Halloran had not yet exhausted his resources in getting at the facts behind the corn deal. There was one person who probably could, if he would, carry the story further, and that was Jimmie McGinnis. And so Halloran decided to run down to Chicago.
The Captain, when he heard of it, came to see him. “Harry Crosman says you're going down to the city, Mr. Halloran.”
“Yes; I shall take the night train.”
“When I told Jennie about it she wondered if you'd be going anywhere near Lizzie's place.”
“I can, easily enough.”
“Jennie, you see, has been sort of looking for some word from her this week, and there ain't none come yet, and would you mind taking along a little bundle for Lizzie, and maybe a note?”
“Not a bit. You'll have them here before supper time, won't you?”
“Yes; surely.”
And so it fell out that Halloran boarded the train that night with the bundle under his arm.
His trip was to be as short as he could make it, for he did not like to be away at this time. Full instructions were left with his assistant; and his post as amateur fire marshal was assigned to the Captain during his absence.
Jimmie, it seemed, had been with the Le Ducs until the change. Where to find him now was a question, or it would have been if his eye had not alighted on the name “Elmer Le Duc” in the evening paper, among the attractions advertised by a Clark Street vaudeville theatre. He reached Chicago in the morning, and in the afternoon dropped around to the theatre. From the display of the name in five-inch letters on the bill-boards of a downtown continuous performance it was to be inferred that Jimmie was getting on in the world. His position on the programme, too—toward three o'clock—and the little burst of applause that followed the appearance of his name on the announcement card at the side of the stage, aided the impression. And finally, when the familiar wizen-faced, thin-legged boy, as undersized as ever, appeared, shouted out the preliminary song of his specialty, and fell into a long and wonderfully intricate dance, there was no doubting he had popped into favour. When he had disappeared, after the third recall, and the next turn was announced, Halloran slipped out and strolled a few steps up the alley that led to the stage-door.
A quarter of an hour later a large, coarse-featured young woman, wearing a rakish French costume, came out into the alley; and behind her, barely reaching to her shoulder, in the unfamiliar get-up of a light suit, a wide-brimmed pearl-gray hat, tan shoes, and a bamboo stick, appeared Jimmie. They started to walk off together, but at Halloran's hail the young man turned.
“How are you,” he said with a nod, somewhat as if their last meeting had been but a few hours earlier. “Want to speak to me?”
At Halloran's affirmative, he left the woman, who stared at Halloran as she waited.
“Been to the show?” asked Jimmie. “Got 'em cold, ain't I? I always told Le Duc I could do it the minute I got a chance at a big house.”
“I've been looking for you, Jimmie. Won't you have dinner with me to-night at the Auditorium?”
“Dinner, eh? What time?”
“Half-past six.”
“I suppose so. You see I was goin' with Jane—that's Jane Scott, you know; greatest character singer and dancer on the stage. We're goin' to be married next week, and I'm sorter supposed to hang around her most of the time. But I guess I can make it. Anythin' doin'?”
“Nothing very much. I'll look for you, then, at half-past six, in the main office.”
The dinner hour had come before Halloran could stop wondering over the idea of Jimmie McGinnis marrying. When they were seated together at a quiet table he spoke of it.
“So you're going to be married, Jimmie?”
“Yes; sure. But say, they ain't callin' me that no more. I'm Elmer Le Duc now, you know.”
“Aren't you starting in rather young?”
“Oh, no, not for a man in the profession. You see, Jane's husband———”
“Her husband!”
“Yes. He's a skate, you see—lushes. He's a fool, too, 'cause Jane's kind-hearted, and she'd a-gone right on supportin' him if he'd a-treated her half decent. She can haul in her hundred and twenty-five every week in the year—regular gold-mine. And a man that ain't got head enough to hold on to a thing like that 'ad better drop off. We've been talkin' it over, Jane an' me, ever since I made my hit. You see, she's got a two-part skit that calls for a small man, smaller'n her, a part I can walk right into; an' I thought it over an' told her I'd marry her an' manage the business. She's told me since, she knew the minute she struck me that I was her man. It's a good thing for both of us, you see. We can clear up two hundred a week easy, and our expenses won't be near so much. I told her I'd put up the cash for her divorce. It's such a sure case that it ain't costin' a great lot. Of course, I don't need to marry her, but the savin' in doublin' up on hotel an' sleeper bills 'll more'n pay for the divorce the first year.”
Halloran looked at Jimmie, shook his head, and then smiled in spite of himself. And Jimmie had to grin a little, too.
It had been a question how to open the next subject. Halloran knew that, wherever there was a choice of ways to an end, one open and direct, the other tortuous and subterranean, Jimmie's mind would instinctively seek the latter. He thought he had better slip easily from the one subject to the other; for if the boy were to suspect him of any strong desire to inform himself concerning Le Duc he would most likely draw back, from sheer perversity, into his shell.
“You say you're known as Le Duc now? Didn't you travel with them for awhile?”
“Yes; but it wouldn't go. Too much madam there. Let me tell you this, Mr. Halloran. Don't you ever go into partnership with a man and his wife. It's hell on wheels.”
“They didn't get on well, then?”
“No; the only payin' thing in the combination was the name. Le Duc's one of the best names in the profession, an' he's been more'n square about lettin' me go on an' use it.”
“I saw them a little while ago at their hotel. He seems to have struck a good thing now.”
“Yes, they say he's a big man on the Board.”
“How did he ever get into it? There must be somebody behind him.”
Jimmie fingered his fork and looked up with an expressionless face. “Is they?” he asked.
Halloran tried again. “I don't know, but I'm inclined to think there's more in it than the papers say.”
Jimmie, for some reason, chose to give no information whatever on this question. And Halloran had the questionable pleasure of bidding him good-evening in the consciousness that he was no nearer what he wanted to know than he had been in Wauchung. The next step was a matter of careful thinking; he was not even sure that there could be a next step. Meantime, he had an errand at the Le Ducs', and as it was not yet eight o'clock he decided to run up there.
The great event had taken place in the Le Duc household. And when Halloran was shown into the apartment, he found a happy father in his shirt-sleeves dancing about a small white bundle on the sofa, a beaming mother also in dishabille, and a simpering nurse-maid. Apples was cordial, merry, expansive; he was delighted to see his old friend Halloran—fairly dragged him in. Good stories and playful allusions were continually rising in his mind and finding expression. He was boisterously demonstrative, and given to squeezing his wife's hand or slipping his arm around her as his tongue rattled along.
Halloran delivered his message and his bundle, and finally, when he had been made to say all that there is to be said about some other man's infant, the mother and nurse took it away and left the two men to smoke and chat.
After a time there came a pause. And then an idea that had been floating in Halloran's mind since his disappointment with Jimmie took sudden form.
“How do you like working with Bigelow?” he asked, without the slightest change of expression, knocking the ash off his cigar as he spoke. And Apples took the bait.
“First rate. He's a driver, but he's got a great head on him.”
“Yes, I know. I used to work for him myself, out in Evanston. I don't believe he has ever done much on the Board before this deal.”
“No, I don't think he has.” A peculiar expression was coming into Le Due's face. “Who told you about it?” he asked.
“Oh, I've always known more or less of his movements. He was hit rather hard in Kentucky Coal a little while back, but I suppose this corner will more than square that, if it goes through.”
Le Duc smiled. “Don't you worry about that. I guess that coal business is nothing he can't stand. A momentary change of opinion doesn't alter the fact that there's just as much coal there as there ever was.”
“I suppose there is—just as much.”
Le Duc was looking not quite comfortable. “Of course,” he began, “there are times with every man whose interests are spread out widely——” But this wouldn't do. He was blundering deeper and deeper into some sort of a trap, and not wholly grasping the situation, he decided to keep still.
Halloran had learned enough. His trip to Chicago was not to be a failure, after all. He had learned so much, in fact, that when he was back in his room at the hotel and could sit down and think it all over, there seemed to be no reason for delay in turning his information to account. Over and over again that night he considered his case: he tested it from every point of view to assure himself of its soundness; and in the morning, instead of heading for Wauchung, he wired Crosman that he would return by way of the lumbering town of Corrigan, the seat of the Corrigan mills, in the upper peninsula. The Corrigans were among the largest owners in the “combine”; and if they were as tired of losing money as he believed, they would doubtless be glad to hear what he had to say.
It was an eight-hour ride from Chicago to Corrigan, and evening was so near when he arrived that he went directly to his hotel for some dinner, and made arrangements by telephone to see the younger Mr. Corrigan at his home in the evening.
“I don't know that we have ever met, Mr. Corrigan,” Halloran said, when the two men were closeted. “I am with Higginson & Company, of Wauchung. Your company and ours have not agreed, so far, in our attitude toward G. Hyde Bigelow. Mr. Higginson refused his offers at the start because we had reason to distrust him. We know now that we were right.”
Corrigan looked at him with some surprise. “If you have any charges to make against Mr. Bigelow you should see him, not me.”
“I have no charges, Mr. Corrigan, but I rather think you have. I've come here to lay them before you and leave you free to push them or not, as you choose. As I understand it, when this combination was organized, Mr. Bigelow was generally thought to be a responsible man. We didn't believe it, so we stood out rather than have him direct our business. Since that time he has got into such difficulties with his Kentucky investments that in order to raise money he has taken to speculating heavily on the Board of Trade. He is operating the big corn deal through the man named Le Duc.”
“You'll excuse me, sir, but I don't see———”
He paused, and Halloran went on: “You understand, Mr. Corrigan, that our position is what it was at the start—we are against this combination. And if I didn't believe that you are going to be against it, too, I shouldn't be here. I think you'll agree with me that if what I say is tme, Mr. Bigelow is not a man to trust.”
“If it is tme———”
“And there is a way to prove it. I suggest that at the meeting, which comes, I believe, next month, you lay these charges before Mr. Bigelow, without warning, and give him a chance to explain. You are at liberty to say that I gave you the information.”
This was all he had come to say, and he was so sure of its effect that he was willing to leave it and give the seed time to grow. But Corrigan was aroused.
“This—this amounts to saying that Bigelow is secretly plunging on the Board.”
“It certainly does.”
“And this Le Duc, who is he?”
“He's a cheap actor who married Bigelow's daughter.”
“His daughter! His oldest child is not a dozen years old.”
“By his present wife, yes. But he's been married before.”
“I'll think this over, Mr. Halloran; I'll think it over.”
Halloran rose. “I came up here from Chicago to tell you that Bigelow is unsound. The sooner everybody connected with the Michigan lumber business finds it out the better for the business. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir.”
As the feat of riding thirty horses around a circus hippodrome calls for the highest strength and skill, so the task of guiding the complicated affairs of Bigelow & Company through the difficulties that threatened them demanded sound character and experience. For a time the Bigelow ventures had shown a persistent upward tendency, and the head of the firm had then made an imposing figure, but a fair-weather man was hardly adequate now. Kentucky Coal had slumped alarmingly; New Freighters had perhaps been overrated; and booming suburban real estate was discovering unexpected inertia where abnormal growth had been gambled on. But the most disturbing element was the lumber fight. That Higginson & Company could not only hold out until the meeting, but could actually get the better of the Trust, had not been foreseen. Questions would be asked at this meeting: there might even be some tension. And so it was that Mr. Bigelow was not joking much nowadays. And so it was that Mr. Babcock took his grip from behind the door and went to Wauchung.
The air blew keen from the West as Mr. Babcock walked swiftly out toward the Wauchung bridge. It was a crisp, invigorating breeze, with the strength of the lake in it, and a faint odour of pine. Men grow rugged and hardy in this region, whether they follow blaze-marks or mariner's compass. No malaria oozes from the dry white sand; the children rather draw from it the sap that makes the pine tree tall and sound. If you had strayed into the forest in the earlier time of reckless cutting; if you had stood under the tight green roof on a scented rug of needles, finer than ever came from India, and listened to the song of the shanty-boy as he struck his peavey into a bleeding trunk, could you have wondered at the lilt in his melody, at the vigour, even the harshness in his voice? Stand near a mill-race and watch the “boys” racing down, each balanced on a single careening log, and you will have a glimpse of the sort of men G. Hyde Bigelow & Company were fighting.
Mr. Babcock passed the last straggling buildings of Wauchung's main street and found himself in full view of the bridge, the river and the lumber-yards. The sight did not please him, apparently, for he paused with knit brows to take it in. Beyond, showing here and there, lay the harbour, glistening in the cool light—and beyond the harbour the bald dunes and the lake.
The sky was blue, frayed here and there into ends of white clouds—the glorious northern sky, matched only in the air of Naples or Touraine. But Mr. Babcock was not looking at the sky. His soul was tuned to lower things—to lumber, for instance, heaps of it, piles of it, rows of it, stretched for hundreds of yards along the river, and across the peninsula, and along the edge of the harbour. The mills were silent; the watchmen were not to be seen; the only sign of life was the smoke curling from the funnels of the Number One, where Robbie MacGregor was dozing on the engine-room bench and hourly growing fatter. Six million feet of lumber greeted the eye of the man from Chicago, as he looked—and looked. It was new lumber, bought by experts, every stick of it such as would command a good price when the owners should throw it on the market, as they certainly would sooner or later. He shook his head and hurried on.
He found Halloran at the office and shook hands cordially. Crosman heard the name, looked blank, recollected himself, and slipped out.
“Well, you've got a great lot of lumber here, Mr. Halloran,” Babcock began softly, glancing out the window.
“Yes—a good deal.”
“How much can you keep in the yards here?”
“We have about twenty-five million feet in now.”
“You don't say so! Your own cutting?”
“Only part of it.”
“You've been—er—buying in the market, eh?”
“Yes, all we could get.” He could not resist adding, “It's been a good time to buy.”
“Yes, so it has, so it has. I suppose you're holding this lot for a better price?”
Halloran nodded. His eyes were searching the face of his caller. Babcock paused to gather his forces, then settled back in his chair.
“I feel like telling you, Mr. Halloran, that you've done a mighty neat piece of work. To tell the truth, it's been a surprise to us to see how well you've carried this business. Your fame now”—he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a confidential pitch—“your fame now, however, rests even more on the way you've stuck to your employer's interests than on the cleverness of what you've done. There are clever men enough, but down in Chicago we don't see any too many honest ones.”
“No, I suppose you don't.”
“This fight has been expensive, but it's taught us one lesson, I think. When we organized the lumber producers we tried to get all the good firms into it. We succeeded with every one but Higginson & Company. By the facts of the case we were forced to antagonize you, and I'll tell you right here we expected to beat you. But we haven't beaten you. You've shown a vitality that was surprising. And since your owner, we understand, has been dangerously ill for some months, we are forced to believe that you, yourself, Mr. Halloran, are the real head of this business. Isn't that so? Well, you needn't answer. I understand your modesty. But there are the facts. Well, now, sir, here we are, after a hard fight, just where we were when we started. I don't know but what you may be better off. Anyhow, you're the one man that has kept us from doing what we want to do. What we've learned in this experience is, that we can't afford to go on fighting Mr. John Halloran. We need just such a man as you on our side. Mr. Bigelow and I have talked this all over, and I think we have insight enough to know that when a rising man, a really big man, comes along, it's a heap sight better to get on his side. You can't stop a man like that—he's bound to rise—and if you don't keep his good-will and confidence, you lose. Now, we want your good-will and confidence, Mr. Halloran. I've got some propositions to lay before—”
“One moment, Mr. Babcock. If you have come to propose that anybody but M. L. Higginson & Company conduct this business, you'll be wasting your time.”
Babcock looked thoughtful, then nimbly changed front. “We have no concern in this or any business except our own. But we are interested in men. There's no doubt about it, Mr. Halloran—I know how men feel all over Michigan—there's no doubt about it, you're the coming man in the lumber business, to-day. Now, good men, Mr. Halloran, command good positions. Take this place you're in—it's a salaried position, isn't it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now”—Mr. Babcock's voice had dropped almost to a whisper, but his intensity, his determination to win, trembled in every note of it. He was smiling. “Well, now, what's the use of this, Mr. Halloran; what future have you here? Even if you succeed Mr. Higginson? You can never be more than he is, if you stay here. But once put a man of your caliber in a place that's big enough for him and he'll expand—he'll fill it—he'll reach out and up. In ten years, perhaps, you'd be at the head of the business. But you ought to be at the head now—then, in ten years, you'd be in Chicago or New York, with your finger on the pulse of the financial world. I'm here for a reason. We've started in to organize the lumber business and nothing can stop us. It may take time; we know it will take men. But we aren't bothering about the time; we're looking for the men. That's our way. And you're the man we need to make it go; you're the man that can do it—you have a genius for it. Now—one moment—I told you I had some propositions to make to you, and I'm ready to make them.”
He was playing the last card in the hand of Bigelow & Company, and playing it beautifully. A few short weeks and the meeting would be upon them—the meeting when explanations of the delay in completing the organization would fall upon unsympathetic ears. He was thinking now, for one moment, with his eyes half closed.
“You know, Mr. Halloran, that Mr. Bigelow is the owner of the Pewaukoe Mills. It is a first-class plant in every way—and slightly larger than this, isn't it?”
“A little, perhaps.”
“Now, I could make you other propositions, but you know the lumber business, and I suppose you'd rather stay in it until you've got your hand worked in with something a little bigger. I offer you this: We'll put you at the head of our Pewaukoe business, with entire authority, subject only to consultation with the firm on matters of policy and development. We want you to go in with the idea that your hands are free—that you can stamp your own individuality on the business. Don't you see, Mr. Halloran, it's that individuality, that business character, that we want above all? We want the qualities that have given you your peculiar success here. As to payment, that will be arranged easiest of all. You know best what you ought to have. But I'll name a figure, merely by way of opening the discussion——-” He smiled again. “Suppose I say we'll pay you a thousand dollars a year more than you're getting here, whatever that may be. If that doesn't seem fair, just say so. We want to enter these new relations with the feeling of perfect satisfaction all around—we can't afford to do it any other way.
“One moment————- Don't commit yourself hurriedly. This is a matter for consideration. First of all, let me put that offer down in writing over our signature—then we'll have something to work from. Will you call your stenographer?”
“We have no stenographer here now. But let me say———”
“Well, I'll write it out—here, this letter-paper will do the business.”
“Now, see here, we can't talk along this line. I haven't the slightest intention of leaving Higginson & Company.”
“I know—I know——— Take plenty of time to think it over. I'll go ahead and put this down in black and white———”
“No, Mr. Babcock. I won't consider it at all. I stay right here at this desk.”
Babcock brought up his reserves. “You are inclined to think,” he said, settling back again, “that your place is here with Mr. Higginson?”
“Decidedly.”
“I see. Perhaps we've been working a little at cross-purposes. I haven't been talking with the idea of taking away Mr. Higginson's main support at the time he needs it most. I'm afraid I haven't been looking at that side of it quite enough. You see, Mr. Halloran, we're business men, we of G. H. Bigelow & Company. When we see a big man in our line we want him; and when we try to get him, I suppose we don't always consider the other people who want him, too. We haven't time. But I'm glad you brought the point up. Suppose we go at it from a new point of view. Now, I recognize (and Mr. Bigelow would agree with me if he were here) that this very attitude of yours—this standing by your employer when he's a sick man—is the quality in you we like best. We've seen it before; we've talked about it. If you should go back on Mr. Higginson now—even though, of course, there's not the slightest legal hindrance to your looking out for yourself—how could we know you wouldn't go back on us some day? But you won't go back on him, you see, and that's how we know more than ever that you're the man we're after. Now there's not the slightest need of any immediate change. We could even date your salary from this moment, or back to the beginning of this month, without expecting you to walk right out here———”
“It's no use—I'm not going to leave.”
“No; I'm not suggesting such a thing. I was going to say that—that we're looking ahead. Let me see—you're about thirty, perhaps. Why, man, you haven't begun yet. But if you stay here, and if Mr. Higginson should die within these next few years without taking you into the firm, you'd have nothing whatever to show for your work. Now, one place is as good as another for such a man as you. All you need is to get a footing—but that takes capital. My suggestion would be that you stay right here and buy into the business—get it into your own hands. Mr. Higginson, knowing you as he does, would be only too glad to have it go to you. We can help you with that. Your credit is A-1 with us. We're so sure you're going to see some day the advantages of combination and cooperation in this business that we'll write you a check any day and no questions asked. It———”
“Don't you think,” said Halloran, speaking slowly, with an edge on his voice, “don't you think you've said about enough?”
Babcock flushed. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, if your time's worth anything to you you're losing money here.”
“Then you are not interested———”
“Not a bit.”
The junior partner of Bigelow & Company, still flushing, rose. “I've made you a square offer———”
“And I've refused it.”
Babcock stood looking down at Halloran. His eyes were growing smaller; his fingers were restless. For a moment he seemed not to grasp the fact that he had failed. Halloran picked up a letter, then lowered it, and looked up inquiringly.
“Now suppose we leave it this way for the present, Mr. Halloran.” He was rallying. “You'd better just think over what I've said. The main thing is to pave the way toward an agreement, and I think we've done that. I'm glad to have had this talk with you. Don't hurry about deciding. Weigh it carefully. Good-by—glad to have seen you.”
Halloran gave him a nod and he was gone.
It was to be a day rather more than usually eventful. Before he left the office, in the afternoon, Crosman drew him aside.
“Would you———?” he began.
“Well?”
“Will you be home to-night—about eight?”
“I think so. Why, anything special?”
“N—no. You'll be there sure?”
“Sure.”
Promptly at eight the doorbell rang and Halloran was called down to the parlour. Entering, he found Crosman, grinning feverishly; and over in the corner, with her back turned, looking at a picture, was Mamie. He looked from one to the other until Mamie turned around and disclosed a very red face. Still no one spoke. The two now gazed appealingly at each other, and finally it was Mamie who broke the silence with a preliminary giggle.
“I guess—I guess you can congratulate us, Mr. Halloran.”
Coming so suddenly, even this bold statement did not sink at once into Halloran's consciousness. But at last, after a painful pause, he recollected himself and shook hands cordially. And then the story had to be told in detail. It was all a secret, for Mrs. Higginson had not yet learned to understand Harry as she would when she came to know him as one of the family. During the worst of her father's illness Mamie would not consent, but now that the crisis was turned she had—“Well, she had supposed she might as well.”
“We wanted you to know it,” she said. “And it's going to be a secret between just you and us. We thought maybe—you—maybe you'd be glad, too.”
But for some reason it did not have that effect; for an hour later, when Halloran was striding up the beach to the north, heedless of the waves that ran up about his feet, of the west wind that slapped his face and tugged at his coat, he wore a far from glad expression. And not until he had fallen into step with the night patrol from the life-saving station, and had swapped yams of the old Inspector and the Beebe-McClellan boat and the capsize-drill records, and had learned precisely why the Wauchung Station was the most abused and discriminated against in the whole U. S. L. S. S., did he seem a little more composed.
The deep-toned bell in the town hall was striking twelve. It was a still, overcast night, with a mild breeze blowing up from the head of Lake Michigan. Three men stood at the gate of the yards talking in low tones, somewhat oppressed, perhaps, by the silence. Before them, a little way, was the white circle thrown by the electric light over the bridge; behind were the great dim piles of lumber with the narrow alleys between, now black as the sky, and carpeted as they were with chips and shavings, as silent beneath the foot as velvet. The only noise came, in the intervals between words, from the two steamers that lay breathing softly alongside the wharf.
“What you doin' on watch, Du Bois? Changed your job?”
“No; Mr. Halloran asked me to go on to-night. He says it's time we had some good men down here.”
“Aw, go on!”
“Say, Runyon, who's that on the bridge?”
All three watched a moment.
“Dunno 'im. Throw your lantern on 'im when he goes by.”
But the fellow turned in at the gate.
“Who's this?”
“I'm George Bigelow. Mr. Halloran said I could go on watch at twelve.”
“Bigelow ain't a very safe name around here, sonny. How about it, Du Bois?”
“It's all right, I guess. He's the new lumber-checker.” They all laughed. “You understand, don't you, boy, that if a man's caught sleeping or off his post he gets shot?”
“Why—why———”
“Don't let 'im scare you, sonny. He's the lazy beggar 'imself. Say, Du Bois, I thought I saw a tramp hanging around about an hour ago. If you want to look through the yards once more with me I'll stay for it.”
“Take the boy. It'll learn him the ropes. Run along, boy.”
“Good-night, there.”
“Good-night, Runyon. I won't wait.”
They separated, one man hurrying off for home and a bed, Du Bois lingering at the gate for a look up and down the line of the fence; Runyon and George, their lanterns darkened, slipping stealthily away into the shadow.
“I seen somethin' over there by the mill,” said Runyon, in a subdued voice, “like it was a tramp that had dumb the fence by the bridge and was sneakin' along the bank. Here, now, hold on a minute,”—he caught the boy's arm—“I was a-standin' right here. Now look down between them piles—past the mill. See that little strip o' the river where the bridge light's a-shinin'? It looked to me like somethin' black went acrost it.”
They went on, giving a quarter of an hour to winding through the alleys, throwing a light into every dark corner. “A feller can't be expected to see everything—not in yards as big as these here. We needn't go out around the P'int. I guess there ain't nothin'. Here's Du Bois a-waitin' by the Number One. I'll leave you with him. You got a whistle, ain't you?”
“Yes; Mr. Halloran gave me one.”
“You know about it? If you blow, it means fire. So don't get gay with it.”
“Hallo, there,” said Du Bois, as they joined him on the wharf in the little patch of light that fell from the steamer's engine-room. “You're purty poor. Where's your tramp?”
“He wasn't to home. We 'lowed we'd call again. So long.”
“So long, there.”
The engine-room was snug and comfortable, a capital headquarters for patrol duty. So the old Inspector took immediate precedence of his associate. “Now, young man, we'll have to break you in first thing. You better go over and patrol the fence f'r'n hour. Then you come back here and report. Be kind o' cautiouslike about your whistle.”
“I don't know———”
“No, I guess you don't—not such a dam sight. What's the matter? What you waitin' f'r?”
“Why—when we was going around the yards, he said he guessed we wouldn't go out as fur's the Point—and I thought mebbe I'd go now, jes so's to be sure.”
“So you've took to thinkin', eh? I s'pose you was a-thinkin' you'd send me over to the fence.”
“No, I didn't mean to send you, but I thought mebbe———”
“Git along with you. You talk too much. You make me sick.” And the Inspector, with a chuckle, made slowly toward the gate, leaving the boy to his own resources.
George walked to the end of the wharf and stood a moment, debating whether to keep on along the bank or to turn in among the lumber-piles. He decided on the latter course and crowded through, with the help of his lantern, by crawling over and under the projecting ends of planks between two huge piles. This brought him into an alley that led, with one turn, to the narrow space of open ground at the end of the peninsula. He closed his lantern and felt his way along. He had nearly reached the turn, he thought, when it was suddenly revealed to him by a light flickering on the lumber. He stopped short and held his breath. The light was growing rapidly. He rushed forward around the turn—and again he stopped. A blaze that had evidently started at the base of a pile of inch stuff was now curling upward, was already half way up to the top; and it crackled ominously as it wreathed around the thin, resinous boards. Standing a little way off at the edge of the bank, looking stupidly at the fire, was the worst specimen from the land of trampdom George had ever seen. His clothing hung about him in rags, his hair and beard were grizzled and matted, his face was red; and his whole body seemed to tremble as if from a nervous affection. He looked up frantically, called out something in a husky voice and held up a blackened clay pipe, then, on an impulse, he dropped the pipe, turned and dove out into the river. There was a splash, the firelight glistened for an instant on the spray, and he had disappeared.
George remembered his whistle and blew it sharply half a dozen times His first thought was to turn back to the steamer, and he had taken a few steps when a shout told him that his signal was heard, that probably the fire could be seen now, for it was already licking at the topmost boards; and so he threw his lantern away and took a running dive off the bank.
Du Bois, walking slowly, had nearly reached the gate when he heard George's whistle. “The boy's crazy,” he muttered. “Wonder they wouldn't give us unweaned infants f'r patrol.” He looked down the centre roadway, but could see no light. However, his duty was obvious, and he turned and ran back to the wharf, growling as he went. The men were aroused on both steamers. As he passed the Number Two he saw the hands dragging out a coil of hose with the nozzle ready attached. On the upper deck of the Number One Captain Craig, with a pair of trousers hastily drawn on and his nightgown partly tucked in at the waist, was leaning on the rail and peering out over the yards. The deckhouse door was open, throwing the light on him. In the fainter light, on the main deck, MacGregor was hanging out.
“How is it, Cap'n?” he was calling.
The Captain made a sign of impatience, straightened up and shaded his eyes with one hand to shut off the light from the steamer; then gave a shout, and pointing toward the end of the peninsula, he plunged into the wheel-house and pulled the whistle-cord. MacGregor disappeared in the engine-room.
At the moment Du Bois was midway between the two steamers running along the wharf. He stopped now and retraced a few steps. “Hi, there!” he called to the men who were at work on the Number Two, “uncouple that hose and bring 'er up to the Number One.”
“What for?” asked some one.
“What for? You—you——— Hi, Cap'n Craig! I'm a-bringin' up the Number Two's line—— Will you have yours uncoupled for us? Now, you louts, gimme a hold o' the line. All together, now! Heave f'r it! Over the rail with 'er! Lay hold now, lively! Did you think you was a-sprinklin' the front yard an the tulip-bed? Ryan, if you fall over them feet of yourn again I'll be darned if I don't soak you. All together, now!— right in the solar plexus, b' th' divvel. Now heave! HEAVE! What's the trouble, there. Damn that Ryan! Say, you've got more feet to the square inch than any man a-walkin'. Here she is, Cap'n. Take off that nozzle, one o' you, while I couple 'er. Hold on, Robbie, we'll holler when we want water. Jest heave that Ryan overboard, a couple o' you. All right, Cap'n. Will we take the nozzle? Here we go, now! Run 'er out! Quick, there———You're the craziest lot o' hare-lipped bungholes I ever see!”
They were stretching out the hose to its fullest extent, but they were still some distance from the fire that now was roaring and crackling before them. Already they could hear the wind, swelling from a night breeze; it was whipping the flames into madness.
“Hi! Robbie! Let 'er go! Pass the word there Let 'er go!”
The men shouted; MacGregor responded; the flat line of hose swelled and writhed as the water was forced through. “Hold hard, Cap'n!” The nozzle was almost wrenched from their hands; the stream rushed out and curved high over the lumber.
“Are we a-gettin' at it?”
“I don't think so. I can't see. Here, work out into the roadway.”
“Lord, no, we ain't reachin' 'er by three rods. An' she's a-burnin' to beat the yellow devils. What's the matter with the boys? Damn it, they must think we're a-doin' it f'r fun! This ain't no Fourth o' July pyrotechnics.”
“They'll be here. It's not much more'n a minute since George signaled.”
“There's some more of the boys, I think.”
“I can't see much—this light's in my eyes. It's no use trying to reach it. Here, let's wet down these here piles. That's good. Now hold her there.”
“Gettin' pretty hot here, Cap'n.”
“Can't help that. It'll be hotter before we get through. Have an eye out to see that we don't get cut off behind. Here come the buckets.”
“Here you are, boys—this way! How many is they of you?”
“I dunno—about a dozen, I guess. The boys is comin' right in.”
“Form a line here along the road. If you keep your clothes wet there's no danger, I guess. Stir along, now. Mr. Halloran come?”
“Not yet. Mr. Crosman's couplin' up the yard hose an' he'll be along here'n a minute.”
The fire was giving rise to the wind; the wind was lashing the fire. The crackling was loud now; the roar made it hard to talk. As they worked and watched a gust of wind came sweeping across the harbour, and catching up the top row of boards from an exposed pile, it tossed them, burning, high in the air. The sparks were flying high, coursing the length of the yards, some falling far beyond. Men were pouring into the yards. Somewhere across the river the town fire-engine was clanging out toward the bridge.
A man, hatless, in a purple sweater, carrying a tin pail in each hand, came running through the gate and down the central roadway. Some one shouted “Here he comes!” and here and there other men, working with hose or bucket, heard the shout and caught it up for sheer excitement, heedless of the cause.
“What's that?” said Du Bois. “It's all clear behind, ain't it? We ain't cut off?”
“Oh, no; we aren't cut off.”
“Say, Cap'n, I can't stand this; let's drop back a step or so. Lord knows we ain't doin' much good here. See her burn! I guess it's all day with Higginson & Company. Here come the fire boys—I see a helmet back there————No, they've quit. They're a-runnin' back, an' draggin' their hose with 'em. Who's this here a-comin' f'r us?”
“I don't know; I can't see.”
“It's himself—it's Mr. Halloran. Hi! What's that?”