The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boss of Wind River, by A. M. Chisholm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Boss of Wind River Author: A. M. Chisholm Release Date: December 28, 2010 [EBook #34775] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER *** Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net The Boss of Wind River The girl caught Joe’s arm. “It’s going out, Joe! It’s going out! Oh, see it pull!” THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER BY A. M. CHISHOLM ILLUSTRATED GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION TO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY STREET & SMITH ILLUSTRATIONS The girl caught Joe’s arm. “It’s going out, Joe! It’s going out! Oh, see it pull!” Miss Crooks came down the walk to meet him ... “I’m so glad to see you, Joe. I’ve been looking for you for days” Haggarty and Rough Shan, locked in a deadly grip, fought like bulldogs “There’s the line. Cross it to-night or try to scrap with McCane’s crew before I tell you to, and I’ll shut down” I As young Joe Kent entered the office of the Kent Lumber Company at nine o’clock he was conscious of a sudden pause in the morning’s work. He felt rather than saw that the eyes of every employee were fixed upon him with an interest he had never before excited. And the quality of this interest, as he felt it, was curiously composite. In it there was a new respect, but mingled with misgivings; a sympathy repressed by the respect; a very dubious weighing of him, a comparison, a sizing up—a sort of mental shake of the head, as if the chances were in favour of his proving decidedly light in the balance; and running through it all was a waiting expectancy, frankly tinged with curiosity. Kent nodded a somewhat embarrassed, comprehensive good morning, and as he did so a thick-set, grizzled man came forward and shook hands. This was Wright, the office and mill manager. “The personal and important mail is on your desk, Mr. Kent,” he said. “Later I suppose you will want to go into the details of the business.” “I expect Mr. Locke about ten o’clock,” Kent replied. “I thought we might have a little talk together then, if you have time.” Wright smiled a little sadly. “My time is yours, you know. Just let me know when you want me.” Kent opened the door of the private office that had been his father’s, stepped in, and shut it. He glanced half expectantly at the big, leather-cushioned revolving chair behind the broad, flat-topped desk on which the morning’s mail lay neatly stacked. The chair was empty. It came to him in a keen, stabbing pain that whenever in future he should enter this office which was now his, the chair would be empty—that the big, square, kindly, keen-eyed man whose business throne it had been would sit in it no more. He seated himself at the desk, branded to right and left by countless cigars carelessly laid down, and drew the pile of correspondence to him. The topmost envelope bore no stamp, and as he saw his name upon it in the familiar, bold handwriting, his heart pounded and a lump rose in his throat. The fingers which slid a paper cutter beneath the flap were a trifle unsteady. He read: My Dear Boy: Locke will see that you get this when I have gone out. It is just a little personal note which I like to think you will be glad to read. I am not going to begin by apologizing for the fact that I leave behind me less money than most people, including myself, expected. There will be enough to give you a start and keep you hustling, which will do you no harm. You’ll find it easier to hustle now than later. But, nevertheless, a word of explanation is due you. As you grow older you will observe that when the ordinary man acquires a comfortable stack at his own game he is seized with an unaccountable desire to play another man’s game, at which he usually loses. It turned out so with me. I know the logging business; but I didn’t know, and don’t know, the stock market. I lost and I have no kick coming. It serves me right, but it may be a little hard on you. If that Power which put me in this world had seen fit to allow me to remain in it for a few years I would have stuck exclusively to my own last and repaired the damage. As it is I am warned that I must go out inside six months, and may do so at any earlier moment. It is in contemplation of the latter possibility that I write you now. Afterward I intend to go into business details with Locke. You may tie to him and Crooks. They are both white men. Don’t be too proud to consult them occasionally. And if they both think one way and you think the other, make up your mind you’re wrong. At a rough estimate, setting the present value of my assets against my liabilities, there should be a credit balance of fifty or sixty thousand dollars. That is lumping the whole thing—mills, timber limits, camp equipments, real estate, and so on. If you sold out everything you should get that much clear cash, perhaps more. But I hope you won’t sell. For one thing the assets will increase in value. The water powers I own will be worth a fortune some day. And then I want you to carry on the business because I think you’ll like it. You’ll make mistakes, of course; but in a few years or less I am certain you will have lifted the incumbrances with which my folly has saddled the concern, and you will begin to lay up a competence against the time when your chief regret at leaving this world will be that you must become only a memory to some one whom you love. Preaching isn’t my forte, and I am not trying to write a letter which shall be a guide through life under all conceivable conditions. But one or two hints may not be amiss. Such as they are I’ve bought ’em with my own money and paid mighty dear for some of them. Remember this: Straight business is good business, and crooked business isn’t, no matter how much money you make at it. Apart from ethics there’s a come-back with it, every time. A very fair test of the rectitude or otherwise of any deal is this: How will it look in print beneath a good scare head? If you don’t mind the answer, it’s probably all right. If you do, it’s apt to be mostly wrong, no matter how expensive a lawyer drew the papers. Be steady. Don’t let any man or thing rattle you into unconsidered action. Take your own time; it’s just as easy to make other people wait for you as to wait for them, but don’t keep them standing. Know as much of other people’s business as is consistent with minding your own. When any man offers you a gilt-edged snap, try to figure out why he doesn’t keep it all for himself; and if the answer is that he likes you, guess again. If you ever feel that you’re beaten and want to quit, make sure that the other fellow isn’t feeling worse; one more punch will help you to make sure. Get your fun as you go along. And now and then, Joe, old boy, when the sun is bright on the river and woods and the fish are leaping and the birds are flying and the tang of the open air makes life taste extra good, take time for a thought of him who was your loving father. ― William Kent. Young Kent choked suddenly, put down the letter, and stared out of the window at a landscape which had become very indistinct and misty. Before him lay the silver bosom of the river, checkered with the long, black lines of the booms stretching from shore to anchor-pier, great water corrals for the herds of shaggy, brown logs that were driven down from their native forests every spring. The morning breeze, streaming through the open window, was laden with the clean, penetrating, never-to-be-forgotten odour of newly cut pine. The air was vibrant with the deep hum of distant machinery. The thunderous roll of the log-carriages, the high-pitched whine of the planers, the sharp notes of edgers and trimmers, blended into one grand harmony; and shouting through it at exactly spaced intervals came the sustained, ripping crash of the great saws as their teeth bit into the flesh of some forest giant, bound and prostrate on an iron bed of torment. As he looked and listened, his eyes cleared of mists. For the first time he realized dimly that it was worth while. That the sounds he heard were part of a great song, a Song of Progress; the triumphant, virile song of the newest and greatest of nations, ringing from sea to sea across the breadth of a continent as it built itself, self-sustaining, strong, enduring. And young Joe Kent, standing by the window facing his inheritance, was a fair representative of the average young American who works with his hands or with his head, and more often with both. There was nothing striking about him. He was of medium height, of medium weight, of medium good looks. From the top of his close-clipped brown head to the toes of his polished brown boots he was neat and trim and healthy and sound. Only, looking closer, an accurate observer might have noticed a breadth of shoulder and a depth of chest not apparent at first glance, and a sweep of lean jaw and set of mouth at variance with the frank, boyish good humour of the tanned face and brown eyes. Kent left the window, settled himself in his father’s seat with as business-like an air as he could assume, and proceeded to wade through the pile of correspondence. In five minutes he was hopelessly bewildered. It was much less intelligible to him than Greek, for he was beautifully ignorant of the details of his father’s business. It had been an understood thing between them that some day, in a year or two—no hurry at all about it—he should enter that office and master the details of that business against the time—how far off it looked then!—when it should devolve upon him to conduct it. But they had both put it off. He was young, just through college. A year of travel was merely a proper adjunct to a not particularly brilliant academic degree. And in the midst of it had come the cablegram summoning him home, where he arrived a scant twenty-four hours before his father’s death. And now, William Kent having been laid to rest on the sunny slope where the great, plumed elms whispered messages with every summer breeze to the dead below them, his son was called to con the business ship through unknown waters, without any knowledge of navigation or even of ordinary seamanship. The letters which he scanned, reading the words but not getting the sense because he had not the remotest idea of what they were about, were for the most part exceedingly terse and business-like. They were the morning cream of the correspondence, skimmed from the mass by the practised hand of Wright, the manager; letters which, in the ordinary course of business, go direct to the head of the house to be passed upon. But in this case the head of the house had rather vaguer ideas than his office boy as to how they should be handled. They dealt with timber berths, with logs, with lumber, with contracts made and to be made; in fact with almost everything that Joe Kent knew nothing about and with nothing that he knew anything about. And so, in utter despair, he was on the point of summoning Wright to elucidate matters when, after an emphatic rap, the door opened, admitting a burly, red-faced man of fifty. This was Locke. He had the appearance of a prosperous farmer, and he was an exceedingly busy lawyer, with the reputation of a relentless fighter when once he took a case. He had been William Kent’s friend as well as his legal adviser. “Well, Joe,” said he, “getting into harness already?” “I can get into it easy enough,” Joe replied; “but it’s a lot too big for me.” Locke nodded. “You’ll grow. When I started I didn’t know any more about law than you do about logs. You got that letter?” “Yes, thanks. He said I might tie to you and Crooks.” Locke looked out of the window because his eyes were filling. To disguise the fact he pretended to search his pockets for a cigar and growled: “So you may, within limits. Got a smoke there? I’m out.” He lit one of William Kent’s big, black cigars, leaned back in his chair, and crossed one leg over the other. “Now, then, Joe, where shall we start?” he asked. “I’m busy, and you ought to be. What do you know of your father’s affairs, anyway?” “Almost nothing,” young Kent admitted. “Say I don’t know anything, and it will be about right. This letter hints at debts —mortgages and things, I suppose.” “Mortgages and things!” repeated the lawyer. “Lord, what an unsophisticated young blood you are! I should say there were. Now here it is, as your father explained it to me.” Kent tried to follow the lawyer’s practised analysis, but did not altogether succeed. Three things emerged clearly. The mills, plant, and real estate were heavily mortgaged. There was an indebtedness to the Commercial Bank on notes made by William Kent and endorsed by Crooks. And there was a further indebtedness to them on Kent’s notes alone, secured by a collateral mortgage on certain timber lands. “Now, you see,” Locke concluded, “setting the assets against the liabilities you are solvent to the extent of sixty or seventy thousand dollars, or perhaps more. In all probability you could get that clear if you sold out. Properly managed for you by somebody else, it would yield an income of between three and four thousand dollars per annum. On that you could live comfortably, be free from worry, and die of dry-rot and Scotch highballs at about my age.” “I’m going to run the business,” said Joe. “My father wished it; and anyway I’m going to.” Locke smoked thoughtfully for some moments. “That’s good talk,” he said at length. “I understand your feelings. But before you come to a definite conclusion take time to look at all sides of the question. The cold fact is that you have had no experience. The business is solvent, but too involved to give you much leeway. It is an expensive one to run, and you can’t afford to make many mistakes. For seven months in the year your payroll and camp supply bill will run into five figures. Your father intended to make a big cut next winter and clear off some of the debt. Suppose you try that yourself. It means a big outlay. Can you swing it? Remember, you haven’t got much rope; and if you fail and smash it won’t be a case of living on three or four thousand a year, but of earning five or six hundred a year to live on.” “I hadn’t thought of it in just that way,” said Kent. “You see it’s all new to me. But I’m going into it, sink or swim. My mind’s made up.” “I thought it would be,” said Locke with satisfaction. “If I were you I’d take Wright into my confidence from the start. He is a good man, and thinks as much of your interests as if they were his own.” Wright, called in, listened to Locke’s succinct statement without much surprise. “Of course, I knew these things already in a general way,” he commented. “I have decided to carry on the business,” Joe told him. “What do you think of it?” “The carrying or the business?” “Both.” “Well,” said Wright slowly, “the business might be in worse shape—a lot worse. With your father handling it there would be no trouble. With you—I don’t know.” “That’s not very encouraging,” said Joe, endeavouring to smile at Locke, an effort not entirely successful. Locke said nothing. “I don’t mean to be discouraging,” said Wright. “It’s a fact. I don’t know. You see, you’ve never had a chance; you’ve no experience.” “Well, I’m after it now,” said Kent. “Will you stay with me while I get it?” “Of course I will,” said Wright heartily. When Locke had gone Joe turned to his manager. “Now,” he said, “will you please tell me what I ought to know about the business, just what we have on hand and what we must do to keep going? I don’t know a thing about it, and I’m here to learn. I’ve got to. Make it as simple as you can. I’m not going to pretend I understand if I don’t. Therefore I’ll probably ask a lot of fool questions. You see, I’m showing you my hand, and I own up to you that there’s nothing in it. But I won’t show it to any one else. When I want to know things I’ll come to you; but for all other people know to the contrary I’ll be playing my own game. That is, till I’m capable of running the business without advice I’ll run it on yours. I’ve got to make a bluff, and this is the only way I see of doing it. What do you think?” “I think,” said Wright, “that it’s the best thing you can do, though I wouldn’t have suggested it myself. I’ll give you the best I’ve got. An hour ago I was rather doubtful, but now I think you’ve got it in you to play a mighty good game of your own one of these days.” Whereupon old Bob Wright and young Joe Kent shook hands with mutual respect—Wright because he had found that Kent was not a self-sufficient young ass, and Kent because Wright had treated him as a man instead of merely as an employer. II In the course of a few weeks Joe Kent began to feel that he was making some progress. The business was no longer a mysterious machine that somehow produced money for his needs. It became a breathing, throbbing creature, sensitive to the touch, thriving with attention, languishing with neglect. It was a delicate organism, wonderfully responsive to the handling. Every action, every word, every hastily dictated letter had far reaching results. Conscientiously and humbly, as became a beginner, he came to the study of it. He began to meet his men. Not those with whom he came in daily contact in the office; but his foremen, tanned, weather-beaten, level-eyed logging bosses, silent for the most part, not at all certain how to take the “Old Man’s” son, and apparently considering “yes” and “no” perfectly adequate contributions to conversation, who consumed his proffered cigars, kept their own opinions, and went their several ways. Kent was conscious that he was being held at arm’s length; conscious that the steady eyes took note of his smart shoes, his well-pressed clothes, and his smooth cheeks. He did not know that the same critical eyes also noted approvingly his broad shoulders, deep chest, and firm jaw. He felt that the questions he asked and the conversation he tried to make were not the questions and conversation which his father would have addressed to them. But he was building better than he knew. Many old friends of William Kent dropped in to shake hands with his son, and one morning Joe was handed the card of Mr. Stanley Ackerman. “Tell him to walk in,” said Joe. Mr. Ackerman walked in. He was tall and slim and gray and accurately dressed. Mr. Ackerman’s business, if his varied pursuits might be thus consolidated, was that of a Director of Enterprises. He was on all sorts of directorates from banks to hospitals. He had promoted or caused to be promoted many corporate activities. He was identified in one way and another with a dozen financial and industrial concerns. He was the confidential friend and twin brother of Capital; and he was smooth, very smooth. His handshake expressed tender, delicate sympathy. “I should have called sooner, Mr. Kent, after the recent melancholy event,” said he, “but that I feared to intrude. I knew your father very well, very well indeed. I hope to know his son as well—or better. These changes come to us all, but I was shocked, deeply shocked. I assure you, Mr. Kent, I—was—shocked.” “Sit down, won’t you?” said Joe. “Have a cigar?” “Not in the morning, thank you,” said Ackerman. “My constitution won’t stand it now. Don’t mind me, though.” He watched Joe strike a match. His gaze was very keen and measuring, as if the young man were a problem of some sort to be solved. “And how do you find it going?” he asked. “Quite a change for you, to be saddled with a big business at a moment’s notice. If I recollect, you were at college till very recently. Yes? Unfortunate. Not that I would deprecate the value of education. Not at all. A most excellent thing. Fine training for the battle of life. But at the same time scarcely a practical preparation for the duties you have been called on so suddenly to assume.” “That’s a fact,” said Joe. “Just at present I’d trade a couple of the years I spent there for one in the office. However, I’m learning slowly. Doing the best I can, you know.” “No doubt, no doubt,” returned Ackerman cordially. “If I had a son—I am sorry I haven’t—and Providence in its inscrutable wisdom saw fit to remove me—we never can tell; as the Good Book says, Death comes like a thief in the night—that is how I would wish him to face the world. Bravely and modestly, as you are doing. No doubt you feel your responsibilities, eh?” “Well, yes,” Joe admitted. “I have my experience to get, and the concern is pretty large. Naturally it worries me a little.” “Ah,” said Mr. Ackerman thoughtfully, “it’s a pity your father never took action along the lines of a conversation I had with him a few months ago. I expressed surprise that he had never turned his business into a joint stock company, and —rather to my surprise I confess, for he was a little old-fashioned in such matters—he said he had been thinking of doing so. He observed, and very truly, that he was as capable of managing his own affairs as any board of directors, but that if anything happened to him, such experienced advice would be of inestimable benefit to you. And then he spoke of the limited liability feature as desirable. Looking back at that conversation,” said Mr. Ackerman with a gentle sigh, “it almost seems as if he had a premonition. I assure you that he spoke with the greatest earnestness, as if he had thought the matter over carefully and arrived at a definite conclusion. And yet I suppose nothing has been done in that direction, yet?” No, nothing had been done, Joe told him. In fact, this was the first intimation he had had that such a thing had entered his father’s thoughts. That, said Mr. Ackerman, was too bad. It was a great responsibility for a young man—too great. Now, a board of experienced directors would share it, and they would have an active interest in advising properly. “Meaning that the advice I get now isn’t proper?” asked Joe, with just a little tightening of the mouth. “Meaning nothing of the sort,” Ackerman hastened to disclaim. “Don’t misunderstand me. But you must admit that it is irresponsible. In the long run you pay the piper.” “That’s true enough,” Joe admitted. “In the end it’s up to me, of course.” “Just so,” said Mr. Ackerman. “That is what your father foresaw and intended to provide against. If he had been spared a few months longer I believe he would have formed a company, retaining the controlling interest himself, so that you might have had the benefit of the advice of a board of experienced directors.” Joe Kent was quite sure his father would not have done anything of the kind, but he did not say so. Ackerman bestowed on him another measuring glance and proceeded: “You see, Mr. Kent, business history shows that, generally speaking, the collective wisdom of half a dozen men is greater than that of the individual. The exceptions only prove the rule. The weak points in any proposition rarely get past half a dozen experienced men. And then we must remember that influence makes for success. Naturally the influence of half a dozen representative men helps to get business as it helps the business to buy cheaply, and as it helps to transact business properly. Why,”—here Mr. Ackerman became prophetic—”I venture to say, Mr. Kent, that if this business of yours were turned into a joint stock company and the proper gentlemen interested, its volume would double in a very short time.“ “Perhaps so,” said Joe doubtfully. “Why not do it?” said Mr. Ackerman, seizing the psychological moment. “I would take stock myself. I think I know of others who would. And as to forming and organizing the company, I need not say that any small knowledge I may have of such matters is entirely at your service.” “Very good of you,” said Joe. “It’s a new idea to me. I don’t think, though, that I quite like it. This is my business now, and I run it. If a company were formed I couldn’t do that. I’d have to do as I was told. Of course I understand I’d have votes according to what stock I held, but it wouldn’t be the same thing.” “Nominally different only,” Ackerman assured him. “Very properly you would retain a majority of the shares—that is, a controlling interest. Then you’d be made managing director, at a good salary. No doubt that would be the arrangement. So that you would have an assured income, a dividend on your stock, and practical control of the business, as well as the advice of experienced men and consequent freedom from a good deal of worry. If I were in your place—speaking as one who has seen a good many ups and downs in business—I should not hesitate.” But in spite of this personal clinching argument young Kent did hesitate. And this hesitation so much resembled a plain mulish balk that Mr. Ackerman was a trifle disconcerted. Nevertheless he beamed upon the young man with tolerant good nature. “Well, well, a new proposition,” said he. “Take time to think it over—take plenty of time. You must see its advantages. New capital brought in would permit the business to expand. It would pay off the debts——” “Debts!” said young Kent icily. “What debts?” “Why—ah”—Mr. Ackerman was again slightly disconcerted—“you must be aware of the mortgages existing, Mr. Kent.” “I am,” said Kent, “but how do you know about them? What business are they of yours?” “Tut, tut!” said Ackerman reprovingly. “I read a weekly commercial report, like other men. The mortgages are no secret.” “I beg your pardon,” said Kent. “I shouldn’t have spoken as I did. Fact is, I’m a little touchy on that subject.” “Needlessly so,” said Ackerman. “Most of my own property is mortgaged, and I don’t consider it a disgrace. I can use the money to better advantage in other ways. Well, as I was saying, the new capital would expand the business, the advice of experienced gentlemen would make things easy for you; and if the property was put in at a good, liberal valuation—as of course it would be—your holding would be worth more than it is to-day.” “That is, the experienced gentlemen would water the stock,” said Kent. Mr. Ackerman reddened a little. “A liberal valuation isn’t water,” he replied. “Those who would buy into the concern wouldn’t be apt to give you too much. Of course, they would desire to be perfectly fair.” “Oh, of course,” said Kent. “Well, Mr. Ackerman, I don’t think we need discuss the matter further, for I’ve decided to keep on paddling my own little canoe.” “Think it over, think it over,” Ackerman urged. “I have thought it over,” said Joe. “You see, Mr. Ackerman, I may not know much about this business, but I don’t know any more about any other. So I might as well stick to it.” “The plan I have outlined”—Ackerman began. “I don’t like,” Kent put in, smiling. “My position is this: I want to handle this business myself and make a success at it. I expect to make mistakes, but not the same mistake twice. I’m awfully obliged for your interest, but to be told what to do by a board of directors would spoil all my fun.” “Fun!” echoed Mr. Ackerman, horrified. “My dear sir, business—is—not—fun!” “It is for me—about the bulliest fun I ever had in my life,” said young Kent. “I never played a game I liked as well.” Mr. Ackerman shook his head sadly. The young man was hopeless. “I suppose,” he said casually, as he rose to go, “that in the event of a syndicate offering you a fair price for the whole concern, lock, stock, and barrel, you wouldn’t sell?” “No, I don’t think so,” Joe replied. “Ah, well, youth is ever sanguine,” said Mr. Ackerman. “Your energy and confidence do you credit, Mr. Kent, though I’m rather sorry you won’t entertain the company idea. We could make this a very big business on that basis. Perhaps, later, you may come around to it. Anyway, I wish you luck. If I can assist you in any way at any time just let me know. Good morning. Good morning! Remember, in any way, at any time.” Joe, from his favourite position at the window, saw Mr. Ackerman emerge from the building and begin his dignified progress down the street. “I didn’t like his stock proposition,” he thought, “but I guess he isn’t a bad old sport at bottom. Seems to mean well. I’m sorry I was rude to him.” Just then Mr. Ackerman, looking up, caught his eye. Joe waved a careless, friendly hand. Mr. Ackerman so far forgot his dignity as to return the friendly salute, and smiled upward benignantly. “The damned young pup!” said Mr. Ackerman behind his smile. III William Crooks, the old lumberman who had been the friend of the elder Kent, was big and broad and burly, and before the years had silvered his mane it was as red as any danger flag that ever wagged athwart steel rails. He held strong opinions, he used strong language, he was swift to anger, he feared no man on earth, and he knew the logging business from stump to market. He inhabited a huge, square, brick structure that would have given an architect chronic nightmare. Twenty odd years before he had called to him one Dorsey, by trade a builder. “Dorsey,” said Crooks, “I want you to build me a house.” Dorsey, who was a practical man, removed his pipe, scratched his head and asked: “What of?” “Red brick,” said Crooks. He held out a sheet of foolscap. “Here’s the number of rooms and the sizes of them.” Dorsey scanned the paper. “What do you want her to cost?” “What she’s worth, and a fair profit to you,” said Crooks. “Get at her and finish her by frost. I’ll want to move in by then.” “All right,” said Dorsey. “She’ll be ready for you.” By frost “she” was finished, and Crooks moved in. There he had lived ever since; and there he intended to live as long as he could. Kindly time had partially concealed the weird creation of Dorsey’s brain by trees and creepers; here and there an added veranda or bow window was offered in mitigation of the original crime; but its stark, ungraceful outline remained a continual offence to the eye. That was outside. Inside it was different. The rooms were big and airy and well lighted. There was an abundance of open fireplaces, as became the residence of a man whose life had been spent in devastating forests, and the furniture and furnishings were practical and comfortable, for Bill Crooks hated “frills.” In that house his children were born, and there three of them and his wife died. There Jean, his youngest girl, grew to womanhood, a straight, lithe, slender, dark-haired young tyrant, with his own fearlessness and directness of speech. She was known to her intimates as “Jack,” and she and Joe Kent had been friends all their young lives. Since coming home Kent had seen little of her. He was very busy mastering details of the business, and either went back to his office in the evenings or spent them quietly at the club. But on the day of his interview with Mr. Ackerman it occurred to him that he should call upon Jack Crooks. When he opened the gate that evening he saw that the wide veranda was well occupied. Four young men were making exceedingly light conversation to two young women. William Crooks was nowhere visible. Miss Crooks came down the walk to meet him, and held out two slim hands in welcome. “I’m so glad to see you, Joe. I’ve been looking for you for days.” “You see, I’ve been busy,” said Kent. “And then, naturally, I haven’t been going out much.” She nodded sympathetic comprehension. “I understand, of course. Come up and be presented. I have a very charming visitor.” “Any one I know?” “Edith Garwood. She’s my guest for a few weeks. Have you met her?” Joe had never met Miss Garwood. He decided as he shook hands with her that this was his distinct loss. Edith Garwood was tall and fair and blue eyed, with the dainty bloom and colouring of a flower. Her smile was simply distracting. Her voice was low and musical, and her laughter carried a little trill that stuck in the memory like the first bird notes of spring. She seemed to be one of those rare girls who are made to be loved by everybody, madly adored by several, and finally captured by some undeservingly lucky man. Miss Crooks came down the walk to meet him ... “I’m so glad to see you, Joe. I’ve been looking for you for days” At that moment she was holding a little court. Mallane, a young lawyer; Drew, of Drew & Son; Leadly, whose chief occupation was the dissemination of his father’s money, which he had almost accomplished; and young Jolly, who honoured a bank with his presence by day, clustered around her closely. Each was quite positive that her glances and laughter held a meaning for him which the others did not share. The charmed circle, momentarily broken by the entrance of Kent, closed again. They talked at Miss Garwood, they postured at her, and when, now and then, they remembered the existence of their young hostess and included her in the conversation, it was evidently as a matter of duty only. Just then Edith Garwood was the only star in all the heavens. Joe drew chairs for himself and Miss Jack just outside the group. “Well?” she asked. “Quite, thank you.” “I didn’t mean that. Is it love at first sight with you, too?” “No chance for me,” laughed Joe. “Competition is too keen. Besides, Jack, I’ve been in love with you for years.” “Nonsense!” she said, so sharply that he looked at her in surprise. “I waive my prior claim,” she added, with a laugh. “Confess, Joe! Isn’t she the prettiest girl you ever saw?” “She seems to be a good deal of a peach,” Joe admitted. “Is she related to Hugh Garwood, the president of the O. & N. Railway?” “Daughter,” said Jack briefly. “His only child.” Joe grinned. “Which probably accounts for the obvious devotion of Mallane and Leadly.” “Don’t be so cynical; it isn’t nice. She can’t help it, can she?” “Of course not. I was speaking of the men.” “Well, she’s very pretty and charming. If I were a young man I’d fall in love with her. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit to see you smitten.” Joe reddened a trifle, conscious that while he had been talking to Jack his eyes had been on Miss Garwood. Once or twice her glance had met his and she had given him a friendly smile. It seemed to hint at an understanding between them —as if she would have been very glad to have him change places with one of the others. And yet it was absolutely frank and open. Kent, being an average young man, did not analyze the quality of it. He merely felt that he liked Edith Garwood, and she probably did not dislike him. At the same time he began to feel a slight aversion to the four men who monopolized her; but he explained this to himself quite honestly on the ground that it was boorish of them to neglect Jack Crooks for a guest, no matter how charming the latter might be. His reply to Jack’s prediction was interrupted by William Crooks. “Well, young people,” said the old lumberman, emerging upon the veranda, “why don’t you come into the house and have some music?” “It’s cooler out here, dad,” said Jack. “Sit down and make yourself at home and have a smoke. Here’s Joe.” Crooks laid a huge hand on Kent’s shoulder. “I want to talk over some business with you, Joe. You won’t mind if I take him away for half an hour, Jack?” “Not a bit, dad. Don’t keep him all night, though.” “I won’t,” he promised, smiling at her fondly. “Come on, Joe. We’ll go to the library.” William Crooks’s library held few books. Such as there were mainly dealt with the breeding, training, and diseases of horses and dogs. Stuffed birds and fish, guns and rods adorned the walls. A huge table in the centre of the room bore a mass of papers in which pipes, cartridge cases, trout flies, and samples of various woods mingled in gorgeous confusion. Crooks laid an open box of cigars on top of the disarray. “Well, Joe,” he asked, “how you makin’ it?” “I don’t quite know yet,” Kent replied. “I’m just beginning to learn the ropes around the office. So far I like it.” “You’ll like it better,” said Crooks. “You come to me if you get stuck; but work things out for yourself if you can. Now, about those notes I’ve indorsed!” “Yes,” said Kent. “I don’t see how I’m to take them up just yet.” “Nobody wants you to,” said Crooks. “Your father helped me out often enough. I was doing the same for him, and what I’d do for him I’ll do for you. Don’t worry about the notes or renewals. Only—I may as well talk straight to you, Joe—I don’t want to increase my liabilities without I have to. Understand, if it’s a case of need I’ll back you up to any amount in reason, but if you can worry along without more accommodation I wish you would.” “It’s very good of you,” said Joe. “I’ll try to get along. Anyway, I never thought of asking you for more endorsements.” “Well, you think of it if you need them,” said Crooks gruffly. “Come to me as if I were your father, boy. I’ll go with you as far as I would with him, and that’s to the rim-ice of Hades.” For acknowledgment Joe took his hand and shook it, an action which embarrassed the old lumber baron exceedingly. “All right, all right,” he growled. “Don’t be a blamed young fool. I’m not going away anywhere.” Joe laughed. “I’m glad of that. I’ll ask your advice pretty often, Mr. Crooks. By the way, what would you think of turning my business into a joint stock company? I don’t fancy the idea myself.” “Who’s been talking to you?” demanded Crooks. “Well, Mr. Ackerman dropped in this morning.” “What did he want?” “I don’t suppose he wanted anything in particular. He just happened in, being in town. This came up in the course of conversation.” “Son,” said Crooks, “Ackerman doesn’t go anywhere or see anybody without he wants something. You tie into that. What did he talk about?” Joe told him. Crooks listened intently, chewing his cigar. “He suggested the same thing to your father, and your father refused to consider it,” he said. “Now he comes to you. Huh!” He smoked in silence for several moments. “I wonder what his game is?” he concluded thoughtfully. “Why, I suppose if he organized the company he’d get a block of stock for his services,” said Joe, and he thought the comment particularly shrewd. “That’s all I see in it, Mr. Crooks.” “You don’t know a thing about it,” growled the lumberman bluntly. “If you fell in with his proposition he’d kick you out when he got ready.” “No,” said Joe. “He suggested that I retain a majority of the shares.” Crooks eyed him pityingly. “In about six months he’d issue more and cut your throat.” “How could he do that unless I consented?” “You would consent—the way they’d put it up to you. However, you won’t deal with him if you have any sense. Now, look here. You’re not twenty-five, just starting business. You think all there is to it is to cut your logs, bring down your drives, cut them up into lumber, and the demand will take care of the rest. That’s how it used to be. It isn’t so now. Timber is getting scarcer and prices are going up. There is a scramble for what timber limits are left, and the men with the pull get them. Same way with contracts. You’ll find it out. The big concerns are eating up the little ones in our line, just as in others. That’s why you’d better keep clear of any proposals of Ackerman’s.” “I will,” Joe promised. At the same time he thought Crooks unduly pessimistic. “Now about timber,” the old lumberman went on. “I’m starting men to cruise all north of Rat Lake to the divide. You’d better send a couple of cruisers into Wind River and let them work east over that stuff, so you will be in shape to bid for it. That was what your father intended to do.” “We have two men there now,” Joe told him. “Do you know how this bidding works?” asked Crooks. “The government calls for tenders and accepts the highest,” Joe replied. “Theoretically,” said Crooks. “Practically, if you’re not a friend of their rotten outfit you might tender the mint and not get a look in. They used to have sales by public auction, and those were square enough; though sometimes the boys pooled on ’em. Now what happens is this: The government may open any timber for sale on any man’s application, and they are supposed to advertise for tenders. If the applicant isn’t a friend they won’t open it. If he is, they advertise in a couple of issues of some backwoods paper that no one sees, nobody else tenders, and he gets it for a song. Of course some one high up gets a rake-off. Only you can’t prove it.” “How do you buy, then?” Joe asked. “You’re not friendly to the present government, and I’m not.” Crooks hesitated for a moment. “You’ll have to know sooner or later,” he said. “I tender in the name of another man, and I pay him from ten to twenty per cent. of the amount I tender for the bare use of his name—if I get what I want. Oh, I know it’s rotten, but I have to stand for it or shut down. Your father did the same thing; you’ll have to do it, too. I’m not defending it. I’ll tell you more. This infernal political graft is everywhere. You can’t supply a foot of lumber to a contractor on any public work unless you stand in.” Joe whistled astonishment, not unmixed with disbelief. “Sounds pretty stiff, hey?” said Crooks. “Well, here’s something else for you to digest. There’s a concern called the Central Lumber Company, capitalized for a hundred thousand, composed of a young lawyer, a bookkeeper, a real estate man, and an insurance agent—individuals, mind you, who couldn’t raise ten thousand dollars between them— who have bought in timber lands and acquired going lumber businesses worth several millions. What do you think of that?” Joe did not know what to think of it, and said so. The suspicion that Crooks was stringing him crossed his mind, but the old lumberman was evidently in deadly earnest. “And now I’ll tell you one thing more,” said Crooks, instinctively lowering his voice. “I had an offer for my business some time ago, and I turned it down. It came through a firm of lawyers for clients unnamed. Since then I’ve had a run of bad luck. My sales have fallen off, I have trouble in my mills, and the railway can’t supply me with cars. There isn’t a thing I can fasten on, either.” “Oh, you must be mistaken,” said Joe. It seemed to him that bad luck, which often runs in grooves, had given rise to groundless suspicions in Crooks’s mind. “I’m not mistaken,” the latter replied. “I’m playing with a cold deck, and though I can’t see a blame thing wrong with the deal I notice I draw rags every time. That’s enough for me. I’m going to find out why, because if I don’t I may as well quit playing.” He banged his big fist viciously on the table. “I’ll know the reason why!” he thundered. “I will, by the Glory Eternal! If any gang of blasted high-bankers think they can run me out of my own business without a fight they miss their guess.” His white hair bristled and his cold blue eyes blazed. Thirty years before he had been a holy terror with fists and feet. Few men then had cared to arouse Bill Crooks. Now the old fighting spirit surged up and took possession of him, and he was proceeding to stronger language when Miss Jack tapped imperatively at the door and opened it. “May I come in? Dad, this isn’t playing fair. You’ve kept Joe all evening. Edith and I have been waiting alone for half an hour. Come in, Edith, and tell him what you think of him.” “Well, you girls had four young fellows without Joe. How many do you want?” She raised inquiring eyebrows at his tone. “Anything the matter, daddy? I didn’t mean to intrude.” “You never do that, Jack,” he smiled at her fondly. “Business bothers—nothing to worry about. It’ll be all right ‘when the drive comes down!’” “That always means I mustn’t ask questions. I won’t; but for being rude to me you shall sing the song. Edith wants to hear it.” “Oh, do please, Mr. Crooks,” said Miss Garwood sweetly. “I’ve no more voice than a crow, and Jack knows it,” said Crooks, but followed his daughter meekly to the piano in the next room. “‘When the Drive Comes Down,’ as sung by Mr. William Crooks, Selected Record,” Jack announced in a metallic voice. She struck a chord, and Crooks, his face beaming and his ill humour forgotten, with the preliminary whine of the genuine shanty vocalist struck into an ancient ballad of the river, which was his especial favourite: “Come all ye gallant shanty boys, an’ listen while I sing, We’ve worked six months in cruel frosts, but soon we’ll take our fling. The ice is black an’ rotten, an’ the rollways is piled high, So boost upon yer peavey sticks while I do tell ye why-y-y. For it’s break the roll ways out, me boys, an’ let the big stick slide, An’ file yer corks, an’ grease yer boots, an’ start upon the drive, A hundred miles of water is the nearest way to town, So tie into the tail of her, an’ keep her hustlin’ down-n-n.” He roared it in a heavy bass, beating time with a thunderous fist. Jack’s clear alto and Joe’s strong baritone struck into the first refrain: “When the drive comes dow-un, when the jam comes down, Oh, it’s then we’re paid our money, an’ it’s then we own the town. All the gutters runs with whiskey when the shanty boys so frisky Sets their boot corks in the sidewalks when the drive is down-n-n.” “Splendid!” cried Miss Garwood. “More, Mr. Crooks!” He nodded at her indulgently, and let his big voice go: “There’s some poor lads will never lift a peavey-hook again, Nor hear the trees crack wid the frost, nor feel a warm spring rain. ’Twas fallin’ timber, rowlin’ logs that handed them their time; It was their luck to get it so—it may be yours or mine. “But break the rollways out, me lads, an’ let the big sticks slide, For one man killed within the woods ten’s drownded on the drive. So make yer sowls before ye take the nearest way to town While the lads that be’s in Heaven watch the drive go down-n-n. “When the drive starts dow-un, when the drive starts down, Oh, it’s every lad in Heaven he wud swop his golden crown For a peavey stick again, an’ a soakin’ April rain, An’ to birl a log beneath him as he drives the river down-n-n.” “Oh, I don’t like that verse,” protested Miss Garwood. “It’s sad, fatalistic, reckless—anything and everything it shouldn’t be. I thought shanty songs were more cheerful.” “Some of ’em are cheerful enough,” said Crooks, winking at Joe, who had the grace to blush. “But most describe the lingering deaths of true lovers,” said Jack. “A shantyman requires sentiment or murder, and preferably both, in his music. Dad, sing us ‘The Fate of Lovely May.’” “I will not,” Crooks refused. “It has five hundred verses, more or less. I’m going to bed. You can lose sleep if you want to.” “Don’t take that hint, Joe,” laughed Jack. “You’re not company.” “Hint nothing,” said Crooks. “Jack knows it wasn’t.” “I’m a business man now,” said Joe. “I feel it my duty to set an example to frivolous young people.” “Come around often, the way you used to,” said Jack. Miss Garwood, obviously, could not second the invitation in words: but much can be expressed by a pair of blue eyes. Joe felt that, unless he was an absolute dub at interpreting such things, his visits would not be unwelcome to her. IV Wright stalked into Joe’s office one morning and slapped an open letter down on his desk. Evidently he was red hot. “What do you think of that?” he demanded. The communication was brief and business-like: BARKER & SMITH Contractors—Builders Oshkook, June 10th. The Kent Lumber Co., Falls City. Dear Sirs: Referring to our correspondence as to a quantity of lumber f.o.b. Falls City, we would say that we will not require same from you, having been quoted a more favourable rate. Regretting that in this instance we must place our order elsewhere, we are, ― Yours truly, Barker & Smith. Joe whistled dismally. Barker & Smith were large contractors and retail dealers. The quantity of lumber referred to was large, and the contract had been all but closed; in fact, he was not sure that it had not been closed. After consultation with Wright he had quoted the firm a rock bottom cash price because he needed the money more than the lumber. Now he was thrown down hard. “Well, some one underbid us,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment. “That’s all there is to it.” “Nobody could underbid us and get out even,” said Wright. “We figured our margin down to a hair-line. I’ll bet a hundred to one they can’t get it cheaper without stealing.” “They say they can, and I suppose it goes,” said Joe wearily. “Hang it, I thought it was as good as closed!” “Same here; and I’m not sure it isn’t,” said Wright. “They practically agreed to take the stuff from us.” “Show the correspondence to Locke then, and see what he says,” Joe suggested. But Locke, after he had waded through the papers, tossed them back to Wright. “No good,” he said. “What’s here doesn’t amount to a contract, though it comes mighty close to it.” “It comes so close to it that we had cars run up the spur and started to load,” said Wright. “The understanding was—” “It had no business to be,” Locke interrupted. “You’ve shown me all the papers in the matter, haven’t you? Very well, I tell you they don’t amount to an agreement. They’re simply a series of proposals, rejections, and requests for other proposals, though you came very nearly agreeing. While you’re dickering some one cuts in with a better rate and they call it off. You can’t hold them.” “But nobody could underbid us; we quoted ’em rock bottom,” Wright persisted. That was the main point in his mind. “Oh, pshaw, Wright, have some sense!” snapped Locke. “That may be an...