."
Clark had not fished much, but he loved it, like most men of intellect, and discovered that he had been steered straight into the best fishing he had ever known. They were small mouthed bass, deep of belly and high of back, and they fought in the brown water over the twitching minnows that dangled from the Evangeline bow and stern.
"I'm glad you came." The bishop smoothed down the spines of a big three pounder ere he gripped it.
"Best thing I ever did. Fishing is a clerical pursuit, isn't it?"
The bishop nodded without turning his head. "Yes, but it's not always for money. We have to bait our hooks according to the season of men's minds. By the way, some of my best friends are in your country."
"Yes?"
"Had a church in Chicago for ten years,—there at the time of the great fire—it stopped a few blocks from my house. I had to marry a devoted couple a day or two later and the wedding fee was a bunch of candles. Glad to get them; whole city in darkness and it seemed suitable that the parson's house should reflect light. You remind me of one of my friends at that time."
"Why and how?" said Clark. He knew so little of himself as appearing in other people's minds.
"This man was a big Chicago importer—look out, you've got another bass—and he was in New York at the time of the fire—heard his warehouses were threatened and bought trainloads of stuff and rushed it through. It arrived while the other stuff was still smoking, and he made much more than he— My dear sir, that's the best fish of the evening, let me look at him."
Clark laid the twitching body of a bass on the teak deck, while the big man came aft, trailing his bait and slowly reeling up his line. As the minnow glimmered in towards the yacht's black side, there came a heavy plunge, the bishop's rod bent double, and the line sang off his reel. He was a famous fisherman, and Clark watched him admiringly. To every ounce of pliant bamboo on his six ounce rod there was, down in the brown water, a pound of savagely fighting weight. Deeper went the big fish and further, but ever the taut line yielded by fractions, and the nearly doubled rod kept up a steady insidious strain. As the bass dashed back, the bishop recovered his nearly spent line while his lips pressed tight and the light of battle shone in his large eyes. For a quarter of an hour the fight lasted, till the great fish floundered once or twice with heavy weariness on the surface, and the angler worked him toward the yacht. Then a bare brown arm shot a landing net underneath his horny shoulder and, with a dexterous twist, the Indian pilot landed him on the deck in a thumping tangle of line, leader and net.
"And that," said the bishop with a deep sigh of content, "will do.We've got supper and breakfast as well."
The night deepened, and in the little saloon host and guest sat down to a supper of fried fish, blueberries and cream. The small, red curtains were drawn, and over the tiny fireplace a binnacle lamp glowed softly. Forward in the bows, the Scotch engineer and the Indian pilot sat conversing in deliberate monosyllables, and in the east a horned moon floated just clear of the ragged tops of encircling pine trees. Clark ate slowly and felt the burden slipping from his shoulders. It was a strange sensation. Across the narrow table towered the bishop, the genius of the place. He was still reminiscent of American experiences and talked as talks a man who is comfortably sure of himself and his companion.
"I don't believe I have any very close personal friends," said Clark presently. "I've moved about too quickly to make them. One meets people in the way of work, and so far as my own employees are concerned, I see them chiefly through their work. I can't let the personal element intrude."
The bishop smiled, remembering something similar he had said himself. "Well, I must say I'm particularly drawn to Americans. Perhaps it's because they suit the Irish, but I seem to find in them a certain intellectual generosity one recognizes at once and appreciates. There aren't so many fences to climb over. And, besides, they appear to understand my cloth."
"Yes?" Clark looked up, keenly interested. He had not thought much about the clerical profession.
"It's quite true. They realize that a parson is a man of like predilections and impulses and weaknesses with themselves, and that a cassock does not stifle the natural and healthy ambitions of the male mammal. Nothing is more trying for the cleric than to be put aside as though he were some emasculated ascetic who was unattracted by merely natural things."
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Very few people have, except the cleric; and he thinks of it a good deal. There is even the tendency to believe that the parson, because he is a spiritually minded man, is incapable of horse sense in practical and public affairs. By the way, don't you smoke?"
Clark smiled and shook his head. "I've never wanted to."
"I did once," chuckled the prelate. "It was a big, black cigar inside a hedge about three miles out of Dublin. I've never smoked since. Now, if I may go back to the clerical question, you'll probably realize that a great many mistakes are made."
"I hadn't thought much about that either."
"Probably not, but it's without question that a good many parsons realize in a year or so that they're not up to their job, especially if it's a city congregation. The young and over enthusiastic rector addressing a church full of shrewd, experienced men of affairs is often in a grievous case. I've sat in the chancel and listened and writhed myself. There's many a poor parson who would make a good engineer, and he knows it."
"Then why shouldn't he change over?" Clark was getting new avenues opened for him in hitherto unexplored directions.
"Because he's ashamed to, and the world has the habit of thinking that the man who has once been a parson is not available for anything else. Suppose one of my missionaries came to you for a job—what would happen?"
"I'd send him to you for a letter of recommendation and then put him to work."
"I believe you would, now, but not a month ago."
"That's quite possible."
"Well, you have no conception that envy may, and sometimes does, exist in a black coated breast."
"But why envy?"
"Because devotion to one cause does not stifle natural aspirations in another. For instance I've often longed for time to do some writing, on my own account. One of my traveling preachers has invented a railway switch and I know he dreams of it and makes sketches on the margin of his sermons. No, my dear sir, the public has doubtless classified us, and possibly correctly, but we are still fanciful, and—" the bishop hesitated and broke off.
"Go on, please." Clark's gray eyes were very penetrating and understanding.
"Possibly I've talked too much about the parson, but there's one thing that is often denied him and he longs for it intensely—companionship with his fellow men. The sacrifice of that one thing hurts more than any other privation. And now that this one-sided symposium on the parson must have taxed your good nature, let's go to bed. We lift anchor at seven-thirty, and I go over the side at seven. There's fifteen feet of water here and a sandy bottom, and if you like we'll get a few more bass first. Good night! I think you'll find everything you want in your cabin. Sleep well."
A little later Clark stepped out on deck and breathed in the ineffable serenity of the scene. A ray of moonlight lay along the inlet like a silver line. As he went down to his cabin he noticed that the other's door had swung open. Inside the bishop was kneeling by his narrow bunk, his face buried in his hands, his broad shoulders bent forward in prayer. Clark's breath came a little quickly at the strangeness of it all and, moving on tip toe, he turned the handle softly. In his own cabin, he lay for an hour staring out of the porthole at the dim world beyond. He tried to think of the works, but they receded mysteriously beyond the interlocking branches of the neighboring pines. They seemed, somehow, less imposing than formerly, and Wimperley and Stoughton and the rest of them were a long way off. There came to him the lullulant lapping of water along the smooth black side of the Evangeline. Presently he dropped into the abyss of sleep, dreamless and profound.
The sun was shining level through the tree-tops when they began to fish. In fifteen minutes the bishop called a halt, dipped a bucket of water and washed his hands. Clark, still under the spell of this new friendship, saw the great amethyst of the episcopal ring gleaming softly amid the glint of fish scales, and dimly remembered the story of the Man and the Galilean fisher folk whose catch was poor till He told them where to cast. Presently the bishop stripped and went overboard into the brown water with a clean schloop, where he was instantly followed by his guest.
Here they played like schoolboys, shouting and blowing in utter physical abandonment, while the copper colored pilot stared at them with expressionless eyes and wondered mutely why people wanted to get so wet.
The bishop was like an otter, swimming under water a long way to reappear with a sharp whistle in an unexpected place. Soon the first flush of Clark's enjoyment passed. He felt suddenly tired and turned toward the Evangeline, where a small wooden ladder had been let down just athwart the cabin cockpit. And in that instant he felt a sharp and agonizing pain.
"Help!" he called. "Help!!" A deadly stiffness was stealing from foot to knee.
The bishop heard, rolled over on his back and, treading water, saw Clark's face. The lips were puffed out, the head bent back and he was splashing desperately.
"Hang on to it, I'm coming," roared the big man, and, laying his right shoulder forward; began to tear through the water. Like a tug he came, with a bubble of foam around his head, half his face submerged, his powerful arms and legs working like pistons. Such was the power in him that at each stroke his great body seemed to lift and fling itself forward, and behind him broadened a long, diamond shaped ripple that slid whispering to the shore. The next moment sounded a voice, as from a long way off:
"Put your arms straight out—rest your palms on my shoulders. When I turn, trail your body and don't try to do anything. That's it." The bishop was breathing hard, but not in any way distressed.
They moved toward the yacht and Clark felt beneath his hands the working of big, flexible muscles, and the buoyant surge of the practiced swimmer who glides with the minimum of effort and resistance. In five minutes he was scarifying his skin with a rough towel and tingled with renewing circulation.
"You saved my life that time," he said earnestly.
The bishop pulled his shirt over his head. "Well, that's my business, isn't it? and I fancy it's about the only thing I can do for a man like you. Let's have some breakfast. I smell fish."
Clark, in spite of his late experience, ate as he seldom ate, for there were two things at which Indian Joe was a master—pilotage and cooking. The visitor asked for more, silently deciding that his Japanese must go, being no such artist as this.
"You're using royal silver," said his host presently with a grin. "I bought this boat from the agent of a certain august personage for whom she had grown too small, and I got everything complete. She has a bronze propeller and copper rivets. I've got the royal burgee too, and fly it only on special occasions."
The other man smiled and nodded. It did not somehow seem strange to him to be using royal silver in a remote bay on Lake Huron. Something about the bishop made it appropriate. Then they lifted anchor and the Evangeline moved on under a climbing sun and over a laughing sea for ten miles till she nosed into a creaking dock and made fast. Just beyond was the settlement, from which the parson came hurrying down, followed by others. Clark looked at him, a lean, overworked man, with rusty clothes and joy in his face, and remembered for the first time in his life that here was one fashioned in all ways like unto himself.
"I'm off into the country to visit for a few hours," said the bishop, introducing him. "You can come if you like, but it's not a good road, and I would advise you to stay where you are. Joe will take you fishing and there is plenty to read in the bookshelf. I can recommend Henry Drummond or Marcus Aurelius. Good-by!"
He drove off in a rattling buckboard, and the woods swallowed him. A little crowd had gathered in the dock, glancing after the bishop and then down at the slender deck of the Evangeline. The stranger looked up at them, nodded and disappeared. Presently Joe stretched an awning over the long boom of the main mast, and Clark sat in the shade listening to the silence and surveying this isolated village. What, he wondered, could keep people in so forgotten a community, with its unpaved street, its straggling wooden houses, its background of unbroken bush. There was no water power, no big timber, and, from the look of the country, no mineral. He put the thought out of his mind with luxurious deliberation and tried to decipher why a man like the bishop should waste his time here when, without doubt, he could be a shining light in a great city. After a little the reason became clear, and, smiling to himself, he reached up for Marcus Aurelius.
They supped that night at the parsonage, where they yielded to the stark simplicity of new surroundings. The parson with his wife and children regarded the bishop with their eyes in which love and reverence were clearly mingled. At the stranger they looked a little insecurely, for the bishop had, that afternoon, told who he was. They had heard of him already, and in this remote village his person had been invested with mysterious powers. He was a force of which they read, rather than a living, breathing man, so that however he might try to talk affably and communicably, he found himself hedged about with a spiny growth of fame that the others made but little attempt to penetrate. His garment of authority and influence was too great. He was too big and didn't fit.
Later came service in the bare, wooden church, and for the second time he saw the prelate in robes of office. The sun was setting and its level beams filled the tiny edifice with a softened glow. Overhead the sky was like a benison, while the bishop spoke words of cheer and strength that went straight to the hearts of his congregation. He stood, as he always stood, in front of the chancel, a great figure in white and scarlet, with a deep mellow voice that seemed to dissolve in the hush of evening like a lingering caress. Clark, in his corner, sat motionless, touched as he had seldom been touched before. He began to see why the bishop spent his life in this wilderness.
Service done, the Evangeline moved out over a sea that was sheer, flat silver. Indian Joe sat motionless at the wheel, the spokes pressed lightly against his polished palm. At the engine room hatch a voiceless Scotchman smoked a contemplative pipe, and for the rest of it there was only the muffled thud of the propeller, the subdued stroke of the engine and the whisper of split water at the yacht's knifelike stem. Clark did not speak. It seemed as the yacht slipped on, that he was exploring, a kingdom in which the population and their ways were hitherto unknown to him; a domain that was pathetic rather than poor—and remote from his scheme of things. He had given this phase of life no thought till the bishop introduced him to it, and was puzzled that both men and women could be so deprived of the salt of life and yet be apparently content. The bishop's voice broke his reverie.
"Did you ever consider how much those with imagination owe to those who have none?"
Clark started a little, then shook his head. "No, I haven't."
"Isn't it true?"
"It may be—but I don't see what there is to create any obligation."
"Well, you're discharging it every day. You create things primarily for yourself, but actually what you do is to create opportunities for others less endowed with imaginative power. And whatever may be the ultimate scope or result of your work at St. Marys, that is the highest service it will ever perform. And, by the way, my friends seemed a little afraid of you at supper, though I assured them you were perfectly harmless. Do you mind telling me if you got any impressions?"
"About the events of the day?"
"Partly. I'm wondering just what people like these suggest to a man of your sort. Is it all very drab and uneventful?"
"Well," said Clark thoughtfully, "it is something like that, isn't it?"
"I thought so once, but that's just what I don't now admit, and urge that this is a case where we should consider comparative values. Satisfaction is not, after all, so much a matter of the size or quality of the thing that satisfies, as it is of the individual who is affected and his circumstances. Small joys go a long way on Manitoulin Island."
"But are people who live like this not conscious of any deprivation?"
"It's not so much that as it is wonder what it would be like to own certain things or comforts. You don't find much envy in the bush country, but you do find a lot of self-respect. I could tell you things about some Indian friends of mine that would clear your mind, if you happen to think that the only good Indian is a dead one. It seems to me that life in the open, even though a great part of it is spent in exposure and hardship, has certain spiritual compensations."
Clark nodded. "Perhaps."
"Put it this way; you deal with many kinds of men, but do you not always feel better disposed toward a simple soul, say like our friend Fisette, than toward some shrewd person who arms himself at every conceivable point?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well, that's what I feel about my people. Most of them are unarmed and they trust me, and anything I can do seems small in comparison to that trust. You've got a trust too, my friend."
Clark smiled. "That's what my directors lose no opportunity of telling me."
"But who or what is your Director?" asked the bishop, leaning forward earnestly. "You needn't be anxious, I'm not going to sermonize. Your Director is the same as mine, the great Force, call it what you will. It drove me into the church and drove you to what you are, and our first trust is to ourselves—you'll agree with me there—and with that undischarged nothing else can be carried out. Just at this moment I wish I were as competent for my job as you are for yours."
"But, bishop, you're—"
The big man raised his hand. "Not a word, for tonight I feel like Browning's Bishop Blougram who 'rolled him out a mind long crumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth.' It does me good to rub out the wrinkles occasionally. Now tell me, looking back at the last few years in St. Marys, do you appreciate what you've done?"
"I haven't had much time to look back," said Clark thoughtfully. "The opportunity was there and I took it, then I was fortunate enough to enlist the necessary support. Since that time the district seems to have responded to every conceivable need, and we have been able to fall in step with a natural scheme for developing natural resources, that's all."
The bishop shook his head. "Not quite: it's a great drama you're enacting up there, with the rapids for a setting. They run through it all, don't they?—the changeless, elemental background before which man climbs up on the stage, makes his bow, enacts his part and gives place to some one else. You are sending out multitudes of influences that will never be determined or traced to their result. You once told me that it all began when you overheard a conversation in a train."
"Yes," Clark paused, then added with a laugh, "an example of the importance of small things. You've made your point, bishop."
"Thank you, but I've never been able to decide whether a thing is small or not. Some of the things that you and I prize very highly may actually be of small account."
For a while Clark did not answer. Ever since coming on board the Evangeline he had been conscious of a new atmosphere, tenanted by the spirit of her master, and of a new language which, though its tones were familiar, seemed to be the vehicle of a novel wisdom and understanding. He was impressed with the utter candor of his host, but chiefly with his superlative sympathy with all men. The visitor fell under the influence of a benign nature which, intensely human in all its attributes, proffered its solace to all alike. It was, he concluded, the life function of the bishop to give himself in royal abandonment.
He did not often put himself in the place of other men, but that night, after the Evangeline had slid into a moon spilt harbor amongst the hills, and the bishop explained that he had come here because poor people were apt to overtax themselves in entertaining, the visitor lay on the cock pit cushions and stared long at the starry sky. Nothing important was to be attached to this trip, and yet he felt it to be momentous. He knew he would always remember it, and that the memory would hereafter assert itself in unexpected moments. He admitted being influenced by the bishop and yet felt equipped for all that he had to do without any such influence. But there crept over him the slow conception that life might unexpectedly change, and that under hitherto unimagined conditions he might turn to these hours for the comfort of remembrance.
Three more days of missionary work and the Evangeline turned homeward,Clark took the wheel for an hour, with the bishop beside him.
"I hope," said the latter, "that the trip has been a success for you?"
The amateur pilot gave an involuntary start. The question pitched his mind forward to the works, and he realized that for five days he had forgotten all about them.
"It has been a very great pleasure to me," went on the prelate quietly. "I'm apt to have too much broadcloth and not enough gray tweed in my life. Most of us are in the same case, and one's love of one's work does not suffer by an interest in other things."
"My dear sir, I've benefited enormously. I'm a new man and ready for anything—even the worst." How little did he dream that at that very moment Lachesis was spinning her invisible web.
"Ah! that's what we must always be ready for—or the best, which is sometimes the same thing. Keep her to port a little."
The yacht rounded a long point and came in sight of the works, while Clark experienced a throb of thankfulness that his host had attempted no missionary work on him. He was as good as his word. There had been no proselytizing.
As the vessel reached the dock, they said good-by, each ready to do his job over again, and Clark, with his hand enveloped in the warm clasp, realized much of the secret of the prelate's life, which was no secret at all but just the benignity of a great and tender soul. He stepped over the yacht's side and glanced at his secretary who advanced to meet him with a telegram in his hand, noting that the young man's face was pale and his eyes unusually brilliant.
"This came an hour ago, sir."
With an impatient gesture he opened the folded sheet and read, his heart slowly contracting:
Regret unable to accept first cargo of rails being five thousand tons. These not up to your guarantee and our specifications. Full information this mail with the result of physical and chemical tests.
Involuntarily he raised his head. The yacht was backing out, and the bishop, coiling a rope in her bows, straightened up to wave farewell. Automatically Clark waved back, then, with the telegram crumpled in his palm, turned and walked slowly toward his office. Something the bishop had said began to sing in his brain. Could the best and the worst ever be the same thing?
The paralyzing news had lain in the faithful keeping of a confidential operator and the white faced secretary who had guarded it jealously. The latter followed to the private office. When the door was closed in his face, he went to his own desk and sat blindly at his letters. Clark stood at a big window that commanded the rapids. Deep lines were furrowed suddenly on his face, and his eyes were like sunken bits of cold, gray steel. He felt the gentle vibration of the mills, and through it pierced the words of the telegram like a thin sharp voice that would not be denied. It was fully an hour later that his call sounded for the secretary.
"The rail mill will be closed shortly for temporary alteration. If you are asked anything about it—and you will be—that is all you know. This means that the furnaces must be blown down. I don't anticipate any serious delay. You will repeat this telegram to Philadelphia, and add that I will report more fully in the next twenty-four hours. There's just one thing more. A good deal of importance will attach to your manner and attitude for the next few days. That's all."
The young man nodded, finding it difficult to speak. There was nothing unusual about his leader, except that the eyes were a little more deep set, the voice a shade harder.
A few moments later, Clark stood in the rail mill watching the titanic rolls spew out ribbons of glowing steel. It came over him in a sickening flood that the whole giant undertaking was useless, and instead of the supreme delight he experienced a few months before there was now but a huge mechanical travesty that flouted the unremitting strain and effort of years. He was defacing the everlasting hills with dynamite to make something the commercial world did not want. A surge of protest overcame his spirit, followed by a cynical contempt for the futility of the best efforts of man. Impatiently he walked up to the superintendent of the mill.
The latter touched a grimy hat. "We're on the last ten thousand tons for the United," he said with a note of pride—"the mill's running fine."
"It may be," snapped Clark acidly, "but shut it down. Your rails are no good."
The other man blinked at him. "Eh?"
"Do what you're told," repeated Clark with the least shake in his dominant voice. "The United doesn't want these rails, though some one else will."
Over the superintendent's sooty face crept a look of blank amazement. "Shut down! why?" he floundered helplessly. "I can't, till this heat is through, and there's nothing the matter with the rails."
"Other people say there is, so get the heat through and obey orders."Then, with sudden anger, "Is the job too big for you?"
He turned away abruptly, passing the whirling flywheel, the ponderous cylinders, the glowing ovens, while above him the traveling crane moved like a whining monster across the blackened roof. He hastened, desirous of getting out of the presence of these giants whom he had assembled only in order that they might deride him with their massive proportions.
So on to the towering masses of the furnaces. Here he saw poured a molten charge, and stood fascinated, as always, by the smooth and deadly gleam of molten metal, till, curtly, the same orders were issued. No further charges should be fed in before orders to that effect. Then back to his office, where he cancelled shipments of coke, and sent to the iron mine a curt word that stilled the boom of dynamite and silenced the sharp chatter of the drills.
Gradually through the works spread the chilling news. A slowly thickening stream of Swedes, Poles and Hungarians filed out of the big gates, and Ironville was, in mid-afternoon, populated with a puzzled multitude that repaired automatically to the saloons. Through pulp mills and machine shops, through power and pumping stations, the story went, growing as rapidly as it spread. Time keepers heard it and office clerks, and the crews of tugs and steamships that lay at the big dock below the works. And while rumors were widening every minute, there was a knock at Clark's door and, looking up, he saw the comptroller who stood quietly, with a check for the week's payroll in his hand.
"How much?" The voice was admirably impersonal.
"One hundred and ten thousand." The comptroller was a short fat man, and at the moment quivering with suppressed excitement.
The general manager scribbled his initials on the blue slip, handed it back without a word, and did not even look up as the official went out. A few minutes later he walked slowly through the pulp mill, stopping here and there to speak to superintendents and workmen. The swishing rasp of the great stones and the steady rumble of turbines brought him a sense of comfort. He progressed deliberately, and with his usual keen interest, so that, although hundreds of eyes followed him, not a man could assume that anything had gone seriously wrong. It was an hour in which he found and radiated confidence. Here, at least, was the universal conclusion that all was as it should be. He was on the bank of the power canal when his secretary approached again.
"What is it this time?"
"Hobbs is at the bank with the payroll check, and has just telephoned up. I think you'd better speak to him, sir."
Clark's lips pressed tight and his eyes opened a little. Retracing his steps, he listened to an agitated voice.
"Mr. Brewster states he has no authority to cash this check unless we cover our overdraft. He would like to talk to you."
"Let him."
Again the receiver spoke, while Clark's face grew suddenly very grim."I think you'd better come up and see me," he said shortly.
Then he listened. "Very well," he snapped. His features were like a mask. "I'm going down to the bank," he went on dryly to the secretary, "for the first time in his life Mr. Brewster is unable to leave his office and come up to mine when invited."
He drove into St. Marys followed by the glances of every man and woman who caught sight of the erect figure. The town was full of confused and conflicting rumors, but nothing had as yet crystallized. The appearance of Clark in mid afternoon at the door of the bank, thickened the air. It was known that people with whom he did business invariably went to him. Not in years had he been to Brewster. But for all of that he seemed as cheerful as usual, and took off his gray hat to Mrs. Worden with accustomed and somewhat formal urbanity. Inside he found Hobbs, his round, soft face looking unhealthily pallid, and Brewster with his jaw stuck out, a determined expression on his young features.
"Well, what's the trouble?"
"Nothing very serious." Brewster spoke with a pleasant accent, but he was confronting the most difficult hour of his life. "Just this check."
"What about it?"
"I can't make any further advances till your present acceptances are met in Philadelphia. We have half a million of them."
"That payroll has got to be disbursed."
"I'm sorry, but I can't cash that check."
The lines on the older man's face tightened and deepened. "Mr. Brewster, we have spent some fifteen millions of capital through your bank. This amount is too small to discuss. Do you realize that, if you persist, the men will go unpaid for the first time in seven years?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't help that." The young manager began to feel more fortified.
"Is this because there's a temporary interruption at the rail mill?" said Clark bitterly. "You're assuming a big responsibility."
"I regret that I can give no reasons, and am only doing what seems best in the interest of the bank. If the acceptances are met,—and the first falls due two weeks from to-day—our head office will probably authorize a further advance, provided we are secured. Under the circumstances your Philadelphia office should take care of this matter."
"And this is your last word?" snapped Clark with emphasis.
But Brewster had by this time completely pulled himself together. The most trying moment was passed, and for once the mesmeric influence had failed. He felt behind him the authority of Thorpe and his own directors, and revolted at the thought of imperiling his own record.
"You understand," came in Clark's voice, "what happens when men are not paid—especially the type of many of our employees. The Swede and Hungarian are apt to be ugly. Further—an unpaid payroll has a bad effect on a company's securities, to say nothing of the effect on business confidence in St. Marys. You have, of course, weighed all this."
Brewster's eyes were very grave and his face flushed. "I'm sorry, butI'm doing what I take to be my duty," he said with a desperate effort.
The older man's mood changed as though in a flash. "In that case I've nothing more to say." He got up. "Come on, Hobbs, Mr. Brewster seems immovable. We'll have to wire Philadelphia for the money." With that he went briskly out.
The banker looked after him in wonderment. The poignant instant was over, and he pondered whether, after all, he had done right. His cipher message sent to Toronto as soon as the news from the works reached him, was still unanswered, but, he reflected, he had tried to act on what he believed to be Thorpe's judgment as well as his own. Should the telegram for which he waited not confirm his decision, there was time enough to apprise Clark of the fact that night. And just then the mayor entered the office and sat down, mopping his face.
"What about it?" he demanded presently.
"I don't know any more than you do—possibly not as much."
"Well," said Filmer absently, "there's a lot going round. Some have it the works are seized for debt, others that there's a mistake in the rails, others that the Philadelphia directors have resigned. Anyway half the thing seems to have stopped."
"Not half of it, just the iron and steel section."
"Yes, but that's the big end of the whole show. It was expected to carry the burden."
"It's still there, isn't it?" said Brewster fretfully.
The mayor glanced at him quickly. Something in the voice suggested that the bank was involved and that the thing was getting on Brewster's nerves. "I hope you're all right," he answered evenly, "but I'm carrying more stuff than I like to think of just now."
He departed feeling quite obviously rather balked of his desire for inside information. Just outside he met Dibbott.
"I saw Mr. Clark just now," said the latter. "He doesn't seem at all worried. Of course you've heard the news?"
Filmer nodded. "Yes, and I've a feeling we're going to hear more before long. Haven't got any Consolidated stock have you?"
"Stock! Never owned a share in my life, but I've a good mind to sell my place now while the price is up. Look at that, will you!"
The street cars coming down from the works were bulging with the population of Ironville, who had inconsequently decided to take the holiday in St. Marys. Hundreds of them were dressed in Sunday best and bent on an outing; big Slovaks and Poles whose horny fists gripped the platform rail while they smoked cheap cigars with gaudy labels and chattered volubly to each other. It was good to be out of Ironville.
On the way down they passed Clark, and with boyish abandon waved their hats in greeting, Clark smiled back and whirled on. The sight of them provoked the question in his mind and brought it closer. What if these men were not paid next week, as they were promised? Returning to his office, he devoted himself to innumerable details affecting the iron works. To shut them down was not so simple a thing as he anticipated. They had acquired a momentum it was difficult to arrest. Then, wiring in code to Philadelphia for his requirements in cash, he went up to the big house on the hill and shut himself from all intruders.
On the terrace, overlooking river and works, he walked ceaselessly up and down, irritated but not alarmed. Some foreign substance had got into the delicate wheels of progress, and the machine was for the moment out of adjustment. From where he stood the works were visible, and while he missed the long illumination of the rail mill and the pyramidal flame of the converters, there still sparkled the pulp mill with its long, lighted windows and the gleam of water in the tail race. Twenty-four hours ago he was sitting on the deck of the Evangeline with the genial bishop. Now he was very much alone. What would Wimperley and the rest do in such an emergency? He had never seen them in a corner. His reverie was interrupted by a message that Manson desired to see him.
"Riots?" said Clark to himself, then aloud, "Bring him here."
The big man came up, extending a friendly hand. Clark had a curious dislike for physical, personal contact, even of the slightest, but now overcame it with difficulty and motioned his visitor to a chair. The latter sat speechless.
"Well, Mr. Manson?" Clark asked when the silence became too perceptible.
"I came to ask you if there were any prospects of trouble at the works," said the latter presently. He spoke jerkily, and in a note far removed from the deep boom of his usual voice.
"Why should you expect any trouble because pay day is postponed for a week?"
Manson lifted his heavy lids. "Is it only for a week?"
Clark got up and paced the terrace, his head thrust forward, his hands behind his back. There was that in the visitor's manner which puzzled him. The evident agitation and discomfort, the anxious moving of the thick arms, the constant shifting of the feet, all pointed to something that struck deeper than the possibility of a riot. And Manson, he had reason to know, was no coward.
"I anticipate that it will be less than a week. How many men have you?"
"Thirty, and myself."
"We have twenty guards at the works, also, if need be, there's the local militia."
"Have you ever seen them?" said the chief constable contemptuously.
"No, but the law is behind them and a certain amount of discipline," then, his voice changing abruptly, "Mr. Manson, are you afraid?"
The big man stared at him as though fascinated. His dark face began to work convulsively in an obvious attempt to voice that which disturbed him. Clark watched it all.
"Well," he said with ill concealed impatience, "if it's not an imaginary riot that's troubling you, I'll say good evening. I'm rather busy at the moment."
At that Manson half lifted himself out of his chair and leaned forward."It's the works," he whispered huskily, "are they all going to hell?"
Clark stared at him in open astonishment. It was an absurd thing that at this moment he should be subjected to a visit from a man who had never believed in him, but who was now evidently torn by anxiety at the thought of his failure. There came a swift and silent suggestion, but the thing was too remote.
"Mr. Manson," he said slowly, "you never took any stock in me or my efforts, so why worry?"
"But that's just what I did do," croaked the constable, reddening to his temples. "I invested all I could and," he added dully, "I've got it now."
"Ah! so that's it?"
"And I'd be grateful if you could tell me—"
"So you said one thing and did another!" The tones were like a knife. "Well, that's your privilege, and none of my affair, and," he concluded curtly, "I don't care to discuss it. Good evening."
But Manson was on his feet, too desperate to be denied. "It's not your affair what I may have said or done? I'm a shareholder—a large one. I've a right to come here and ask you a question. It's nothing unreasonable—and you'll answer it." He stood over the smaller man, dark and threatening.
Clark laughed in his face, till, with that extraordinary perception which so frequently cleft to the essential essence of things, he perceived that there was that which was more important than the fact that Manson had been speculating and would certainly be bitten. His attitude in public was worth something—at any rate in St. Marys. Known universally as a critic and pessimist, it would be notable if now, in the time of crisis, he became a supporter. Manson as a shareholder did not matter, but officially he did matter. Very swiftly Clark ran over this in his mind, while the big man waited, no longer a menace but only a straw borne by the flood which was the creation of Clark's imagination. There was no doubt in the latter's mind as to the ultimate solution of present difficulties. He still believed, as he always believed, in himself, in the country and in his enterprise. So, very deliberately, he began to talk.
"You have asked me a very extraordinary question—that is from you—but it appears," here the voice was a little sardonic, "that you had more confidence in me than you admitted. Now you ask about the future. I tell you that I never had more faith in the final outcome of affairs than I have at this moment. There have been difficulties of which the public knew nothing—and this is the only one which has become common knowledge. Do you expect any one to build up a concern like this without anxious moments? You know what St. Marys was seven years ago, and I remember very distinctly your attitude toward myself. It has taken seven years," here once more the voice was full of contempt—"seven years and a crisis, to convert you. Speculators will doubtless take advantage of this interruption, but I am confident that long after you and I have passed on, steel rails will still be rolled at the works. Good evening."
Manson muttered something unintelligible, and moved off down the long hill that led to St. Marys. For the first time in his life he believed in Clark, believed in him in that hour when the faith of thousands was being shaken. He had no conception what a pigmy unit he himself was in the multitude who followed their remarkable leader. He had no grasp of the fundamentals of which Clark confidently took hold in the time of stress. He did not wonder who else was in like case with himself. He only knew that this man had thrown him the end of a rope, and he grasped at it with all the strength of his soul, and had no intentions of loosening his hold.
Later that evening he went in to see Filmer, whose office lights were on, and here found Dibbott and Worden. The three were talking earnestly, and as the broad figure loomed in the doorway Dibbott gave a dry laugh.
"Our pessimist's reputation is looking up. Have you come to crow?"
Manson shook his head and told them very briefly of his visit. There was no mention of his own speculation. "So after all, the thing is probably all right," he concluded. "At any rate, Clark doesn't seem worried, so why should we?"
Filmer gave vent to a low whistle. "Hypnotized at last!"
"No," said Manson, flushing, and went on to promulgate the reasons for his hopes. The others said nothing, but he could see they were impressed. Presently he went out on a midnight round of inspection, and, as the door closed behind him, Worden nodded thoughtfully.
"For the first time in seven years he seems reasonable in this connection. After all, if we get off the handle it will be a mighty bad example. How about it, Mr. Mayor?"
"Well," said Filmer, caressing his glossy whiskers, "I always believed in Clark and I guess I do now. If he were trying to make money for himself out of this thing we'd know it, but he isn't. Gentlemen, the judge is right—we've got to hold the town together."
On the corner they met Bowers, the Company's solicitor, who was walking slowly home smoking a peaceful cigar.
"What's this?" he said, grinning. "Looks like old times to see you three together."
Filmer had a sudden thought. "Do any of you chaps remember what anniversary this is?"
The others searched their brains and gave it up.
"Seven years ago to-night there was a certain notable meeting in the town hall."
"And now there's one in the corner. We've come down in the world," put in Dibbott.
"Possibly, but possibly not. I was just thinking of all that has happened in seven years. It should prevent us from getting rattled." The mayor turned to Bowers, "Seen Clark to-day?"
"Haven't seen or heard of him for three days," answered the lawyer shortly—then, because he wanted to avoid being pumped, "good night—I'm for my blameless couch."
They looked after him and at each other. "Seen Belding?" asked Dibbott of the judge.
"No, he's down in Chicago. I think he's buying machinery. Now it's late and if I don't go home too, I'll get into trouble." He turned towards the old house by the river, and halted a few steps off. "Good night, you fellows, I feel better."
Thus it came that while a brooding, gray eyed man paced his terrace with his eyes fixed on the far white line of the rapids, whose call was indistinguishable at this distance, there was spreading almost under the shadow of the works a novel spirit of confidence in himself and his vast enterprise. It was not till a sudden question arose, that St. Marys realized the prodigious meaning of their new city and how lavishly all Clark's promises had been redeemed. In the hour of anxiety they leaned on him more than ever before. This new birth—this upholding trust—was conceived at the very moment when Wimperley and the others were gathered in harassed counsel, and through Philadelphia and the surrounding state was broadening a dark cloud of rumor that carried swift fear to thousands of hearts. But it was not fear that came to the keen brain of Henry Marsham.
By eleven that night Clark had heard nothing from his head office. The strain became too great, and he went into a little room off the library where an extension of the private wire had been carried up from the works. There was once a time when he could send and receive in the Morse code, so now he sat down and laid a somewhat uncertain finger on the tilting key.
"Phil — Phil — Phil."
Instantly and to his surprise, came the reply.
"Sma — Sma — Sma."
"Is — Wimp — there?" The thing began to come a little easier.
"Yes."
"Tell — Wimp — I — want — answer — funds — for — payroll."
Clark got this off laboriously, conscious that however clear might be the message, the wire was a poor transmitter as compared to eye and voice.
"Wimp — says — meeting — going — on — now — cannot — act — before — to-morrow — Get that."
"Yes," flashed the plunging reply.
"Wimp — waiting — your — report — defect — in — rails."
Clark's brows wrinkled and he bent over the key.
"Cannot — send — report — till — several — chemical — anal — anal — "
"Yes — analyses — I — get — you — are — complete — is — that — it."
"Yes." Clark breathed a sigh of relief. His brow was wet.
"When — will — that — be — Wimp — asks."
"Three — days."
"Wimp — says — hurry — up — things — shaky — here — expect — attack — by — bears — have tried — to — place — rails — elsewhere — but — not — successful. Wimp — says — good night."
Clark's eyes sparkled with anger and he hammered the key. There were other things he wanted to say—and must say. But for all his repeated calls there was only silence, till in an interval, while he rubbed his throbbing fingers, the receiver began to tilt.
"Wimp — says — good night —" it announced with metallic finality.
He got up and stood staring at the thing for a moment, his face heavy with anger, the group in Wimperley's office vividly before him. He could see the cold features of Birch, sharpened by the tenseness of the hour into a visage bloodless and inflexible, with thin tight lips and narrow expressionless eyes. He could see Stoughton, red with discomfort and resentment; Riggs' excited and anxious little face, and Wimperley himself, cast with a new severity; all supremely conscious of that which probably must be faced on the morrow. And what about Marsham? Tottering was now their faith in the essential future of the works and the great cycle of their operations. The wire had transmitted their decisions, but over its yellow filament had also trickled their apprehension. With a touch of cynicism he recalled the congratulatory messages—the very first it had carried.
He went out on the terrace again, seeking the black bulk of the rail mill in the medley of structures down at the works. Presently he found and scrutinized it. Somewhere in its gloom lurked an error, or else in the great furnaces that shouldered nakedly into the moonlit air. With a sudden sense of fatigue, he turned to his bedroom.
"At any rate the chief constable is with me," he soliloquized sardonically, "and that's something."
In five minutes he was sleeping profoundly.
Around the neck of every great industrial undertaking is hung a chain of unlovely parasites, who fatten on the interruptions to its progress and the fluctuations in its success. These men create nothing—contribute nothing. Playing on the fears and hopes and untempered weakness of the public, they reap where they do not sow and feed the speculative appetite of millions. To them it is negligible whether good men go down or honest effort is rewarded. Predatory by nature and unscrupulous in action, they prey upon their fellows, and, like the wolf, are strangers to mercy and compassion. Their wealth is not an asset to the world, because it represents nothing they have originated, but only that which they have filched from others less shrewd and unscrupulous. They do not hesitate to magnify the false or to bring to ruin what they find most profitably assailable. They have respect for neither genius nor labor, but juggle with the efforts of both in a fierce game for gold.
As the gong struck on the Philadelphia Exchange next morning, a well known operator associated with Marsham's firm threw five thousand shares of Consolidated on the market. It was taken at forty-eight, a loss of two points, and in that first transaction the value of the entire enterprise shrank by half a million.
A moment later, Wimperley knew of it and sent for Birch, but Birch, who had been just as speedily informed, was already on his way. He came in, a little paler than usual. On his heels arrived Stoughton and Riggs.
They were in the padded seclusion of the president's inner office, while two blocks away swelled a storm, whose echoes only reached them in the sharp staccato of the ticker in the corner as it vomited a strip of white paper. Wimperley stood there, the strip slipping between his fingers, while selling orders began to pour in to Philadelphia, and the price of Consolidated crumbled like dust. He could visualize the scene on the floor of the Exchange, the frenzy of men smitten with sudden fear, and the deliberate cold-blooded action of others who lent their weight to this downfall. Marsham was very busy. Greater grew the flood, with sales of so great quantities of stock that they perceived the market was going boldly short. Then came an avalanche of small holdings, till the ticker announced that it had fallen behind the record of transactions and that Consolidated was now offered at thirty-five with no bidders. This was three-quarters of an hour after the Exchange opened.
Stoughton and the others sat quite motionless. The thing was too big for them to grasp at once, but they had a dull sense that the foundation stones of their great pyramid were shifting, that the gigantic structures at St. Marys were dissolving into something phantom-like and tenuous. At this juncture a message was brought in from Clark.
Hear market is very weak. Please buy five thousand for me by way of support.
Wimperley read and handed it silently to Riggs. The little man swallowed a lump in his throat. "By God!" he said unsteadily, "but he's got sand, no doubt about it."
"What's that?" Stoughton demanded dully, and, reaching out, glanced at the telegram. "Why throw Robert Fisher to the wolves? They're doing well enough as it is," he grunted, and relapsed into a brooding silence.
Then began to arrive inquiries from country banks and cancellations from country subscribers. Wimperley read them out as they came in, and, well informed though he was of the wide distribution of Consolidated stock, experienced a slow amazement at the broad range of his followers. Their messages were indignant, despairing, threatening and pathetic. He began to wonder why he had accepted a responsibility which was now for the first time unveiled in such startling proportions. Yesterday the Consolidated was a name to conjure with. To-day it was an epitome of human fear and desperation.
Ten seconds before the noon gong struck on the Exchange, a frantic broker lifted a bull like voice above the uproar.
"Sell five thousand consol at thirty-two, thirty-two!" He bellowed it out raucously. The selling order had been flashed from Toronto.
"Taken at thirty-two," snapped Marsham's operator, who had opened the perilous game that morning, and, smiling, jotted a note on his cuff. He had made just eighty thousand dollars on that one transaction. The market strengthened a little in the afternoon on short covering, the matter of investment being thrown to the winds. Consolidated was now a gambling counter, and the closing quotation stood at thirty-five. Former values had shrunk by some eight millions. Gone was that laborious upbuilding into which Clark and the rest had thrown their very souls; overcast were the efforts of seven years. It was, to most people, a question of what might be made of what was left. The works remained, but, the public concluded, the iron and steel section, the heart of the thing, was unsound. Such is the communicable essence of fear.
At ten minutes after three the directors met to face a situation which was, in all truth, serious enough. Philadelphia banks, smarting from loans made on Consolidated stock, had declined further credit. The first payment of a million dollars for steel rails was indefinitely deferred. Creditors, galvanized by the events of the day, poured in ceaseless demands that their accounts be liquidated, but moneys due the Consolidated for pulp had been realized and diverted into the building of railways and the construction of the rail mill. Birch, his face very grave, ran over all this in a level monotone of a voice, while the rest wearily admitted its truth, and in the middle of the rehearsal a message was brought in from Clark.
Greatly regret events of to-day but am unshakenly confident for the future, given sufficient time to remedy defect in rails which should not take long. Chemical analyses show too high carbon and this can be rectified. Now awaiting remittance for payroll.
Wimperley read it without a trace of accentuation, while Stoughton got up and stared, as once before, at the sky line of Philadelphia.
"Well," drawled Birch dryly, "we've heard from our prophet."
"He's got more confidence in our future than we have in his past," put inRiggs.
Stoughton turned, "What about the payroll?"
"If you have a million or so to spare, we'll send it up. There's more to be met than the payroll." The voice was a trifle insulting, but Stoughton did not notice it, and Birch went on. "There's just one thing we can do, if we can't get money to run."
"Well?" jerked out Riggs, "say it."
"Shut down."
Wimperley's long fingers were drumming the table. He did not fancy himself as the president of a great company in whose works not a wheel was turning.
"I'd like to find some other way out of it. There's going to be hell to pay here, but—"
"Perhaps the ingenious gentleman at St. Marys could help out," said Birch acidly.
At that came a little silence and there appeared the vision of Clark in his office, with his achievements dissolving before his eyes.
"Robert Fisher is no financier," struck in Stoughton wearily.
Wimperley smiled in spite of himself. "Perhaps not, but he mesmerized us into that office. There's only one thing I can see—issue debentures secured by first mortgage."
"Who'll take 'em? We used up all our arguments long ago. Philadelphia doesn't want a mortgage on Robert Fisher, and what about the Pennsylvania farmer?"
"What about him?" asked Wimperley pettishly.
"As I know him, he's a bad loser—he works too hard for it. This is a case of new money from outside, and I for one don't feel like doing any traveling."
"In other words we've demonstrated that whether or not by any fault of ours, we've made a mess of it," said Stoughton with utter candor.
"Something remarkably like it."
"And when Clark told us, months ago, that he wouldn't draw any salary, and that a lot of others were only drawing half salary to help out till the rail mill got going, we should have made provision for possible mistakes, and seen as well that we were getting in over our ears."
"But Clark believed all he told us," piped Riggs with a flash of loyalty.
"Of course he did, and he still does, and because he is still only twenty years ahead of his time he's all the more dangerous."
"Let's get back to this payroll," blurted Stoughton who was getting more and more uncomfortable.
"Fishing's pretty good up there, let him fish for it." The voice of Birch was like ice. He was one of those who by nature are fitted for cold and ruthless action in time of stress. Most of his money had been made across the dissecting table of enterprises, and not at their birth. He was a financial surgeon, but no midwife, and had only been magnetized into his past support by the hypnotic personality of Clark. He was grimly mindful that Marsham, after waiting for years for his opening, had got more than even. Birch's cold mind now wondered for the first time whether, after all, the cut throat game he had once loved to play was worth the candle. Here was American credit and effort massacred by American ruthlessness and revenge. Marsham had pounced upon a weak point in the Consolidated's armor and pierced deep into the body corporate. He had struck to kill.
"And would you shut down the pulp mill—market's good now?" persistedStoughton.
"I'd rivet the whole thing tight. The railway never paid,—at least directly—that we could reckon. It's costing more to ship pulp on our own boats than the rate at which we could ship by contract—and if they are not going to bring back coke, why run them? Gentlemen, this means a smash—an interval of anxiety, discomfort, loss of prestige, and—"