That settles it,” exclaimed Halloran, tossing a letter on the desk.
Crosman looked up.
“We've placed our last order for lumber this season,” said Halloran.
“Have the Trust people waked up?”
“Yes. Our Oconomowoc man writes that they refuse to sell him another foot unless they're assured that it won't come to us. They're pretty late about it. We've got nearly all we want. Well, that ends it, anyhow. The next thing is to get it all in. There's no use paying storage to all those fellows now that we're found out. I wish you'd see about getting both steamers off as soon as you can—send them to Chicago and Milwaukee, where we have the biggest lots. We'll write for steamers and schooners for the other towns.”
“Can we get it all in the yards? There's a lot here now.”
“Got to. It will crowd up close to the mills, but we can't help it.”
“That will raise the insurance premium—clear up to the mill rate.
“I know it.”
“Do you want me to go ahead with the insurance?”
“No; not yet. Speak to me again about it in a day or so. This lumber isn't going to help us out very far if we let all our profits go out in storage and commissions and carriage and insurance. I don't know but what we'll have to carry it ourselves. It isn't just the weather I'd have picked out—but this business isn't of our choosing, anyway. I'd like to find out how much old G. Hyde knows about us. I don't believe he's got on the track of the whole stock.”
And so the order went out to concentrate all the lumber at Wauchung; and at the flying word, passing from house to house, that at last there was to be work at the yards, Wauchung stirred and aroused. Again men came flocking to the office, shouldering peavies and cant-hooks and clamouring for employment. Sailors appeared to man the steamers and were set to scrubbing and polishing. Coal-wagons rumbled through the yards to the wharves, bringing food for the furnaces. Men went about grinning and joking and slapping backs heartily, and swapping yams about the Old Gentleman in his palmy days, ten and twenty years before. Robbie MacGregor appeared, fatter than ever after his enforced idleness, growling at all the known works of the Creator, and refusing to speak civilly to any one until he had let himself into his greasy blue overalls and was free to finger his levers, and dress down the oilers, and swear gloriously at the new hands in the stoke-room.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Halloran,” said Captain Craig, when he reached the office. “When are we to start?”
“To-night, if you have your men. MacGregor's on hand now, getting up steam.”
“Good for Robbie.”
“By the way, Captain, I'll try to have some work for George as soon as the first lot of lumber gets in.”
“That's good. You'll find him ready for you. I'll be glad to get started again myself—it's been a mean pull; and there just wasn't any getting along with Robbie. I never saw him so down. Dry weather, isn't it.”
“Yes, better for you than for us. Are you going to let Bigelow steal your men off you this trip?”
“I hardly think so.”
“You may have a chance yet—you're to go to Chicago.”
The Captain smiled dryly. He was in fine mettle now; his clear eyes and sound colour belied his wrinkles and the white streaks in his hair.
“I wish he'd try it,” he replied. “We'll be glad to hear from him any time.”
Late that afternoon the two steamers swung away from the wharves, one after the other, steamed out through the channel, passed the life-saving station and the lighthouse, and headed, the Higginson Number 1, sou'west-by-south toward Chicago, the Number 2 sou'west toward Milwaukee, to bring in the first loads of lumber. And a thrill went through the yards, where there were a few men at work, and passed on to the long lines of waiting labourers outside, as the shouts of the officers and the rumble of the engines and the wash of the propellers sounded through the dry autumn air. The mills were still silent the little world that depended almost for its existence on the movements of that machinery was still suffering from poverty and idleness, was still facing the possibility of a winter without employment; but somehow the sight of the two steamers once more plowing up the water of the harbour, of the blue smoke once more spreading low over the sand-dunes and over the sparkling lake that stretched beyond, spoke to them of new life at the Higginson yards. If the steamers were started out after the long wait, why might not the mills be soon humming and singing again, why might not the ax again flash and strike in the forest, and the songs of the river gang again ring down the long reaches of pine-edged water? The possibility was in the thoughts of them all as their eyes followed the steamers far out into the lake, and lingered on the fading smoke long after the boats themselves had dropped over the southwestern horizon. It was something to be moving again; and every one was a little more cheerful that evening for what they had seen and felt.
Now that the steamers were on the way, Halloran found that he had a problem on his hands. More than six million feet of lumber demands a large area, and the question of getting it into the yards was a serious one.
The Higginson yards occupied a peninsula, formed on the inland side by the Wauchung River, on the other side by the harbour. This harbour was in reality a small lake, such as one will find duplicated every little way for a hundred and fifty miles on the eastern coast of Lake Michigan. The prevailing west winds have thrown up a line of high dunes along this shore, forming a natural dam at the mouth of each of the many small rivers. The Government had at Wauchung, as at many similar places, dredged out a channel that enabled steamers to get in to the wharves and to turn in the harbour.
The two mills were on the upper or river side of the peninsula, where they could receive the logs that were floated down from the timberlands.
From the mills the cut timber was run out on elevated tramways and piled along the wharves. Ordinarily there was a wide space between the mills and the nearest pile of lumber. There was a provision, indeed, in the insurance policies, that it could not be piled nearer than two hundred feet without the payment of a higher premium; and if the piles should extend within fifty feet of the mills the rate mounted to an almost prohibitive point.
The yards were surrounded by water on three sides—on the fourth were the cottages of the labourers and of the other poorer residents of the town. Halloran had a choice, then, between piling the lumber close around the mills (there being already a considerable quantity in the yards) and either paying the higher rate of insurance or going without, or carting it off and renting outside land for storage, thus adding a new item to his expenses. Every spare moment between this day and the arrival of the first steamer was spent in looking over the yards and planning the arrangement so as to get the best advantage of the space.
It was on the second day after the departure of the steamers that Crosman burst into the office and cried:
“She's coming in—the Number Two! I saw her funnels over the sand-hills.”
His excitement was catching, and Halloran got up from his desk and looked out the window. Sure enough, there was the smoke, far out along the sky-line. A moment later, looking between the channel piers, he caught a glimpse of the steamer heading in toward the lighthouse.
Watchful eyes had already seen her from the cottages near the beach; and as man after man hurried over to the yards to get an early place in the lines, the news spread through Wauchung. These men did not know what it meant—Bigelow was a myth to them, known, if at all, merely as an employer of labour twenty miles up the lake—but there was the steamer, bringing in a cargo of lumber that must be discharged and piled, and this meant work. Soon she was entering the channel; and they could see her Captain standing on the wheel-house roof with a hand resting on the bell-pull. And while Halloran went over to the wharf to direct the work, Crosman was kept busy giving out time-checks and cant-hooks and sending man after man across the yards.
Then she was in the harbour, was slipping up to the wharf; the engine-room bell jingled, and the propeller churned the water; the lines were thrown out and caught by eager hands, and the Higginson No. 2 lay motionless at the wharf, her deck piled high with yellow hemlock and pine. The labourers swarmed over the rail and went at the work with the spirit of men who know what hunger means. The donkey-engines at each end of the deck rattled and clanked as the hoisting-spars were lowered over the cargo. And not a man on the ground, from Halloran down, but felt the impetus that the arrival of this first load of lumber had given to all Wauchung. Some of the men showed it by laughing easily, others by swearing easily, and now and then they would all break out into a song that would almost have shocked Jimmie McGinnis himself if he had been there to hear it—to the immortal air of
“My father and mother were Irish,
And I was Irish, too.”
They did not know that this song had been shouted by valiant fighters and workers in many tongues—sometimes to reputable words, oftener not—for centuries, nor did they care. It would not have interested them to hear that, thanks to its wonderful vitality, this same melody had served generations of students as “We won't go home till morning”; had swung thousands of wearied French soldiers along wild roads before Napoleon was born as “Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre”; had perhaps led white-clad swordsmen, with a lilt and rhythm that fairly lifted the feet, off to the taking of Jerusalem nearly a thousand years ago. And now here it was again, sung to disreputable words, but as truly as ever a shout of good-will and dauntless effort. Somebody had bucked the Old Gentleman—no matter who or how—and the Old Gentleman, through Mr. Halloran, was bucking back, was nearer than ever to winning. And when he should win, as win he must, there would be steady work and meat every day for the labourers of Wauchung. This was all they knew or cared. But was the spirit less honest and earnest than the spirit of those jack-booted Frenchmen or those white-clad crusaders? Allowing for the glamour of the past, for the shining mist that enlarges the old figures as their real outlines grow steadily fainter, were these hard-handed fellows, heaving the new lumber from the deck of the Number Two to the wharf, laughing and joking and swearing like pirates all the while, so different? Was there no romance here?
Before the work had begun, Halloran saw Du Bois, an old lumber inspector, on the wharf and called to him. The old man, a soft felt hat pulled down on the side of his head, his gray beard streaked with tobacco, turned and waited for him to come up.
“I have a boy here, Du Bois” [pronounced DoO Boyce], “who thinks he'd like to learn lumber-checking. Suppose you take hold of him and see if we can make anything out of him.”
“All right, Mr. Halloran. Where is he?”
“Up at the office. You'd better send a man after him. His name's George Bigelow.”
“All right, sir; I'll keep an eye on him.”
The Inspector spat voluminously and hailed one of the labourers.
“Hi, you there! Run up to the office and tell George to get a scale and a tally-board and come down here. Grease your knees!”
The labourer ambled off and soon returned with George.
“Well, young man,” said Du Bois, “they tell me you're a lumber-checker.”
“I—I thought maybe I could learn.”
“What's that in your hand?”
“A tally-board.”
“Other hand?”
“A scale.”
“What's the size of that stick over there? No, don't scale it—stand here. What are your eyes for?”
George had not passed the last few days idly. The lumbermen were a picturesque, vigorous lot of men, and simply by associating with them he had begun absorbing some knowledge of their work. Now he made a snap guess. “Two-by-twelve-sixteen.”
“Other one yonder?”
“Two-by-eight-twelve.”
“Call that a twelve? You'll have to do better than that. See that steamer? We're going to unload her in another minute, and I want you to mark down every stick on your tally-sheet as the boys take it off. Tend your business, now. We'll put some hair on your chest before we get through with you.”
So George took his place on the wharf as the Number Two came alongside, and promptly found himself the centre of a dozen gangs of men all hustling past with the sticks, while the two steamer-hoists lowered them over in bundles, and the men on the steamer slid them off from half a dozen points at once. Each plank and timber, Du Bois had said, was to be checked on the tally-sheet and its dimensions recorded.
Halloran, Crosman and Du Bois met for a moment near the office where they could overlook the yards. The Inspector was shaking his head at the still, blue sky.
“I'd like to see a few clouds up there, Mr. Halloran. We ain't had any rain since the devil knows when.”
Halloran, for reply, stirred up the sawdust with his foot. It was dry and loose.
“I don't like it, myself.”
“Are we going to pile it in all through here? You ain't figuring on taking any outside, are you?”
“No; we can't do that. Fill in the strip yonder”—indicating the narrow end of the peninsula—“before you take up the ground around the mills.”
“How about the insurance?” suggested Cros-man. “I haven't done anything about it yet. Shall I see to it?”
“No; we'll carry it ourselves.”
Crosman and the Inspector were silent for a time after this, and all three looked down at the activity on the wharf. Neither of the assistants knew what a relief it was to the Manager to see that one load of lumber and to know that there was a score of other loads already on the way. It was his first glimpse of the tangible cause of the fighting, and the sight of it gave him the feeling of actually getting his hands on something. There was still to be considered the guarding it from fire, and, at the right moment, the putting it on the market. He did not know what new move Bigelow might be considering, but he could not see how any living man could block him now. Every order had been delivered to a lake port, so that he had no need to call on the railroads. And an attempt to restrain him from using the lake carriers, in view of the fact that the Higginson steamers alone could do the work with an extra allowance of time, seemed out of the question. Bigelow would resort to rascality, of course, whenever he could see or make an opening; but it was a question whether he could find any more openings.
“You wasn't here when we had the big fire, in '79?” The Inspector was falling into a reminiscent frame of mind.
“Hardly.”
“That was before we had a steam fire-engine. There was only a hand-machine downtown—damn little syringe on wheels—wouldn't put out a box of matches if the wind was blowin'—and so the Old Gentleman kep' about a hundred buckets hung in the mills. Joe Brady was fire chief—he worked in the freight house. But the fire come on a Sunday and Joe 'd been loadin' up ever since six o'clock Saturday night, and when him and the boys come up with their squirt-gun they'd forgot the key to the fire-plug, and they hadn't brung hose enough to use the river. Buck Patterson—he was superintendent—was passin' out buckets, and he come out to see what was the matter, and you'd ought to a-heard him talk to Joe. Buck was pretty profane, sometimes, and he just busted out that night. I guess he'd never had much use for Joe, only he hadn't had a chance to tell him about it before. 'Why, you dam gutter-sponge of a patty de foy graw,' says he—I'm only tellin' you what he said; I was standin' right by and heard the whole thing—he called him a patty de foy graw!—'You wart,' he says, 'you liver-eyed, kettle-bellied soak, you ain't fit to polish toastin'-forks in hell!' He never talked just like nobody else, Buck didn't. All this while Joe was hollerin' to little Murphy to run for the key and Murphy was hollerin' back, 'You go to the devil, your father, and get it yourself,' and sayin' it over and over, he was so excited; when Buck just took Joe by the collar and give him a jolt with his knee, and told him to shut up and get that key, and Joe tun off meek as an infant in arms.”
“What was the loss that night?” asked Crosman.
“About twenty thousand—eighty per cent, insured. The Old Gentleman didn't have a very comf'terble time himself. He'd been ridin' around on his buckboard tellin' the boys what to do. He started downtown after more buckets, and just as he got out to the bridge I looked up and see him all a-blazin' out behind. He didn't even know it yet. Must ha' been a spark lit on his coat-tails. I hollered at him, but he was whippin' up the mare, and I had to chase him across the bridge. He begun to feel funny then, and when he pulled up I grabbed his arm and jerked the reins out of his hand, and hauled him off the seat and rolled down the bank with him into the river. I guess there ain't much doubt I saved his life——— Hello, they're stopping work down there!”
This last exclamation was caused by the Manager starting abruptly for the wharf. Crosman and the Inspector followed.
The work was not wholly stopped, but a little group of labourers was gathered about a stick of timber watching George, who was measuring it with his scale. Some of the other workmen were standing and sitting nearby, laughing and bantering, while a few made a small pretense of work. When Halloran came on the scene George looked up with a dogged expression.
“What's this?” Halloran asked the gang-boss.
“We was going a little too fast for the kid.”
Evidently George had interpreted his orders strictly, and when his eye failed him in the bewilderment of seeing a dozen sticks passing at a time, had stopped each one to scale it. Halloran turned to Du Bois.
“Give the boy a lift, will you?”
The old Inspector nodded, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Here, young man,” he said, “take 'em down for me. Go ahead, boys!”
He hitched himself up on the cap of a snubbing-post, and when the donkey-engines clanked again and the timbers came dropping and sliding to the wharf, and the files of labourers shuffled past, he went on with his story. His eyes roved absently up and down the wharf, and a half-circle of tobacco juice rapidly formed around the post. Not a stick escaped his eye, within a hundred feet of rapidly moving timbers; George's pencil was kept flying over the tally-sheet.
“Yes, sir,” he went on, “we went down that bank—two-b'-four-fourteen, two-b'-eight-ten—like two cats—two-b'-ten-sixteen—a-fightin'. Two-b'-twelve-twelve. The Old Gentleman didn't—two-b'-twelve-eighteen— know yet just what was up—two-b'-six-twelve, two-b'-six-fourteen—and he got his hand twisted up in my hair—two-b'-ten-ten, two-b'-ten- fourteen, two-b'-ten-twelve—and when we struck the water—two-b'- twelve-ten, two-b'-eight-eighteen—”
A few minutes later, when Halloran passed again that way, Du Bois was still in the story, though he had now no auditor but the preoccupied George.
That same night another steamer came in, and within a few days it was necessary to put on a night shift to keep up with the influx of lumber. The yards filled rapidly with high piles until the tramways and mills were nearly hidden from sight. New lumber it was, not yet so dry but that some of the water from the rivers still moistened it; and the air was sweet with the scent of pine. It brought to mind the deep forests far back from the lake, the rustle of the wind through the new boughs far overhead, and the long, still aisles, carpeted in fragrant brown, where the deer run. There were bears out there, skulking away from the axman, grubbing up wild turnips and hunting ants and slugs in rotten stumps; there were otter and muskrats and perhaps a lingering colony of beaver. Soon the time would come when the deer and bear could reclaim their lands, for the axmen were nearly through. Another score of years, perhaps, and where had been great forests would be a waste of blackened stumps—all “cut out” for the market. Rivers would be lower and dams useless. Thriving lumber cities on the lake would be facing ruin—their reason for being gone with the last timber—or casting about to attract manufacturers or to cultivate beets—anything to stop the drain on their vitality as the restless lumbermen should turn west or south for new lands where they could found new cities and begin the problem anew.
In ten days it was all in, the six million and odd feet of boards and timber. And as Halloran walked down to the bridge one night and leaned on the railing and looked over the broad piles he was nervous and depressed. A part of the strain was over and he was feeling the reaction. The key to the situation was in his hands now—it rested with him to carry the lumber safely over to the day for selling, and then to make it pay. He could not yet see Mr. Higginson. He had been to Doctor Brown's this evening and the Doctor was decisive. The moon came out as he stood there and shed its light on the river and the lumber. He straightened up to go; then waited until he caught a glimpse of the watchman on his round of the yards.
Full as the newspapers were of the great corn deal on the Board of Trade, there was no getting at the facts that lay behind it. The brokers seemed to look on Le Duc as their principal; Le Duc had nothing to say. Halloran read the papers eagerly every day, watching for a word that would justify his conjectures, but the secret was too well kept.
One morning a day or two after the lumber had come in, he asked Craig to step into the office.
“Captain,” he said, “I want to talk to you about this corn business. I'm inclined to think that if we could find out who is backing Apples it might be just what we want to know most.”
“You think it's Bigelow?”
“Well, if it is Bigelow, and if his reasons for keeping dark are what I think, the sooner we know it the better for Higginson & Company. Do you think, from anything Mrs. Craig has said, that Bigelow knows who Apples and his wife are?”
“Why, no. Jennie doesn't talk much about those times.”
“I don't like to bother you with this, Captain, but business and family matters are so mixed that I don't know any other way to get at it. Would you be willing to find out if there were any letters—anything that Le Duc might have got hold of that would give him a grip on Bigelow?”
The Captain looked grave. “I kind o' don't like to stir her up, now she's having such a good rest. But—well, I don't know why not. Yes, I'll ask her. I'm afraid,” he added, as he arose, “I'm afraid I'm getting kind o' chicken-hearted these days. You see, I haven't had her back very long. Yes, the first good chance that comes along I'll talk it over with her and let you know what she says.”
During most of the day Halloran was shut up in the office, figuring and working out some new schedules. At noon he spent an hour or more uptown, and a half-hour climbing around under the bridge; and later Crosman was hailed, out in the yards.
“Could you drop around this evening for awhile?” said Halloran.
“Why, yes,” was the rather reluctant reply, followed by a blush and a grin. “Any particular time?”
“Right after supper, for half an hour or so.”
“All right; I'll be there.”
In the evening, when Crosman entered the Manager's room, the first thing he observed was a purple sweater on the back of a chair by the bed. Below it was an old pair of trousers, a cap, and, on the floor, a pair of rubber boots. He glanced curiously at these things as he greeted his superior; and Halloran's eyes followed his.
“That's my fireman's rig,” he said. “Didn't know I was on the department, did you?”
“No. What's all this?”
“It's what I want to see you about, as much as anything. I haven't gone to sleep a night since the lumber began coming in without expecting to hear the bell before morning. If the stuff was mine maybe I wouldn't care so much.” Crosman's face sobered. “But you said we'd carry the insurance ourselves.”
“You didn't suppose I wanted to do it that way, did you? We can't pay the price, that's all. And we can't lose the lumber, either. It's up to us to see that nothing happens. I've worked out a little plan here and I want you to help me carry it through.”
Crosman drew up his chair to the table. His mind had been fully occupied of late, and it had not before come home to him what a heavy—what a very heavy—load his Manager was carrying. Now these six million feet of pine and hemlock loomed in his thoughts and brought a very serious expression to his face.
“Cheer up, old man; we haven't lost it yet, that I know of, and we're going to do our best not to lose it. But you see, in buying this lumber and getting it all in here, we've done only half of it; the other half is to take care of it and sell it at a profit. Now look at this. I've borrowed some spare hose from the department. That's coming over in the morning, and we'll have it coupled onto the plug by Mill No. 1 and kept ready under the tramway. Our own hose will be coupled to the west plug. The two steamers are to be at the wharf, with steam up, all the time, ready to throw a stream on anything near the wharves: they'll lie one at each end, you see. The engineers are to stand watches aboard and keep a couple of hands sleeping by to man the hose. Then, if we have two watchmen always on duty, and the rest of the boys sleeping in their shirts and stockings, we could do fairly quick work, with the town engine to help.”
“There are the buckets in the mills, and by the office.”
“Yes; we'll use those, too.”
“And this”—he was examining the paper—“is the way you want the boys divided?”
“Yes. If the fire should be at the north end, where the yards are widest, you will take charge of the hose at the mill plug and see that the buckets are started; I'll take the west plug, where I can have an eye on the wharves. Those are the men to work with you, these with me. You'd better see yours the first thing in the morning—here's the schedule of watches—and engage them. You see, they're all men that live near the fence. Tell them we don't want a man that can't get to his station two minutes after the Number One blows her whistle, no matter if it's 2:30 A. M.”
“The whistle will be the signal, then?”
“Yes. I've told MacGregor to blow until he hears the bark of every dog in town. I want to get this all fixed in the morning, and so fixed that there can't be any misunderstandings. Any time after to-morrow noon, if that whistle blows, it means get to the yards in two minutes or lose your job. You'd better tell them that.”
“All right; I'll see to it. But gee whiz!” Crosman leaned back and looked at Halloran. “Here we're talking about this just as if it was going to happen.”
“Well, maybe it is. Anyhow, that's how we've got to look at it. I'd talk to the boys that way, too.” He rose and sat on the corner of the table, looking down earnestly at the other. “They've got to understand that we mean business. And say, look here, Crosman; what are we sitting here talking about this for? Why aren't we doing it to-night?”
Crosman's expression dropped from serious to dismal. “Why—why—all right.”
“Sorry if I'm butting into any plans of yours, but good Lord, old man, have you stopped to think what this means? Here I'd got my mind settled on to-morrow when I ought to have known all the while that to-day was the time. We'll do it now. You look up the boys on that paper and I'll root mine out and have them bring the hose over. We'll get everything in shape before we go to bed.”
The assistant was caught up and whirled along by Halloran's energy. “All right,” he repeated. “But I ought to call Mamie up. She's—she's—I was thinking of going around there.”
“Use my telephone. Excuse me if I start right out, won't you?”
Before Crosman could stammer a “Certainly,” he had snatched up his hat and disappeared.
Disagreeable as rush orders might be to a man with his family about him of an evening, there was nothing to be said; and within an hour some were starting out for duty on watch, or for a night on one of the steamers, while others dragged the hose-reel out of the town and across the bridge to the yards and put it in order for instant use. When the preparations were completed, toward eleven o'clock, Halloran called the men together and gave them their final instructions.
Crosman and he were left alone for a moment when the last man had gone to his post.
“Well—that's a good job done,” observed the assistant. “I guess there's nothing more, is there?”
“No——- Oh, yes; one thing. I've thought a good deal about the south end. The yard's narrow there for quite a way and there's no fireplug at that end.” They were walking through the gate and toward the bridge. “It's the least likely place to catch first, because there's water on three sides, but if it should there's only one thing we could do. Look here! Under the town end of the bridge—I'll show you when we get there—I've hung a tin pail with matches and fuses in it, where it won't be disturbed and it's likely to keep dry. And about fifty yards down the bank there's some dynamite in another pail under the water. I've put a sign on a post to scare the boys away. There, see that white thing? That's it! I couldn't keep the stuff home or in the yards, and there, I think, is about the safest place. You see, if either of us should be running out here we could just turn off the road a little way and pick up the two pails. It's on Higginson land and I don't believe any one can object.”
They went down together to see that the pails had not been molested. “I've given orders,” said Halloran, “to several of the boys to come down here every time they pass and report if anything's wrong.”
Crosman was aroused by the work of the evening. “Well,” he burst out, as they were climbing the fence and taking the road again, “I must say you've just about covered the ground. I don't know of anything more we could do.”
“I don't know—I feel a little better, anyway. I'll walk along to the house with you, if you're going that way.”
“Well—I'll tell you—I—I'm not, exactly. I kind of said——”
“Going to stop around at the Higginsons', eh?”
“I thought I might, if———”
“All right; good-night. Look out that they don't shoot you for a burglar. But, say; hold on a minute. Has the crisis come yet with—with Mr. Higginson?”
“No; they expect it to-morrow. Doctor McArthur came up from Chicago this afternoon, and the other one, the Detroit doctor, gets in late to-night. Mamie's waiting up for him.”
“Thanks. Good-night.”
The following afternoon, as Halloran was closing his desk, Captain Craig came in.
“I've had a little talk with Jennie this noon, Mr. Halloran. I had to explain to her about things, and how you felt a little delicate about it, and she told me the whole thing. You see, it's considerable of a story.”
Halloran closed the door and drew up a chair. “Sit down, Captain.”
“Well, now, it all goes back to a few months after Lizzie was married. Le Duc wasn't doing very well and he made it pretty uncomfortable for Jennie, talking about supporting her and that sort of thing; and finally one day he asked her if she didn't have letters or anything that could make it worth while to see Bigelow. Jennie'd never have done anything in the world, no matter though the alimony had been allowed her by the courts; she always had a horror of going to law about it. But Le Duc was hard pushed, and I guess she was glad to do anything that would make things easier for all of them, so she let him have Bigelow's letters—most of them promising to send money. They were all, she says, plain evidence that he hadn't paid her.”
Halloran was sitting far back in his chair, his hands clasped around one knee, his eyes fixed on the desk. And while the Captain talked, his thoughts were running swiftly backward and forward and all around this interesting subject. He was hearing what he had most wished to hear.
“And so Le Duc went out to Evanston one night to see him, and they were all excited about it, Jennie says. But after that things took a change. Le Duc wouldn't say much about it—-he acted a little queer—but he sort of made her think nothing was coming of it. And then, a little later, he got a job, nobody seemed to know just what—and moved over to where they are now. And he let Jennie and the McGinnis boy understand that they could come with them if they would pay a rather high board. Oh, he's a——-” Craig thought it better to pause, and turned his thoughts away from the meanness of his son-in-law. He went on with better control. “Of course Jennie couldn't do that, so they went without her. And Jennie was so timid about it all she didn't even like to ask for her letters back.”
“And Apples has them still?”
“Yes; he's got them.”
“And is that all she knows?” Halloran could not keep a little disappointment out of his voice.
“Yes, that's the whole thing. He's been keeping his mouth shut up tight about the whole business. It pretty nearly tells the story, don't you think?”
“Why, yes, in a way. It's not quite enough to move on, I'm afraid. But I'll have to think it over; and maybe I can see a way through. We don't know yet that G. Hyde is behind that corner—but I'm much obliged, Captain.”
“You're welcome.”
The Captain hurried home to have a few hours with his family, for now that Halloran's “fire department” was organized he was sleeping, by choice, on his steamer.
It was two o'clock the next morning. Crosman was far, far away, coasting down the joyous hills of dreamland. A laughing girl was at his side. She could not play long with him, for dimly he understood that the doctors were coming, and she must be at her post to welcome them. It would never do for the doctors to come and find no greeting from Mamie. But dreamland was bright to-night—the Little Folk were out in force, dancing like thistle-down over the Queen Anne's lace, or coasting with him down the starry slopes, a half-dozen on his back, more at his ears whistling gaily that Mamie was true—Blue for true!—Blue for true!—and hundreds of the maddest fellows capering on ahead, bounding and blowing from blossom to blossom. One danced far before, clad in a purple sweater and hearing a whistle. Now and again he blew a blast, daintily at first, like the signal of mint to the bees, then louder and shriller and shriller. It screeched hoarsely in his ears; a cold wind nipped at his legs and feet; the Little Folk were swarming around him, all in purple now, shouting wildly, urging him on—on—hurry—hurry! The whistle was deeper and hoarser—where was he—where————-?
He was on his feet in the centre of the floor. Through the open window came the deep whistle of the Number One.
In ten seconds he had tumbled into his trousers. Five more, and his boots were on. Another ten, and he was banging down the stairs and out the door, leaving it open behind him—and struggling into his coat as he ran. He could not guess how long the whistle had been sounding; but there was as yet no light in the sky above the yards. He must be on time: it lay with him to set an example to the men. His side was aching already, but he ran it down. As he drew near to the bridge he came out in full view of the yards, but could see no light. Perhaps he was early—perhaps the fire was starting on the river side. He thought of the dynamite, and with a bound was over the fence and running down to the water. A moment more and he was making for the bridge, pail in hand. As he paused here he heard some one running across, above him; and farther off were shouts and the sounds of running. The Number One was still whistling.
Over the bridge he went, a tin pail in each hand; around the corner of the fence and on to the open gate. He was dashing through when he was hailed by a familiar voice.
There, sitting on a projecting plank of the nearest lumber-pile, was Halloran, a lantern in one hand, his watch in the other. Grouped around him were half a dozen panting men.
“All right, Crosman. False alarm. But you've made bully time——— Look out, there!”
This last was addressed to Du Bois, who came whirling around the gate-post and crashed full-tilt into Crosman. The assistant staggered, but recovered his balance; and the two sat down with the others. The men came bounding in until fully thirty were there—more by five or six than had been engaged. Halloran threw the light of his lantern on them.
“Time's up,” he said. “Where's Potin?” [pronounced Pot'n.]
No one answered, but after a moment the missing Canadian appeared.
“You're late,” said Halloran. “What's the matter?”
The man had to pause to breathe. “It took me a m-min-ute, Mister Halloran. I—I guess I didn't hear the first whistle.”
“We need better ears than yours, then. We can't use you after this. Runyon”—turning to one of the promptest of the outsiders—“I'll take you on in Potin's place. We don't pay men to sleep. That's all now, boys. You can go home.”
But now that they were aroused there was a tendency to wait and talk it over.
“What you got in them pails, Mr. Crosman?” called Du Bois. “Did you forget and bring your lunch?”
“No; it's dynamite.” In a conversational tone.
“It's what? Say, you're fooling!” He drew back as he spoke. The other men looked at one another.
For reply Crosman produced a brown cylinder.
“Good Lord! And I run into that!”
In another moment Halloran and Crosman were alone. Down the alleys, between the piles, around the mill, out the gate—for every hole a man could squeeze through was abruptly pressed into service—the men had disappeared. And when the noise of the scampering feet had died away, Halloran said, with a chuckle: “Here's Du Bois's hat. I'll take it along.” The next morning he found him on the wharf. “You didn't stop for your hat last night, Du Bois. I guess you were called away suddenly.”
The Inspector accepted the hat and pulled it on, drew out his tobacco-pouch, bit a half-moon from his plug, tucked it away in his cheek, and swept his eyes quizzically around the harbour. “That's all right, Mr. Halloran; that's all right,” he observed, discharging a preliminary brown streak. “I s'pose I've got to go up against old Salt Peter some day or other, but if I'm goin' to have anything to say about it myself I'd a heap rather go up whole. If I was to come an arm or a leg at a time he might think it was old G. Hyde Bigelow tryin' to fool him in sections, and the first thing I knew he'd be sayin', 'Bigelow, you darned old pile o' culls, there's a line o' little red divils down there a-sittin' up nights for you. Git along!'”