The Riverman

THE RIVERMAN

by Stewart Edward White

I

The time was the year 1872, and the place a bend in the river above a

long pond terminating in a dam. Beyond this dam, and on a flat

lower than it, stood a two-story mill structure. Save for a small,

stump-dotted clearing, and the road that led from it, all else was

forest. Here in the bottom-lands, following the course of the stream,

the hardwoods grew dense, their uppermost branches just beginning to

spray out in the first green of spring. Farther back, where the higher

lands arose from the swamp, could be discerned the graceful frond of

white pines and hemlock, and the sturdy tops of Norways and spruce.

A strong wind blew up the length of the pond. It ruffled the surface of

the water, swooping down in fan-shaped, scurrying cat's-paws, turning

the dark-blue surface as one turns the nap of velvet. At the upper end

of the pond it even succeeded in raising quite respectable wavelets,

which LAP LAP LAPPED eagerly against a barrier of floating logs that

filled completely the mouth of the inlet river. And behind this barrier

were other logs, and yet others, as far as the eye could see, so that

the entire surface of the stream was carpeted by the brown timbers. A

man could have walked down the middle of that river as down a highway.

On the bank, and in a small woods-opening, burned two fires, their smoke

ducking and twisting under the buffeting of the wind. The first of

these fires occupied a shallow trench dug for its accommodation, and was

overarched by a rustic framework from which hung several pails, kettles,

and pots. An injured-looking, chubby man in a battered brown derby hat

moved here and there. He divided his time between the utensils and an

indifferent youth--his “cookee.” The other, and larger, fire centred a

rectangle composed of tall racks, built of saplings and intended for the

drying of clothes. Two large tents gleamed white among the trees.

About the drying-fire were gathered thirty-odd men. Some were

half-reclining before the blaze; others sat in rows on logs drawn close

for the purpose; still others squatted like Indians on their heels,

their hands thrown forward to keep the balance. Nearly all were smoking

pipes.

Every age was represented in this group, but young men predominated. All

wore woollen trousers stuffed into leather boots reaching just to the

knee. These boots were armed on the soles with rows of formidable sharp

spikes or caulks, a half and sometimes even three quarters of an inch in

length. The tight driver's shoe and “stagged” trousers had not then come

into use. From the waist down these men wore all alike, as though in a

uniform, the outward symbol of their calling. From the waist up was more

latitude of personal taste. One young fellow sported a bright-coloured

Mackinaw blanket jacket; another wore a red knit sash, with tasselled

ends; a third's fancy ran to a bright bandana about his neck. Head-gear,

too, covered wide variations of broader or narrower brim, of higher or

lower crown; and the faces beneath those hats differed as everywhere

the human countenance differs. Only when the inspection, passing the

gradations of broad or narrow, thick or thin, bony or rounded, rested

finally on the eyes, would the observer have caught again the caste-mark

which stamped these men as belonging to a distinct order, and separated

them essentially from other men in other occupations. Blue and brown

and black and gray these eyes were, but all steady and clear with the

steadiness and clarity that comes to those whose daily work compels

them under penalty to pay close and undeviating attention to their

surroundings. This is true of sailors, hunters, plainsmen, cowboys,

and tugboat captains. It was especially true of the old-fashioned

river-driver, for a misstep, a miscalculation, a moment's forgetfulness

of the sullen forces shifting and changing about him could mean for

him maiming or destruction. So, finally, to one of an imaginative bent,

these eyes, like the “cork boots,” grew to seem part of the uniform, one

of the marks of their caste, the outward symbol of their calling.

“Blow, you son of a gun!” cried disgustedly one young fellow with a red

bandana, apostrophising the wind. “I wonder if there's ANY side of this

fire that ain't smoky!”

“Keep your hair on, bub,” advised a calm and grizzled old-timer.

“There's never no smoke on the OTHER side of the fire--whichever

that happens to be. And as for wind--she just makes holiday for the

river-hogs.”

“Holiday, hell!” snorted the younger man. “We ought to be down to Bull's

Dam before now--”

“And Bull's Dam is half-way to Redding,” mocked a reptilian and

red-headed giant on the log, “and Redding is the happy childhood home

of--”

The young man leaped to his feet and seized from a pile of tools a

peavy--a dangerous weapon, like a heavy cant-hook, but armed at the end

with a sharp steel shoe.

“That's about enough!” he warned, raising his weapon, his face suffused

and angry. The red-headed man, quite unafraid, rose slowly from the log

and advanced, bare-handed, his small eyes narrowed and watchful.

But immediately a dozen men interfered.

“Dry up!” advised the grizzled old-timer--Tom North by name. “You,

Purdy, set down; and you, young squirt, subside! If you're going to have

ructions, why, have 'em, but not on drive. If you don't look out, I'll

set you both to rustling wood for the doctor.”

At this threat the belligerents dropped muttering to their places. The

wind continued to blow, the fire continued to flare up and down, the men

continued to smoke, exchanging from time to time desultory and

aimless remarks. Only Tom North carried on a consecutive, low-voiced

conversation with another of about his own age.

“Just the same, Jim,” he was saying, “it is a little tough on the

boys--this new sluice-gate business. They've been sort of expectin' a

chance for a day or two at Redding, and now, if this son of a gun of a

wind hangs out, I don't know when we'll make her. The shallows at Bull's

was always bad enough, but this is worse.”

“Yes, I expected to pick you up 'way below,” admitted Jim, whose

“turkey,” or clothes-bag, at his side proclaimed him a newcomer. “Had

quite a tramp to find you.”

“This stretch of slack water was always a terror,” went on North, “and

we had fairly to pike-pole every stick through when the wind blew; but

now that dam's backed the water up until there reely ain't no current at

all. And this breeze has just stopped the drive dead as a smelt.”

“Don't opening the sluice-gates give her a draw?” inquired the newcomer.

“Not against this wind--and not much of a draw, anyway, I should guess.”

“How long you been hung?”

“Just to-day. I expect Jack will be down from the rear shortly. Ought

to see something's wrong when he runs against the tail of this jam of

ours.”

At this moment the lugubrious, round-faced man in the derby hat stepped

aside from the row of steaming utensils he had been arranging.

“Grub pile,” he remarked in a conversational tone of voice.

The group arose as one man and moved upon the heap of cutlery and of tin

plates and cups. From the open fifty-pound lard pails and kettles they

helped themselves liberally; then retired to squat in little groups here

and there near the sources of supply. Mere conversation yielded to an

industrious silence. Sadly the cook surveyed the scene, his arms folded

across the dirty white apron, an immense mental reservation accenting

the melancholy of his countenance. After some moments of contemplation

he mixed a fizzling concoction of vinegar and soda, which he drank. His

rotundity to the contrary notwithstanding, he was ravaged by a

gnawing dyspepsia, and the sight of six eggs eaten as a side dish to

substantials carried consternation to his interior.

So busily engaged was each after his own fashion that nobody observed

the approach of a solitary figure down the highway of the river. The

man appeared tiny around the upper bend, momently growing larger as he

approached. His progress was jerky and on an uneven zigzag, according

as the logs lay, by leaps, short runs, brief pauses, as a riverman

goes. Finally he stepped ashore just below the camp, stamped his

feet vigorously free of water, and approached the group around the

cooking-fire.

No one saw him save the cook, who vouchsafed him a stately and

lugubrious inclination of the head.

The newcomer was a man somewhere about thirty years of age, squarely

built, big of bone, compact in bulk. His face was burly, jolly, and

reddened rather than tanned by long exposure. A pair of twinkling

blue eyes and a humorously quirked mouth redeemed his countenance from

commonplaceness.

He spread his feet apart and surveyed the scene.

“Well, boys,” he remarked at last in a rollicking big voice, “I'm glad

to see the situation hasn't spoiled your appetites.”

At this they looked up with a spontaneous answering grin. Tom North laid

aside his plate and started to arise.

“Sit still, Tom,” interposed the newcomer. “Eat hearty. I'm going to

feed yet myself. Then we'll see what's to be done. I think first thing

you'd better see to having this wind turned off.”

After the meal was finished, North and his principal sauntered to the

water's edge, where they stood for a minute looking at the logs and the

ruffled expanse of water below.

“Might as well have sails on them and be done with it,” remarked Jack

Orde reflectively. “Couldn't hold 'em any tighter. It's a pity that old

mossback had to put in a mill. The water was slack enough before, but

now there seems to be no current at all.”

“Case of wait for the wind,” agreed Tom North. “Old Daly will be

red-headed. He must be about out of logs at the mill. The flood-water's

going down every minute, and it'll make the riffles above Redding a holy

fright. And I expect Johnson's drive will be down on our rear most any

time.”

“It's there already. Let's go take a look,” suggested Orde.

They picked their way around the edge of the pond to the site of the new

mill.

“Sluice open all right,” commented Orde. “Thought she might be closed.”

“I saw to that,” rejoined North in an injured tone.

“'Course,” agreed Orde, “but he might have dropped her shut on you

between times, when you weren't looking.”

He walked out on the structure and looked down on the smooth water

rushing through.

“Ought to make a draw,” he reflected. Then he laughed. “Tom, look here,”

he called. “Climb down and take a squint at this.”

North clambered to a position below.

“The son of a gun!” he exclaimed.

The sluice, instead of bedding at the natural channel of the river,

had been built a good six feet above that level; so that, even with the

gates wide open, a “head” of six feet was retained in the slack water of

the pond.

“No wonder we couldn't get a draw,” said Orde. “Let's hunt up old

What's-his-name and have a pow-wow.”

“His name is plain Reed,” explained North. “There he comes now.”

“Sainted cats!” cried Orde, with one of his big, rollicking chuckles.

“Where did you catch it?”

The owner of the dam flapped into view as a lank and lengthy individual

dressed in loose, long clothes and wearing a-top a battered old “plug”

hat, the nap of which seemed all to have been rubbed off the wrong way.

As he bore down on the intruders with tremendous, nervous strides,

they perceived him to be an old man, white of hair, cadaverous of

countenance, with thin, straight lips, and burning, fanatic eyes beneath

stiff and bushy brows.

“Good-morning, Mr. Reed,” shouted Orde above the noise of the water.

“Good-morning, gentlemen,” replied the apparition.

“Nice dam you got here,” went on Orde.

Reed nodded, his fiery eyes fixed unblinking on the riverman.

“But you haven't been quite square to us,” said Orde. “You aren't giving

us much show to get our logs out.”

“How so?” snapped the owner, his thin lips tightening.

“Oh, I guess you know, all right,” laughed Orde, clambering leisurely

back to the top of the dam. “That sluice is a good six foot too high.”

“Is that so!” cried the old man, plunging suddenly into a craze of

excitement. “Well, let me tell you this, Mr. Man, I'm giving you all the

law gives you, and that's the natural flow of the river, and not a thing

more will you get! You that comes to waste and destroy, to arrogate unto

yourselves the kingdoms of the yearth and all the fruits thereof, let me

tell you you can't override Simeon Reed! I'm engaged here in a peaceful

and fittin' operation, which is to feed the hungry by means of this

grist-mill, not to rampage and bring destruction to the noble forests

God has planted! I've give you what the law gives you, and nothin'

more!”

Somewhat astonished at this outbreak, the two rivermen stood for a

moment staring at the old man. Then a steely glint crept into Orde's

frank blue eye and the corners of his mouth tightened.

“We want no trouble with you, Mr. Reed,” said he, “and I'm no lawyer to

know what the law requires you to do and what it requires you not to do.

But I do know that this is the only dam on the river with sluices built

up that way, and I do know that we'll never get those logs out if we

don't get more draw on the water. Good-day.”

Followed by the reluctant North he walked away, leaving the gaunt figure

of the dam owner gazing after them, his black garments flapping about

him, his hands clasped behind his back, his ruffled plug hat thrust from

his forehead.

“Well!” burst out North, when they were out of hearing.

“Well!” mimicked Orde with a laugh.

“Are you going to let that old high-banker walk all over you?”

“What are you going to do about it, Tom? It's his dam.”

“I don't know. But you ain't going to let him bang us up here all

summer--”

“Sure not. But the wind's shifting. Let's see what the weather's like

to-morrow. To-day's pretty late.”

II

The next morning dawned clear and breathless. Before daylight the

pessimistic cook was out, his fire winking bravely against the darkness.

His only satisfaction of the long day came when he aroused the men from

the heavy sleep into which daily toil plunged them. With the first light

the entire crew were at the banks of the river.

As soon as the wind died the logs had begun to drift slowly out into

the open water. The surface of the pond was covered with the scattered

timbers floating idly. After a few moments the clank of the bars and

ratchet was heard as two of the men raised the heavy sluice-gate on the

dam. A roar of water, momently increasing, marked the slow rise of the

barrier. A very imaginative man might then have made out a tendency

forward on the part of those timbers floating nearest the centre of the

pond. It was a very sluggish tendency, however, and the men watching

critically shook their heads.

Four more had by this time joined the two men who had raised the

gate, and all together, armed with long pike poles, walked out on the

funnel-shaped booms that should concentrate the logs into the chute.

Here they prodded forward the few timbers within reach, and waited for

more.

These were a long time coming. Members of the driving crew leaped

shouting from one log to another. Sometimes, when the space across

was too wide to jump, they propelled a log over either by rolling it,

paddling it, or projecting it by the shock of a leap on one end. In

accomplishing these feats of tight-rope balance, they stood upright and

graceful, quite unconscious of themselves, their bodies accustomed

by long habit to nice and instant obedience to the almost unconscious

impulses of the brain. Only their eyes, intent, preoccupied, blazed out

by sheer will-power the unstable path their owners should follow. Once

at the forefront of the drive, the men began vigorously to urge the logs

forward. This they accomplished almost entirely by main strength, for

the sluggish current gave them little aid. Under the pressure of their

feet as they pushed against their implements, the logs dipped, rolled,

and plunged. Nevertheless, they worked as surely from the decks of these

unstable craft as from the solid earth itself.

In this manner the logs in the centre of the pond were urged forward

until, above the chute, they caught the slightly accelerated current

which should bring them down to the pike-pole men at the dam.

Immediately, when this stronger influence was felt, the drivers

zigzagged back up stream to start a fresh batch. In the meantime a great

many logs drifted away to right and left into stagnant water, where

they lay absolutely motionless. The moving of them was deferred for the

“sacking crew,” which would bring up the rear.

Jack Orde wandered back and forth over the work, his hands clasped

behind his back, a short pipe clenched between his teeth. To the edge of

the drive he rode the logs, then took to the bank and strolled down

to the dam. There he stood for a moment gazing aimlessly at the water

making over the apron, after which he returned to the work. No cloud

obscured the serene good-nature of his face. Meeting Tom North's

troubled glance, he grinned broadly.

“Told you we'd have Johnson on our necks,” he remarked, jerking his

thumb up river toward a rapidly approaching figure.

This soon defined itself as a tall, sun-reddened, very blond individual

with a choleric blue eye.

“What in hell's the matter here?” he yelled, as soon as he came within

hearing distance.

Orde made no reply, but stood contemplating the newcomer with a flicker

of amusement.

“What in hell's the matter?” repeated the latter violently.

“Better go there and inquire,” rejoined Orde drolly. “What ails you,

Johnson?”

“We're right at your rear,” cried the other, “and you ain't even made a

start gettin' through this dam! We'll lose the water next! Why in hell

ain't you through and gone?”

“Keep your shirt on,” advised Orde. “We're getting through as fast as

we can. If you want these logs pushed any faster, come down and do it

yourself.”

Johnson vouchsafed no reply, but splashed away over the logs, examining

in detail the progress of the work. After a little he returned within

hailing distance.

“If you can't get out logs, why do you take the job?” he roared, with

a string of oaths. “If you hang my drive, damn you, you'll catch it

for damages! It's gettin' to a purty pass when any old highbanker from

anywheres can get out and play jackstraws holdin' up every drive in the

river! I tell you our mills need logs, and what's more they're agoin' to

GIT them!”

He departed in a rumble of vituperation.

Orde laughed humorously at his foreman.

“Johnson gets so mad sometimes, his skin cracks,” he remarked.

“However,” he went on more seriously, “there's a heap in what he means,

if there ain't so much in what he says. I'll go labour with our old

friend below.”

He regained the bank, stopped to light his pipe, and sauntered, with

every appearance of leisure, down the bank, past the dam, to the mill

structure below.

Here he found the owner occupying a chair tilted back against the wall

of the building. His ruffled plug hat was thrust, as usual, well away

from his high and narrow forehead; the long broadcloth coat fell back to

reveal an unbuttoned waistcoat the flapping black trousers were hitched

up far enough to display woollen socks wrinkled about bony shanks. He

was whittling a pine stick, which he held pointing down between his

spread knees, and conversing animatedly with a young fellow occupying

another chair at his side.

“And there comes one of 'em now,” declaimed the old man dramatically.

Orde nodded briefly to the stranger, and came at once to business.

“I want to talk this matter over with you,” he began. “We aren't making

much progress. We can't afford to hang up the drive, and the water is

going down every day. We've got to have more water. I'll tell you what

we'll do: If you'll let us cut down the new sill, we'll replace it in

good shape when we get all our logs through.”

“No, sir!” promptly vetoed the old man.

“Well, we'll give you something for the privilege. What do you think is

fair?”

“I tell ye I'll give you your legal rights, and not a cent more,”

replied the old man, still quietly, but with quivering nostrils.

“What is your name?” asked Orde.

“My name is Reed, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Reed, stop and think what this means. It's a more serious

matter than you think. In a little while the water will be so low in the

river that it will be impossible to take out the logs this year. That

means a large loss, of course, as you know.”

“I don't know nothin' about the pesky business, and I don't wan to,”

snorted Reed.

“Well, there's borers, for one thing, to spoil a good many of the logs.

And think what it will mean to the mills. No logs means no lumber. That

is bankruptcy for a good many who have contracts to fulfil. And no logs

means the mills must close. Thousands of men will be thrown out of their

jobs, and a good many of them will go hungry. And with the stream full

of the old cutting, that means less to do next winter in the woods--more

men thrown out. Getting out a season's cut with the flood-water is

a pretty serious matter to a great many people, and if you insist on

holding us up here in this slack water the situation will soon become

alarming.”

“Ye finished?” demanded Reed grimly.

“Yes,” replied Orde.

The old man cast from him his half-whittled piece of pine. He closed his

jack-knife with a snap and thrust it in his pocket. He brought to earth

the front legs of his chair with a thump, and jammed his ruffled plug

hat to its proper place.

“And if the whole kit and kaboodle of ye starved out-right,” said he,

“it would but be the fulfillin' of the word of the prophet who says,

'So will I send upon you famine and evil beasts, and they shall bereave

thee, and pestilence and blood shall pass through thee; and I will bring

the sword upon thee. I the Lord have spoken it!'”

“That's your last word?” inquired Orde.

“That's my last word, and my first. Ye that make of God's smilin' land

waste places and a wilderness, by your own folly shall ye perish.”

“Good-day,” said Orde, whirling on his heel without further argument.

The young man, who had during this colloquy sat an interested and silent

spectator, arose and joined him. Orde looked at his new companion

a little curiously. He was a very slender young man, taut-muscled,

taut-nerved, but impassive in demeanour. He possessed a shrewd, thin

face, steel-gray, inscrutable eyes behind glasses. His costume was quite

simply an old gray suit of business clothes and a gray felt hat. At the

moment he held in his mouth an unlighted and badly chewed cigar.

“Nice, amiable old party,” volunteered Orde with a chuckle.

“Seems to be,” agreed the young man drily.

“Well, I reckon we'll just have to worry along without him,” remarked

Orde, striking his steel caulks into the first log and preparing to

cross out into the river where the work was going on.

“Wait a minute,” said the young fellow. “Have you any objections to my

hanging around a little to watch the work? My name is Newmark--Joseph

Newmark. I'm out in this country a good deal for my health. This thing

interests me.”

“Sure,” replied Orde, puzzled. “Look all you want to. The scenery's

free.”

“Yes. But can you put me up? Can I get a chance to stay with you a

little while?”

“Oh, as far as I'm concerned,” agreed Orde heartily. “But,” he

supplemented with one of his contagious chuckles, “I'm only river-boss.

You'll have to fix it up with the doctor--the cook, I mean,” he

explained, as Newmark look puzzled. “You'll find him at camp up behind

that brush. He's a slim, handsome fellow, with a jolly expression of

countenance.”

He leaped lightly out over the bobbing timbers, leaving Newmark to find

his way.

In the centre of the stream the work had been gradually slowing down to

a standstill with the subsidence of the first rush of water after the

sluice-gate was opened. Tom North, leaning gracefully against the shaft

of a peavy, looked up eagerly as his principal approached.

“Well, Jack,” he inquired, “is it to be peace or war?”

“War,” replied Orde briefly.

III

At this moment the cook stepped into view, and, making a trumpet of his

two hands, sent across the water a long, weird, and not unmusical cry.

The men at once began slowly to drift in the direction of the camp.

There, when the tin plates had all been filled, and each had found a

place to his liking, Orde addressed them. His manner was casual and

conversational.

“Boys,” said he, “the old mossback who owns that dam has come up here

loaded to scatter. He's built up the sill of that gate until we can't

get a draw on the water, and he refuses to give, lend, or sell us the

right to cut her out. I've made him every reasonable proposition, but

all I get back is quotations from the prophets. Now, we've got to get

those logs out--that's what we're here for. A fine bunch of whitewater

birlers we'd look if we got hung up by an old mossback in a plug hat.

Johnny Sims, what's the answer?”

“Cut her out,” grinned Johnny Sims briefly.

“Correct!” replied Orde with a chuckle. “Cut her out. But, my son, it's

against the law to interfere with another man's property.”

This was so obviously humourous in intent that its only reception

consisted of more grins from everybody.

“But,” went on Orde more seriously, “it's quite a job. We can't work

more than six or eight men at it at a time. We got to work as fast as we

can before the old man can interfere.”

“The nearest sheriff's at Spruce Rapids,” commented some one

philosophically.

“We have sixty men, all told,” said Orde. “We ought to be able to carry

it through.”

He filled his plate and walked across to a vacant place. Here he found

himself next to Newmark.

“Hello!” he greeted that young man, “fixed it with the doctor all

right?”

“Yes,” replied Newmark, in his brief, dry manner, “thanks! I think I

ought to tell you that the sheriff is not at Spruce Rapids, but at the

village--expecting trouble.”

Orde whistled, then broke into a roar of delight.

“Boys,” he called, “old Plug Hat's got the sheriff right handy. I guess

he sort of expected we'd be thinking of cutting through that dam. How'd

you like to go to jail?”

“I'd like to see any sheriff take us to jail, unless he had an army with

him,” growled one of the river-jacks.

“Has he a posse?” inquired Orde of Newmark.

“I didn't see any; but I understood in the village that the governor had

been advised to hold State troops in readiness for trouble.”

Orde fell into a brown study, eating mechanically. The men began an

eager and somewhat truculent discussion full of lawless and bloodthirsty

suggestion. Some suggested the kidnapping and sequestration of Reed

until the affair should be finished.

“How'd he get hold of his old sheriff, then?” they inquired with some

pertinence.

Orde, however, paid no attention to all this talk, but continued to

frown into space. At last his face cleared, and he slapped down his tin

plate so violently that the knife and fork jumped off into the dirt.

“I have it!” he cried aloud.

But he would not tell what he had. After the noon hour he instructed

a half-dozen men to provide themselves with saws, axes, picks, and

shovels, and all marched in the direction of the mill.

When within a hundred yards or so of that structure the advancing

riverman saw the lank, black figure of the mill owner flap into sight,

astride a bony old horse, and clatter away, coat-tails flying, up the

road and into the waiting forest.

“Now, boys!” cried Orde crisply. “He'll be back in an hour with the

sheriff. Lively!” He rapidly designated ten men of his crew. “You boys

get to work and make things hum. Get as much done as you can before the

sheriff comes.”

“He'll have to bring all of Spruce County to get me,” commented one of

those chosen, spitting on his hands.

“Me, too!” said others.

“Now, listen,” said Orde, holding them with an impressive gesture. “When

that sheriff comes, with or without a posse, I want you to go peaceably.

Understand?”

“Cave in? Not much!” cried Purdy.

“See here,” and Orde drew them aside to an earnest, low-voiced

conversation that lasted several minutes. When he had finished he

clapped each of them on the back, and all moved off, laughing, to the

dam.

“Now, boys,” he commanded the others, “no row without orders.

Understand? If there's going to be a fight, I'll give you the word

when.”

The chopping crew descended to the bottom of the sluice, the gate of

which had been shut, and began immediately to chop away at the apron.

As the water in the pond above had been drawn low by the morning's work,

none overflowed the gate, so the men were enabled to work dry. Below the

apron, of course, had been filled in with earth and stones. As soon

as the axe-men had effected an entry to this deposit, other men with

shovels and picks began to remove the filling.

The work had continued nearly an hour when Orde commanded the fifty or

more idlers back to camp.

“Get out, boys,” he ordered. “The sheriff will be here pretty quick now,

and I don't want any row. Get out of sight.”

“And leave them to fight her out alone? Guess not!” grumbled a tall,

burly individual with a red face.

Orde immediately walked directly to this man.

“Am I bossing this drive, or am I not?” he demanded.

The riverman growled something.

SMACK! SMACK! sounded Orde's fists. The man, taken by surprise, went

down in a heap, but immediately rebounded to his feet as though made

of rubber. But Orde had seized a peavy, and stood over against his

antagonist, the murderous weapon upraised.

“Lie down, you hound, or I'll brain you!” he roared at the top strength

of his great voice. “Want fight, do you? Well, you won't have to wait

till the sheriff gets here! You make a move!”

For a full half minute the man crouched breathless, and Orde, his ruddy

face congested, held his threatening attitude. Then he dropped his peavy

and stepped aside.

“March!” he commanded. “Get your turkey and hit the hay trail. You'll

get your time at Redding.”

The man sullenly arose and slouched away, grumbling under his breath.

Orde watched him from sight, then turned to the silent group, a new

crispness in his manner.

“Well?” he demanded.

Hesitating, they turned to the river trail, leaving the ten still

working at the sluice. When well within the fringe of the brush, Orde

called a halt. His customary good-humour seemed quite restored.

“Now, boys,” he commanded, “squat down and lay low. You give me an ache!

Don't you suppose I got this thing all figured out? If fight would do

any good, you know mighty well I'd fight. And the boys won't be in jail

any longer than it takes to get a wire to Daly to bail them out. Smoke

up, and don't bother.”

They filled their pipes and settled down to an enjoyment of the

situation. Ordinarily from very early in the morning until very late at

night the riverman is busy every instant at his dangerous and absorbing

work. Those affairs which do not immediately concern his task--as the

swiftness of rapids, the state of flood, the curves of streams, the

height of water, the obstructions of channels, the quantities of

logs--pass by the outer fringe of his consciousness, if indeed they

reach him at all. Thus, often he works all day up to his waist in a

current bearing the rotten ice of the first break-up, or endures the

drenching of an early spring rain, or battles the rigours of a

belated snow with apparent indifference. You or I would be exceedingly

uncomfortable; would require an effort of fortitude to make the plunge.

Yet these men, absorbed in the mighty problems of their task, have

little attention to spare to such things. The cold, the wet, the

discomfort, the hunger, the weariness, all pass as shadows on the

background. In like manner the softer moods of the spring rarely

penetrate through the concentration of faculties on the work. The warm

sun shines; the birds by thousands flutter and twitter and sing their

way north; the delicate green of spring, showered from the hand of the

passing Sower, sprinkles the tops of the trees, and gradually sifts down

through the branches; the great, beautiful silver clouds sail down

the horizon like ships of a statelier age, as totally without actual

existence to these men. The logs, the river--those are enough to strain

all the faculties a man possesses, and more.

So when, as now, a chance combination of circumstances brings them

leisure to look about them, the forest and the world of out-of-doors

comes to them with a freshness impossible for the city dweller to

realise. The surroundings are accustomed, but they bring new messages.

To most of them, these impressions never reach the point of coherency.

They brood, and muse, and expand in the actual and figurative warmth,

and proffer the general opinion that it is a damn fine day!

Another full half hour elapsed before the situation developed further.

Then Tom North's friend Jim, who had gathered his long figure on the top

of a stump, unclasped his knees and remarked that old Plug Hat was back.

The men arose to their feet and peered cautiously through the brush.

They saw Reed, accompanied by a thick-set man whom some recognised as

the sheriff of the county, approach the edge of the dam. A moment later

the working crew mounted to the top, stacked their tools neatly, resumed

their coats and jackets, and departed up the road in convoy of the

sheriff.

A gasp of astonishment broke from the concealed rivermen.

“Well, I'll be damned!” ejaculated one. “What are we comin' to? That's

the first time I ever see one lonesome sheriff gather in ten river-hogs

without the aid of a gatlin' or an ambulance! What's the matter with

that chicken-livered bunch, anyway?”

Orde watched them, his eyes expressionless, until they had disappeared

in the fringe of the forest Then he turned to the astonished group.

“Jim,” said he, “and you, Ellis, and you, and you, and you, and you,

get to work on that dam. And remember this, if you are arrested, go

peaceably. Any resistance will spoil the whole game.”

The men broke into mingled cheers and laughter as the full significance

of Orde's plan reached them. They streamed back to the dam, where they

perched proffering advice and encouragement to those about to descend.

Immediately, however, Reed was out, his eyes blazing either side his

hawk nose.

“Here!” he cried, “quit that! I'll have ye arrested!”

“Arrest ahead,” replied Orde coldly.

Reed stormed back and forth for a moment, then departed at full speed up

the road.

“Now, boys, get as much done as possible,” urged Orde. “We better get

back in the brush, or he may try to take in the whole b'iling of us on

some sort of a blanket warrant.”

“How about the other boys?” inquired North.

“I gave one of them a telegram to send to Daly,” replied Orde. “Daly

will be up to bail them out.”

Once more they hid in the woods; and again, after a longer interval, the

mill owner and the sheriff reappeared. Reed appeared to be expostulating

violently, and a number of times pointed up river; but the sheriff went

ahead stolidly to the dam, summoned those working below, and departed

up the road as before. Reed stood uncertain until he saw the rivermen

beginning to re-emerge from the brush, then followed the officer at top

speed.

Without the necessity of command, a half-dozen men leaped down on the

apron. The previous crews had made considerable progress in weakening

the heavy supports. As soon as these should be cut out and the backing

removed, the mere sawing through of the massive sill should carry away

the whole obstruction.

“Next time will decide it,” remarked Orde. “If the sheriff brings a

posse and sits down to lay for us, of course we won't be able to get

near to finish the job.”

“I didn't think that of George Morris,” commented Sims in an aggrieved

way. “He was a riverman himself once before he was sheriff.”

“He's got to obey orders, and serve a warrant when it's issued, of

course,” replied Orde to this. “What did you expect?”

At the end of another hour, which brought the time to four o'clock, the

sheriff made his third appearance--this time in a side-bar buggy.

“I wish I dared join that confab,” said Orde, “and hear what's going on,

but I'm afraid he'd jug me sure.”

“He wouldn't jug me,” spoke up Newmark. “I'll go down.”

“Bully for you!” agreed Orde.

The young man departed in his precise, methodical manner, picking his

way rather mincingly among the inequalities of the trail. In spite of

the worn and wrinkled condition of his garments, they retained something

of a city hang and smartness that sharply differentiated their wearer

from even the well-dressed citizens of a smaller town. They seemed to

match the refined, shrewd, but cold intelligence of his lean and nervous

face.

About sunset he returned from a scene which the distant spectators had

watched with breathless interest. It was in essence only a repetition of

the two that had preceded it, but Reed had evidently gone almost to the

point of violence in his insistence, and the sheriff had shaken him

off rudely. Finally, Morris and his six prisoners had trailed away. The

sheriff and North's friend occupied the seat of the buggy, while the

other five trudged peaceably alongside. Once again Reed clattered away

on his bony steed, but this time ahead of the official party.

With a whoop the river crew, now reduced to a scant dozen, rushed down

to meet the too deliberate Newmark.

“Well?” they demanded, crowding about him.

“Reed wanted the sheriff to stay and protect the dam,” reported Newmark

in his brief, dry manner. “Sheriff refused. Said his duty was simply

to arrest on warrant, and as often as Reed got out warrants, he'd serve

them. Reed said, then, he should get a posse and hunt up Orde and the

rest of them. Sheriff replied that as far as he could see, the terms of

his warrant were covered by the men he found working on the dam, Reed

demanded protection, Sheriff said for him to get an injunction, and it

would be enforced.”

“Well, that's all right,” interjected Orde with satisfaction. “We'll

have her cut through before he gets that injunction, and I guess I've

got men enough here and down river to get through before we're ALL

arrested.”

“Yes,” said Newmark, “that's all very well. But now he's gone to

telegraph the governor to send the troops.”

Orde whistled a jig tune.

“Kind of expected that, boys,” said he. “Let's see. The next train out

from Redding--They'll be here by five in the morning at soonest. Hope

it'll be later.”

“What will you do?” asked Newmark.

“Take chances,” replied Orde. “All you boys get to work. Zeke,” he

commanded one of the cookees, “go up road, and report if Morris comes

back. I reckon this time we'll have to scatter if he comes after us. I

hope we won't have to, though. Like to keep everything square on account

of this State troop business.”

The sun had dropped below the fringe of trees, which immediately etched

their delicate outlines against a pale, translucent green sky. Two

straight, thin columns of smoke rose from the neglected camp-fires.

Orde, glancing around him, noticed these.

“Doctor,” he commanded sharply, “get at your grub! Make some coffee

right off, and bring it down. Get the lanterns from the wanigan, and

bring them to the dam. Come on, boys!”

Over a score of men attacked the sluice-way, for by now part of the rear

crew had come down river. The pond above had recovered its volume.

Water was beginning to trickle over the top of the gate. In a short time

progress became difficult, almost impossible, The men worked up to their

knees in swift water. They could not see, and the strokes of axe or pick

lost much of their force against the liquid. Dusk fell. The fringe of

the forest became mysterious in its velvet dark. Silver streaks, of a

supernal calm, suggested the reaches of the pond. Above, the sky's

day surface unfolded and receded and dissolved and melted away until,

through the pale afterglow, one saw beyond into the infinities. Down

by the sluice a dozen lanterns flickered and blinked yellow against the

blue-blackness of the night.

After some time Orde called his crew off and opened the sluice-gates.

The water had become too deep for effective work, and a half hour's flow

would reduce the pressure. The time was occupied in eating and in drying

off about the huge fire the second cookee had built close at hand.

“Water cold, boys?” asked Orde.

“Some,” was his reply.

“Want to quit?” he inquired, with mock solicitude.

“Nary quit.”

Orde's shout of laughter broke the night silence of the whispering

breeze and the rushing water.

“We'll stick to 'em like death to a dead nigger,” was his comment.

Newmark, having extracted a kind of cardigan jacket from the bag he had

brought with him as far as the mill, looked at the smooth, iron-black

water and shivered.

When the meal was finished, the men lit their pipes and went back to

work philosophically. With entire absorption in the task, they dug,

chopped, and picked. The dull sound of blows, the gurgle and trickle

of the water, the occasional grunt or brief comment of a riverman alone

broke the calm of evening. Now that the sluice-gate was down and the

water had ceased temporarily to flow over it, the work went faster.

Orde, watching with the eye of an expert, vouchsafed to the taciturn

Newmark that he thought they'd make it.

Near midnight, however, a swaying lantern was seen approaching. Orde,

leaping to his feet with a curse at the boy on watch, heard the sound of

wheels. A moment later, Daly's bulky form stepped into the illumination

of the fire.

Orde wandered over to where his principal stood peering about him.

“Hullo!” said he.

“Oh, there you are!” cried Daly angrily. “What in hell you up to here?”

“Running logs,” replied Orde coolly.

“Running logs!” shouted Daly, tugging at his overcoat pocket, and

finally producing a much-folded newspaper. “How about this?”

Orde unfolded the paper and lowered it to the campfire. It was an extra,

screaming with wood type. He read it deliberately over.

WAR!

the headline ran.

RIOTING AND BLOODSHED IN THE WOODS

RIVERMEN AND DAM OWNERS CLASH!

There followed a vague and highly coloured statement to the effect that

an initial skirmish had left the field in possession of the rivermen,

in spite of the sheriff and a large posse, but that troops were being

rushed to the spot, and that this “high-handed defiance of authority”

would undoubtedly soon be suppressed. It concluded truthfully with the

statement that the loss of life was as yet unknown.

Orde folded up the paper and handed it back.

“Don't you know any better than to get into that kind of a row down

here?” Daly had been saying. “Do you want to bring us up for good here?

Don't you realise that this isn't the northern peninsula? What are you

trying to do, any way?”

“Sure I do,” replied Orde placidly. “Come along here till I show you the

situation.”

Ten minutes later, Daly, relieved in his mind, was standing by the fire

drinking hot coffee and laughing at Orde's description of Reed's plug

hat.

To Orde's satisfaction, the sheriff did not reappear. Reed evidently now

pinned his faith to the State troops.

All night the work went on, the men spelling each other at intervals of

every few hours. By three o'clock the main abutments had been removed.

The gate was then blocked to prevent its fall when its nether support

should be withdrawn, and two men, leaning over cautiously, began at

arm's-length to deliver their axe-strokes against the middle of the

sill-timbers of the sluice itself, notching each heavy beam deeply that

the force of the current might finally break it in two. The night was

very dark, and very still. Even the night creatures had fallen into

the quietude that precedes the first morning hours. The muffled, spaced

blows of the axes, the low-voiced comments or directions of the workers,

the crackle of the fire ashore were thrown by contrast into an undue

importance. Men in blankets, awaiting their turn, slept close to the

blaze.

Suddenly the vast silence of before dawn was broken by a loud and

exultant yell from one of the axemen. At once the two scrambled to the

top of the dam. The blanketed figures about the fire sprang to life.

A brief instant later the snapping of wood fibres began like the rapid

explosions of infantry fire; a crash and bang of timbers smote the air;

and then the river, exultant, roaring with joy, rushed from its pent

quietude into the new passage opened for it. At the same moment, as

though at the signal, a single bird, premonitor of the yet distant day,

lifted up his voice, clearly audible above the tumult.

Orde stormed into the camp up stream, his eyes bright, his big voice

booming exultantly.

“Roll out, you river-hogs!” he shouted to those who had worked out their

shifts earlier in the night. “Roll out, you web-footed sons of guns, and

hear the little birds sing praise!”

Newmark, who had sat up the night through, and now shivered sleepily by

the fire, began to hunt around for the bed-roll he had, earlier in the

evening, dumped down somewhere in camp.

“I suppose that's all,” said he. “Just a case of run logs now. I'll turn

in for a little.”

But Orde, a thick slice of bread half-way to his lips, had frozen in an

attitude of attentive listening.

“Hark!” said he.

Faint, still in the depths of the forest, the wandering morning breeze

bore to their ears a sound whose difference from the louder noises

nearer at hand alone rendered it audible.

“The troops!” exclaimed Orde.

He seized a lantern and returned down the trail, followed eagerly by

Newmark and every man in camp.

“Troops coming!” said Orde to Daly.

The men drew a little to one side, watching the dim line of the forest,

dark against the paling sky. Shadows seemed to stir in its blackness.

They heard quite distinctly the clink of metal against metal. A man rode

out of the shadow and reined up by the fire. “Halt!” commanded a harsh

voice. The rivermen could make out the troops--three or four score of

them--standing rigid at attention. Reed, afoot now in favour of the

commanding officer, pushed forward.

“Who is in charge here?” inquired the officer crisply.

“I am,” replied Orde, stepping forward.

“I wish to inquire, sir, if you have gone mad to counsel your men to

resist civil authority?”

“I have not resisted civil authority,” replied Orde respectfully.

“It has been otherwise reported.”

“The reports have been false. The sheriff of this county has arrested

about twenty of my men single-handed and without the slightest trouble.”

“Mr. Morris,” cried the officer sharply.

“Yes?” replied the sheriff.

“Is what this man says true?”

“It sure is. Never had so little fuss arrestin' rivermen before in my

life.”

The officer's face turned a slow brick-red. For a moment he said

nothing, then exploded with the utmost violence.

“Then why the devil am I dragged up here with my men in the night?” he

cried. “Who's responsible for this insanity, anyway? Don't you know,” he

roared at Reed, who that moment swung within his range of vision,

“that I have no standing in the presence of civil law? What do you mean

getting me up here to your miserable little backwoods squabbles?”

Reed started to say something, but was immediately cut short by the

irate captain.

“I've nothing to do with that; settle it in court. And what's more,

you'll have something yourself to settle with the State! About, face!

Forward, march!”

The men faded into the gray light as though dissolved by it.

A deep and respectful silence fell upon the men, which was broken by

Orde's solemn and dramatic declamation.

“The King of France and twice ten thousand men

Marched up the hill, and then marched down again,”

he recited; then burst into his deep roar of laughter.

“Now you see, boys,” he said, digging his fists into his eyes, “if you'd

put up a row, what we'd have got into. No blue-coats in mine, thank you.

Well, push the grub pile, and then get at those logs. It's a case of

flood-water now.”

But Reed, having recovered from his astonishment, had still his say.

“I tell ye, I'm not done with ye yet,” he threatened, shaking his bony

forefinger in Orde's face. “I'll sue ye for damages, and I'll GIT 'em,

too.”

“See here, you old mossback,” said Orde, thrusting his bulky form to the

fore, “you sue just as soon as you want to. You can't get at it any too

quick to suit us. But just now you get out of this camp, and you stay

out. You're an old man, and we don't want to be rough with you, but

you're biting off more than you can chew. Skedaddle!”

Reed hesitated, waving his long arms about, flail-like, as though to

begin a new oration.

“Now, do hop along,” urged Orde. “We'll pay you any legitimate damages,

of course, but you can't expect to hang up a riverful of logs just on a

notion. And we're sick of you. Oh, hell, then! See here, you two; just

see that this man leaves camp.”

Orde turned square on his heel. Reed, after a glance at the two huge

rivermen approaching, beat a retreat to his mill, muttering and wrathful

still.

“Well, good-bye, boys,” said Daly, pulling on his overcoat; “I'll just

get along and bail the boys out of that village calaboose. I reckon

they've had a good night's rest. Be good!”

The fringe of trees to eastward showed clearly against the whitening

sky. Hundreds of birds of all kinds sang in an ecstasy. Another day

had begun. Already men with pike-poles were guiding the sullen timbers

toward the sluice-way.

IV

When Newmark awoke once more to interest in affairs, the morning was

well spent. On the river the work was going forward with the precision

of clockwork. The six-foot lowering of the sluice-way had produced a

fine current, which sucked the logs down from above. Men were busily

engaged in “sacking” them from the sides of the pond toward its centre,

lest the lowering water should leave them stranded. Below the dam

the jam crew was finding plenty to do in keeping them moving in the

white-water and the shallows. A fine sun, tempered with a prophetic

warmth of later spring, animated the scene. Reed had withdrawn to the

interior of his mill, and appeared to have given up the contest.

Some of the logs shot away down the current, running freely. To these

the crews were not required to pay any attention. With luck, a few of

the individual timbers would float ten, even twenty, miles before some

chance eddy or fortuitous obstruction would bring them to rest. Such

eddies and obstructions, however, drew a constant toll from the ranks of

the free-moving logs, so that always the volume of timbers floating

with the current diminished, and always the number of logs caught and

stranded along the sides of the river increased. To restore these to

the faster water was the especial province of the last and most expert

crew--the rear.

Orde discovered about noon that the jam crew was having its troubles.

Immediately below Reed's dam ran a long chute strewn with boulders,

which was alternately a shallow or a stretch of white-water according

as the stream rose or fell. Ordinarily the logs were flushed over this

declivity by opening the gate, behind which a head of water had

been accumulated. Now, however, the efficiency of the gate had been

destroyed. Orde early discovered that he was likely to have trouble in

preventing the logs rushing through the chute from grounding into a bad

jam on the rapids below.

For a time the jam crew succeeded in keeping the “wings” clear. In the

centre of the stream, however, a small jam formed, like a pier. Along

the banks logs grounded, and were rolled over by their own momentum into

places so shallow as to discourage any hope of refloating them unless

by main strength. As the sluicing of the nine or ten million feet that

constituted this particular drive went forward, the situation rapidly

became worse.

“Tom, we've got to get flood-water unless we want to run into an awful

job there,” said Orde to the foreman. “I wonder if we can't drop that

gate 'way down to get something for a head.”

The two men examined the chute and the sluice-gate attentively for some

time.

“If we could clear out the splinters and rubbish, we might spike a

couple of saplings on each side for the gate to slide down into,”

speculated North. “Might try her on.”

The logs were held up in the pond, and a crew of men set to work to cut

away, as well as they might in the rush of water, the splintered ends of

the old sill and apron. It was hard work. Newmark, watching, thought it

impracticable. The current rendered footing impossible, so all the work

had to be done from above. Wet wood gripped the long saws vice-like,

so that a man's utmost strength could scarcely budge them. The water

deadened the force of axe-blows. Nevertheless, with the sure persistence

of the riverman, they held to it. Orde, watching them a few moments,

satisfied himself that they would succeed, and so departed up river to

take charge of the rear.

This crew he found working busily among some overflowed woods. They

were herding the laggards of the flock. The subsidence of the water

consequent upon the opening of the sluice-gate had left stranded and in

shallows many hundreds of the logs. These the men sometimes, waist deep

in the icy water, owing to the extreme inequality of the bottom, were

rolling over and over with their peavies until once more they floated.

Some few the rivermen were forced to carry bodily, ten men to a side,

the peavies clamped in as handles. When once they were afloat, the task

became easier. From the advantage of deadwood, stumps, or other logs

the “sackers” pushed the unwieldy timbers forward, leaping, splashing,

heaving, shoving, until at last the steady current of the main river

seized the logs and bore them away. With marvellous skill they topped

the dripping, bobby, rolling timbers, treading them over and over, back

and forth, in unconscious preservation of equilibrium.

There was a good deal of noise and fun at the rear. The crew had been

divided, and a half worked on either side the river. A rivalry developed

as to which side should advance fastest in the sacking. It became

a race. Momentary success in getting ahead of the other fellow was

occasion for exultant crowing, while a mishap called forth ironic cheers

and catcalls from the rival camp. Just as Orde came tramping up the

trail, one of the rivermen's caulks failed to “bite” on an unusually

smooth, barked surface. His foot slipped; the log rolled; he tried in

vain to regain his balance, and finally fell in with a heavy splash.

The entire river suspended work to send up a howl of delight. As the

unfortunate crawled out, dripping from head to foot, he was greeted by

a flood of sarcasm and profane inquiry that left no room for even his

acknowledged talents of repartee. Cursing and ashamed, he made his way

ashore over the logs, spirting water at every step. There he wrung out

his woollen clothes as dry as he could, and resumed work.

Hardly had Orde the opportunity to look about at the progress making,

however, before he heard his name shouted from the bank. Looking up, to

his surprise he saw the solemn cook waving a frantic dish-towel at him.

Nothing could induce the cook to attempt the logs.

“What is it, Charlie?” asked Orde, leaping ashore and stamping the loose

water from his boots.

“It's all off,” confided the cook pessimistically. “It's no good. He's

stopped us now.”

“What's off? Who's stopped what?”

“Reed. He's druv the men from the dam with a shotgun. We might as well

quit.”

“Shotgun, hey!” exclaimed Orde. “Well, the old son of a gun!” He thought

a moment, his lips puckered as though to whistle; then, as usual, he

laughed amusedly. “Let's go take a look at the army,” said he.

He swung away at a round pace, followed rather breathlessly by the cook.

The trail led through the brush across a little flat point, up over a

high bluff where the river swung in, down to another point, and across a

pole trail above a marsh to camp.

A pole trail consists of saplings laid end to end, and supported three

or four feet above wet places by means of sawbuck-like structures at

their extremities. To a river-man or a tight-rope dancer they are easy

walks. All others must proceed cautiously in contrite memory of their

sins.

Orde marched across the first two lengths confidently enough. Then he

heard a splash and lamentations. Turning, he perceived Charlie, covered

with mud, in the act of clambering up one of the small trestles.

“Ain't got no caulks!” ran the lamentations. “The ---- of a ---- of a

pole-trail, anyways!”

He walked ahead gingerly, threw his hands aloft, bent forward, then

suddenly protruded his stomach, held out one foot in front of him,

spasmodically half turned, and then, realising the case hopeless, wilted

like a wet rag, to clasp the pole trail both by arm and leg. This saved

him from falling off altogether, but swung him underneath, where he

hung like the sloths in the picture-books. A series of violent wriggles

brought him, red-faced and panting, astride the pole, whence, his

feelings beyond mere speech, he sadly eyed his precious derby, which

lay, crown up, in the mud below.

Orde contemplated the spectacle seriously.

“Sorry I haven't got time to enjoy you just now, Charlie,” he remarked.

“I'd take it slower, if I were you.”

He departed, catching fragments of vows anent never going on any more

errands for nobody, and getting his time if ever again he went away from

his wanigan.

Orde stopped short outside the fringe of brush to utter another

irrepressible chuckle of amusement.

The centre of the dam was occupied by Reed. The old man was still in

full regalia, his plug hat fuzzier than ever, and thrust even farther

back on his head, his coat-tails and loose trousers flapping at his

every movement as he paced back and forth with military precision. Over

his shoulder he carried a long percussion-lock shotgun. Not thirty

feet away, perched along the bank, for all the world like a row of

cormorants, sat the rivermen, watching him solemnly and in silence.

“What's the matter?” inquired Orde, approaching.

The old man surveyed him with a snort of disgust.

“If the law of the land don't protect me, I'll protect myself, sir,” he

proclaimed. “I give ye fair warning! I ain't a-going to have my property

interfered with no more.”

“But surely,” said Orde, “we have a right to run our logs through. It's

an open river.”

“And hev ye been running your logs through?” cried the old man

excitedly. “Hev ye? First off ye begin to tear down my dam; and then,

when the river begins a-roarin' and a-ragin' through, then you tamper

with my improvements furthermore, a-lowerin' the gate and otherwise

a-modifyin' my structure.”

Orde stepped forward to say something further. Immediately Reed wheeled,

his thumb on the hammer.

“All right, old Spirit of '76,” replied Orde. “Don't shoot; I'll come

down.”

He walked back to the waiting row, smiling quizzically.

“Well, you calamity howlers, what do you think of it?”

Nobody answered, but everybody looked expectant.

“Think he'd shoot?” inquired Orde of Tom North.

“I know he would,” replied North earnestly. “That crazy-headed kind are

just the fellers to rip loose.”

“I think myself he probably would,” agreed Orde.

“Surely,” spoke up Newmark, “whatever the status of the damage suits,

you have the legal right to run your logs.”

Orde rolled a quizzical eye in his direction.

“Per-fect-ly correct, son,” he drawled, “but we're engaged in the happy

occupation of getting out logs. By the time the law was all adjusted and

a head of steam up, the water'd be down. In this game, you get out logs

first, and think about law afterward.”

“How about legal damages?” insisted Newmark.

“Legal damages!” scoffed Orde. “Legal damages! Why, we count legal

damages as part of our regular expenses--like potatoes. It's lucky it's

so,” he added. “If anybody paid any attention to legal technicalities,

there'd never be a log delivered. A man always has enemies.

“Well, what are you going to do?” persisted Newmark.

Orde thrust back his felt hat and ran his fingers through his short,

crisp hair.

“There you've got me,” he confessed, “but, if necessary, we'll pile the

old warrior.”

He walked to the edge of the dam and stood looking down current. For

perhaps a full minute he remained there motionless, his hat clinging to

one side, his hand in his hair. Then he returned to the grimly silent

rivermen.

“Boys,” he commanded briefly, “get your peavies and come along.”

He led the way past the mill to the shallows below.

“There's a trifle of wading to do,” he announced. “Bring down two

logs--fairly big--and hold them by that old snag,” he ordered. “Whoa-up!

Easy! Hold them end on--no, pointing up stream--fix 'em about ten foot

apart--that's it! George, drive a couple of stakes each side of them

to hold 'em. Correct! Now, run down a couple dozen more and pile them

across those two--side on to the stream, of course. Roll 'em up--that's

the ticket!”

Orde had been splashing about in the shallow water, showing where

each timber was to be placed. He drew back, eyeing the result with

satisfaction. It looked rather like a small and bristly pier.

Next he cast his eye about and discovered a partially submerged boulder

on a line with the newly completed structure. Against this he braced

the ends of two more logs, on which he once more caused to be loaded

at right angles many timbers. An old stub near shore furnished him the

basis of a third pier. He staked a thirty-inch butt for a fourth; and

so on, until the piers, in conjunction with the small centre jam already

mentioned, extended quite across the river.

All this was accomplished in a very short time, and immediately below

the mill, but beyond sight from the sluice-gate of the dam.

“Now, boys,” commanded Orde, “shove off some shore logs, and let them

come down.”

“We'll have a jam sure,” objected Purdy stupidly.

“No, my son, would we?” mocked Orde. “I surely hope not!”

The stray logs floating down with the current the rivermen caught and

arranged to the best possible advantage about the improvised piers.

A good riverman understands the correlation of forces represented by

saw-logs and water-pressure. He knows how to look for the key-log in

breaking jams; and by the inverse reasoning, when need arises he can

form a jam as expertly as Koosy-oonek himself--that bad little god

who brings about the disagreeable and undesired--“who hides our pipes,

steals our last match, and brings rain on the just when they want to go

fishing.”

So in ten seconds after the shore logs began drifting down from above,

the jam was taking shape. Slowly it formed, low and broad. Then, as the

water gathered pressure, the logs began to slip over one another. The

weight of the topmost sunk those beneath to the bed of the stream. This

to a certain extent dammed back the water. Immediately the pressure

increased. More logs were piled on top. The piers locked the structure.

Below the improvised dam the water fell almost to nothing, and above it,

swirling in eddies, grumbling fiercely, bubbling, gurgling, searching

busily for an opening, the river, turned back on itself, gathered its

swollen and angry forces.

“That will do, boys,” said Orde with satisfaction.

He led the way to the bank and sat down. The men followed his example.

Every moment the water rose, and each instant, as more logs came down

the current, the jam became more formidable.

“Nothing can stand that pressure,” breathed Newmark, fascinated.

“The bigger the pressure the tighter she locks,” replied Orde, lighting

his pipe.

The high bank where the men sat lay well above the reach of the water.

Not so the flat on which stood Reed's mill. In order to take full

advantage of the water-power developed by the dam, the old man had

caused his structure to be built nearly at a level with the stream.

Now the river, backing up, rapidly overflowed this flat. As the jam

tightened by its own weight and the accumulation of logs, the water

fairly jumped from the lowest floor of the mill to the one above.

Orde had not long to wait for Reed's appearance. In less than five

minutes the old man descended on the group, somewhat of his martial air

abated, and something of a vague anxiety manifest in his eye.

“What's the matter here?” he demanded.

“Matter?” inquired Orde easily. “Oh, nothing much, just a little jam.”

“But it's flooding my mill!”

“So I perceive,” replied Orde, striking a match.

“Well, why don't you break it?”

“Not interested.”

The old warrior ran up the bank to where he could get a good view of his

property. The water was pouring into the first-floor windows.

“Here!” he cried, running back. “I've a lot of grain up-stairs. It'll be

ruined!”

“Not interested,” repeated Orde.

Reed was rapidly losing control of himself.

“But I've got a lot of money invested here!” he shouted. “You miserable

blackguard, you're ruining me!”

Orde replaced his pipe.

Reed ran back and forth frantically, disappeared, returned bearing an

antiquated pike-pole, and single-handed and alone attacked the jam!

Astonishment and delight held the rivermen breathless for a moment. Then

a roar of laughter drowned even the noise of the waters. Men pounded

each other on the back, rolled over and over, clutching handfuls of

earth, struggled weak and red-faced for breath as they saw against the

sky-line of the bristling jam the lank, flapping figure with the old

plug hat pushing frantically against the immovable statics of a mighty

power. The exasperation of delay, the anxiety lest success be lost

through the mulish and narrow-minded obstinacy of one man, the

resentment against another obstacle not to be foreseen and not to be

expected in a task redundantly supplied with obstacles of its own--these

found relief at last.

“By Jove!” breathed Newmark softly to himself. “Don Quixote and the

windmills!” Then he added vindictively, “The old fool!” although, of

course, the drive was not his personal concern.

Only Orde seemed to see the other side. And on Orde the responsibility,

uncertainty, and vexation had borne most heavily, for the success of the

undertaking was in his hands. With a few quick leaps he had gained the

old man's side.

“Look here, Reed,” he said kindly, “you can't break this jam. Come

ashore now, and let up. You'll kill yourself.”

Reed turned to him, a wild light in his eye.

“Break it!” he pleaded. “You're ruining me. I've got all my money in

that mill.”

“Well,” said Orde, “we've got a lot of money in our logs too. You

haven't treated us quite right.”

Reed glanced frantically toward the flood up stream.

“Come,” said Orde, taking him gently by the arm. “There's no reason you

and I shouldn't get along together all right. Maybe we're both a little

hard-headed. Let's talk it over.”

He led the old man ashore, and out of earshot of the rivermen.

At the end of ten minutes he returned.

“War's over, boys!” he shouted cheerfully. “Get in and break that jam.”

At once the crew swarmed across the log barrier to a point above the

centre pier. This they attacked with their peavies, rolling the top logs

off into the current below. In less than no time they had torn out

quite a hole in the top layer. The river rushed through the opening.

Immediately the logs in the wings were tumbled in from either side.

At first the men had to do all of the work, but soon the river itself

turned to their assistance. Timbers creaked and settled, or rose

slightly buoyant as the water loosened the tangle. Men trod on the edge

of expectation. Constantly the logs shifted, and as constantly the men

shifted also, avoiding the upheavals and grindings together, wary eyes

estimating the correlation of the forces into whose crushing reach a

single misstep would bring them. The movement accelerated each instant,

as the music of the play hastens to the climax. Wood fibres smashed.

The whole mass seemed to sink down and forward into a boiling of waters.

Then, with a creak and a groan, the jam moved, hesitated, moved again;

finally, urged by the frantic river, went out in a majestic crashing and

battering of logs.

At the first movement Newmark expected the rivermen to make their

escape. Instead, they stood at attention, their peavies poised, watching

cat-eyed the symptoms of the break. Twice or thrice several of the

men, observing something not evident to Newmark's unpractised eye, ran

forward, used their peavies vigorously for a moment or so, and stood

back to watch the result. Only at the very last, when it would seem that

some of them must surely he caught, did the river-jacks, using their

peavy-shafts as balancing poles, zigzag calmly to shore across the

plunging logs. Newmark seemed impressed.

“That was a close shave,” said he to the last man ashore.

“What?” inquired the riverman. “Didn't see it. Somebody fall down?”

“Why, no,” explained Newmark; “getting in off those logs without getting

caught.”

“Oh!” said the man indifferently, turning away.

The going out of the jam drained the water from the lower floors of the

mill; the upper stories and the grain were still safe.

By evening the sluice-gate had been roughly provided with pole guides

down which to slide to the bed of the river. The following morning saw

the work going on as methodically as ever. During the night a very

good head of water had gathered behind the lowered gate. The rear crew

brought down the afterguard of logs to the pond. The sluicers with their

long pike-poles thrust the logs into the chute. The jam crew, scattered

for many miles along the lower stretches, kept the drive going; running

out over the surface of the river like water-bugs to thrust apart logs

threatening to lock; leaning for hours on the shafts of their peavies

watching contemplatively the orderly ranks as they drifted by, sleepy,

on the bosom of the river; occasionally gathering, as the filling of

the river gave warning, to break a jam. By the end of the second day the

pond was clear, and as Charlie's wanigan was drifting toward the chute,

the first of Johnson's drive floated into the head of the pond.

V

Charlie's wanigan, in case you do not happen to know what such a thing

may be, was a scow about twenty feet long by ten wide. It was

very solidly constructed of hewn timbers, square at both ends, was

inconceivably clumsy, and weighed an unbelievable number of pounds.

When loaded, it carried all the bed-rolls, tents, provisions, cooking

utensils, tools, and a chest of tobacco, clothes, and other minor

supplies. It was managed by Charlie and his two cookees by means of

pike-poles and a long sweep at either end. The pike-poles assured

progress when the current slacked; the sweeps kept her head-on when

drifting with the stream.

Charlie's temperament was pessimistic at best. When the wanigan was

to be moved, he rose fairly to the heights of what might be called

destructive prophecy.

The packing began before the men had finished breakfast. Shortly after

daylight the wanigan, pushed strongly from shore by the pike-poles,

was drifting toward the chute. When the heavy scow threatened to turn

side-on, the sweeps at either end churned the water frantically in an

endeavour to straighten her out. Sometimes, by a misunderstanding, they

worked against each other. Then Charlie, raging from one to the other of

his satellites, frothed and roared commands and vituperations. His voice

rose to a shriek. The cookees, bewildered by so much violence, lost

their heads completely. Then Charlie abruptly fell to an exaggerated

calm. He sat down amidships on a pile of bags, and gazed with

ostentatious indifference out over the pond. Finally, in a voice fallen

almost to a whisper, and with an elaborate politeness, Charlie proffered

a request that his assistants acquire the sense God gave a rooster.

Newmark, who had elected to accompany the wanigan on its voyage,

evidently found it vastly amusing, for his eyes twinkled behind his

glasses. As the wanigan neared the sluice through which it must shoot

the flood-water, the excitement mounted to fever pitch. The water boiled

under the strokes of the long steering oars. The air swirled with the

multitude and vigour of Charlie's commands. As many of the driving crew

as were within distance gathered to watch. It was a supreme moment. As

Newmark looked at the smooth rim of the water sucking into the chute, he

began to wonder why he had come.

However, the noble ship was pointed right at last, and caught the faster

water head-on. Even Charlie managed to look cheerful for an instant, and

to grin at his passenger as he wiped his forehead with a very old, red

handkerchief.

“All right now,” he shouted.

Zeke and his mate took in the oars. The wanigan shot forward below the

gate--

WHACK! BUMP! BANG! and the scow stopped so suddenly that its four men

plunged forward in a miscellaneous heap, while Zeke narrowly escaped

going overboard. Almost immediately the water, backed up behind the

stern, began to overflow into the boat. Newmark, clearing his vision

as well as he could for lack of his glasses, saw that the scow had

evidently run her bow on an obstruction, and had been brought to a

standstill square beneath the sluice-gate. Men seemed to be running

toward them. The water was beginning to flow the entire length of the

boat. Various lighter articles shot past him and disappeared over the

side. Charlie had gone crazy and was grabbing at these, quite uselessly,

for as fast as he had caught one thing he let it go in favour of

another. The cookees, retaining some small degree of coolness, were

pushing uselessly with pike-poles.

Newmark had an inspiration. The more important matters, such as the

men's clothes-bags, the rolls of bedding, and the heavier supplies of

provisions, had not yet cut loose from their moorings, although the

rapid backing of the water threatened soon to convert the wanigan into

a chute for nearly the full volume of the current. He seized one of the

long oars, thrust the blade under the edge of a thwart astern laid the

shaft of the oar across the cargo, and by resting his weight on the

handle attempted to bring it down to bind the contents of the wanigan

to their places. The cookees saw what he was about, and came to his

assistance. Together they succeeded in bending the long hickory sweep

far enough to catch its handle-end under another, forward, thwart. The

second oar was quickly locked alongside the first, and not a moment too

soon. A rush of water forced them all to cling for their lives. The poor

old wanigan was almost buried by the river.

But now help was at hand. Two or three rivermen appeared at the edge of

the chute. A moment later old man Reed ran up, carrying a rope. This,

after some difficulty, was made fast to the bow of the wanigan. A dozen

men ran with the end of it to a position of vantage from which they

might be able to pull the bow away from the sunken obstruction, but

Orde, appearing above, called a halt. After consultation with

Reed, another rope was brought and the end of it tossed down to the

shipwrecked crew. Orde pointed to the stern of the boat, revolving his

hands in pantomime to show that the wanigan would be apt to upset if

allowed to get side-on when freed. A short rope led to the top of the

dam allowed the bow to be lifted free of the obstruction; a cable astern

prevented the current from throwing her broadside to the rush of waters;

another cable from the bow led her in the way she should go. Ten

minutes later she was pulled ashore out of the eddy below, very much

water-logged, and manned by a drenched and disgruntled crew.

But Orde allowed them little chance for lamentation.

“Hard luck!” he said briefly. “Hope you haven't lost much. Now get a

move on you and bail out. You've got to get over the shallows while this

head is on.”

“That's all the thanks you get,” grumbled Charlie to himself and the

other three as Orde moved away. “Work, slave, get up in the night,

drownd yourself--”

He happily discovered that the pails under the forward thwart had not

been carried away, and all started in to bail. It was a back-breaking

job, and consumed the greater part of two hours. Even at the end of that

time the wanigan, though dry of loose water, floated but sluggishly.

“'Bout two ton of water in them bed-rolls and turkeys,” grumbled

Charlie. “Well, get at it!”

Newmark soon discovered that the progress of the wanigan was looked upon

in the light of a side-show by the rivermen. Its appearance was

signal for shouts of delighted and ironic encouragement; its

tribulations--which at first, in the white-water, were many--the

occasion for unsympathetic and unholy joy. Charlie looked on all

spectators as enemies. Part of the time he merely glowered. Part of the

time he tried to reply in kind. To his intense disgust, he was taken

seriously in neither case.

In a couple of hours' run the wanigan had overtaken and left far behind

the rear of the drive. All about floated the logs, caroming gently one

against the other, shifting and changing the pattern of their brown

against the blue of the water. The current flowed strongly and smoothly,

but without obstruction. Everything went well. The banks slipped by

silently and mysteriously, like the unrolling of a panorama--little

strips of marshland, stretches of woodland where the great trees leaned

out over the river, thickets of overflowed swampland with the water

rising and draining among roots in a strange regularity of its own. The

sun shone warm. There was no wind. Newmark wrung out his outer

garments, and basked below the gunwale. Zeke and his companion pulled

spasmodically on the sweeps. Charlie, having regained his equanimity

together with his old brown derby, which he came upon floating sodden

in an eddy, marched up and down the broad gunwale with his pike-pole,

thrusting away such logs as threatened interference.

“Well,” said he at last, “we better make camp. We'll be down in the jam

pretty soon.”

The cookees abandoned the sweeps in favour of more pike-poles. By

pushing and pulling on the logs floating about them, they managed to

work the wanigan in close to the bank.

Charlie, a coil of rope in his hand, surveyed the prospects.

“We'll stop right down there by that little knoll,” he announced.

He leaped ashore, made a turn around a tree, and braced himself to snub

the boat, but unfortunately he had not taken into consideration the

“two ton” of water soaked up by the cargo. The weight of the craft

relentlessly dragged him forward. In vain he braced and struggled. The

end of the rope came to the tree; he clung for a moment, then let go,

and ran around the tree to catch it before it should slip into the

water.

By this time the wanigan had caught the stronger current at the bend and

was gathering momentum. Charlie tried to snub at a sapling, and broke

the sapling; on a stub, and uprooted the stub. Down the banks and

through the brush he tore at the end of his rope, clinging desperately,

trying at every solid tree to stop the career of his runaway, but in

every instance being forced by the danger of jamming his hands to let

go. Again he lost his derby. The landscape was a blur. Dimly he made

out the howls of laughter as the outfit passed a group of rivermen. Then

abruptly a ravine yawned before him, and he let go just in time to save

himself a fall. The wanigan, trailing her rope, drifted away.

Nor did she stop until she had overtaken the jam. There, her momentum

reduced by the closer crowding of the logs, she slowed down enough so

that Newmark and the cookees managed to work her to the bank and make

her fast.

That evening, after the wanigan's crew had accomplished a hard

afternoon's work pitching camp and drying blankets, the first of the

rear drifted in very late after a vain search for camp farther up

stream.

“For God's sake, Charlie,” growled one, “it's a wonder you wouldn't run

through to Redding and be done with it.”

Whereupon Charlie, who had been preternaturally calm all the afternoon,

uttered a shriek of rage, and with a carving-knife chased that man out

into the brush. Nor would he be appeased to the point of getting supper

until Orde himself had intervened.

“Well,” said Orde to Newmark later, around the campfire, “how does

river-driving strike you?”

“It is extremely interesting,” replied Newmark.

“Like to join the wanigan crew permanently?”

“No, thanks,” returned Newmark drily.

“Well, stay with us as long as you're having a good time,” invited Orde

heartily, but turning away from his rather uncommunicative visitor.

“Thank you,” Newmark acknowledged this, “I believe I will.”

“Well, Tommy,” called Orde across the fire to North, “I reckon we've got

to rustle some more supplies. That shipwreck of ours to-day mighty near

cleaned us out of some things. Lucky Charlie held his head and locked in

the bedding with those sweeps, or we'd have been strapped.”

“I didn't do it,” grumbled Charlie. “It was him.”

“Oh!” Orde congratulated Newmark. “Good work! I'm tickled to death you

belonged to that crew.”

“That old mossback Reed was right on deck with his rope,” remarked

Johnny Simms. “That was pretty decent of him.”

“Old skunk!” growled North. “He lost us two days with his damn nonsense.

You let him off too easy, Jack.”

“Oh, he's a poor old devil,” replied Orde easily. “He means well enough.

That's the way the Lord made him. He can't help how he's made.”

VI

During the thirty-three days of the drive, Newmark, to the surprise

of everybody, stayed with the work. Some of these days were very

disagreeable. April rains are cold and persistent--the proverbs as to

showers were made for another latitude. Drenched garments are bad enough

when a man is moving about and has daylight; but when night falls,

and the work is over, he likes a dry place and a change with which to

comfort himself. Dry places there were none. Even the interior of the

tents became sodden by continual exits and entrances of dripping men,

while dry garments speedily dampened in the shiftings of camp which, in

the broader reaches of the lower river, took place nearly every day. Men

worked in soaked garments, slept in damp blankets. Charlie cooked only

by virtue of persistence. The rivermen ate standing up, as close to

the sputtering, roaring fires as they could get. Always the work went

forward.

But there were other times when a golden sun rose each morning a little

earlier on a green and joyous world. The river ran blue. Migratory birds

fled busily northward--robins, flute-voiced blue-birds, warblers of

many species, sparrows of different kinds, shore birds and ducks, the

sweet-songed thrushes. Little tepid breezes wandered up and down,

warm in contrast to the faint snow-chill that even yet lingered in the

shadows. Sounds carried clearly, so that the shouts and banter of the

rivermen were plainly audible up the reaches of the river. Ashore moist

and aggressive green things were pushing up through the watery earth

from which, in shade, the last frost had not yet departed. At camp the

fires roared invitingly. Charlie's grub was hot and grateful. The fir

beds gave dreamless sleep.

Newmark followed the work of the log-drive with great interest. All day

long he tramped back and forth--on jam one day, on rear the next. He

never said much, but watched keenly, and listened to the men's banter

both on the work and about the evening's fire as though he enjoyed

it. Gradually the men got used to him, and ceased to treat him as an

outsider. His thin, eager face, his steel-blue, inquiring eyes behind

the glasses, his gray felt hat, his lank, tense figure in its gray,

became a familiar feature. They threw remarks to him, to which he

replied briefly and drily. When anything interesting was going on,

somebody told him about it. Then he hurried to the spot, no matter how

distant it might be. He used always the river trail; he never attempted

to ride the logs.

He seemed to depend most on observation, for he rarely asked any

questions. What few queries he had to proffer, he made to Orde himself,

waiting sometimes until evening to interview that busy and good-natured

individual. Then his questions were direct and to the point. They

related generally to the advisability of something he had seen done;

only rarely did they ask for explanation of the work itself. That

Newmark seemed capable of puzzling out for himself.

The drive, as has been said, went down as far as Redding in thirty-three

days. It had its share of tribulation. The men worked fourteen and

sixteen hours at times. Several bad jams relieved the monotony. Three

dams had to be sluiced through. Problems of mechanics arose to be solved

on the spot; problems that an older civilisation would have attacked

deliberately and with due respect for the seriousness of the situation

and the dignity of engineering. Orde solved them by a rough-and-ready

but very effective rule of thumb. He built and abandoned structures

which would have furnished opportunity for a winter's discussion to some

committees; just as, earlier in the work, the loggers had built through

a rough country some hundreds of miles of road better than railroad

grade, solid in foundation, and smooth as a turnpike, the quarter of

which would have occupied the average county board of supervisors

for five years. And while he was at it, Orde kept his men busy and

satisfied. Your white-water birler is not an easy citizen to handle. Yet

never once did the boss appear hurried or flustered. Always he

wandered about, his hands in his pockets, chewing a twig, his round,

wind-reddened face puckered humorously, his blue eyes twinkling, his

square, burly form lazily relaxed. He seemed to meet his men almost

solely on the plane of good-natured chaffing. Yet the work was done, and

done efficiently, and Orde was the man responsible.

The drive of which Orde had charge was to be delivered at the booms of

Morrison and Daly, a mile or so above the city of Redding. Redding was a

thriving place of about thirty thousand inhabitants, situated on a long

rapids some forty miles from Lake Michigan. The water-power developed

from the rapids explained Redding's existence. Most of the logs floated

down the river were carried through to the village at the lake coast,

where, strung up the river for eight or ten miles, stood a dozen or so

big saw-mills, with concomitant booms, yards, and wharves. Morrison and

Daly, however, had built a saw and planing mill at Redding, where

they supplied most of the local trade and that of the surrounding

country-side.

The drive, then, was due to break up as soon as the logs should be

safely impounded.

The last camp was made some six or eight miles above the mill. From that

point a good proportion of the rivermen, eager for a taste of the town,

tramped away down the road, to return early in the morning, more or less

drunk, but faithful to their job. One or two did not return.

Among the revellers was the cook, Charlie, commonly called The Doctor.

The rivermen early worked off the effects of their rather wild spree,

and turned up at noon chipper as larks. Not so the cook. He moped about

disconsolately all day; and in the evening, after his work had been

finished, he looked so much like a chicken with the pip that Orde's

attention was attracted.

“Got that dark-brown taste, Charlie?” he inquired with mock solicitude.

The cook mournfully shook his head.

“Large head? Let's feel your pulse. Stick out your tongue, sonny.”

“I ain't been drinking, I tell you!” growled Charlie.

“Drinking!” expostulated Orde, horrified. “Of course not! I hope none

of MY boys ever take a drink! But that lemon-pop didn't agree with your

stomach--now did it, Charlie?”

“I tell you I only had two glasses of beer!” cried Charlie, goaded, “and

I can prove it by Johnny Challan.”

Orde turned to survey the pink-cheeked, embarrassed young boy thus

designated.

“How many glasses did Johnny Challan have?” he inquired.

“He didn't drink none to speak of,” spoke up the boy.

“Then why this joyless demeanour?” begged Orde.

Charlie grumbled, fiercely inarticulate; but Johnny Challan interposed

with a chuckle of enjoyment.

“He got 'bunked.'”

“Tell us!” cried Orde delightedly.

“It was down at McNeill's place,” explained Johnny Challan; encouraged

by the interest of his audience. “They was a couple of sports there who

throwed out three cards on the table and bet you couldn't pick the jack.

They showed you where the jack was before they throwed, and it surely

looked like a picnic, but it wasn't.”

“Three-card monte,” said Newmark.

“How much?” asked Simms.

“About fifty dollars,” replied the boy.

Orde turned on the disgruntled cook.

“And you had fifty in your turkey, camping with this outfit of hard

citizens!” he cried. “You ought to lose it.”

Johnny Challan was explaining to his companions exactly how the game was

played.

“It's a case of keep your eye on the card, I should think,” said big Tim

Nolan. “If you got a quick enough eye to see him flip the card around,

you ought to be able to pick her.”

“That's what this sport said,” agreed Challan. “'Your eye agin my hand,'

says he.”

“Well, I'd like to take a try at her,” mused Tim.

But at this point Newmark broke into the discussion. “Have you a pack of

cards?” he asked in his dry, incisive manner.

Somebody rummaged in a turkey and produced the remains of an old deck.

“I don't believe this is a full deck,” said he, “and I think they's part

of two decks in it.”

“I only want three,” assured Newmark, reaching his hand for the pack.

The men crowded around close, those in front squatting, those behind

looking over their shoulders.

Newmark cleared a cracker-box of drying socks and drew it to him.

“These three are the cards,” he said, speaking rapidly. “There is the

jack of hearts. I pass my hands--so. Pick the jack, one of you,” he

challenged, leaning back from the cracker-box on which lay the three

cards, back up. “Any of you,” he urged. “You, North.”

Thus directly singled out, the foreman leaned forward and rather

hesitatingly laid a blunt forefinger on one of the bits of pasteboard.

Without a word, Newmark turned it over. It was the ten of spades.

“Let me try,” interposed Tim Nolan, pressing his big shoulders forward.

“I bet I know which it was that time; and I bet I can pick her next

time.”

“Oh, yes, you BET!” shrugged Newmark. “And that's where the card-sharps

get you fellows every time. Well, pick it,” said he, again deftly

flipping the cards.

Nolan, who had watched keenly, indicated one without hesitation. Again

it proved to be the ten of spades.

“Anybody else ambitious?” inquired Newmark. Everybody was ambitious;

and the young man, with inexhaustible patience, threw out the cards, the

corners of his mouth twitching sardonically at each wrong guess.

At length he called a halt.

“By this time I'd have had all your money,” he pointed out. “Now, I'll

pick the jack.”

For the last time he made his swift passes and distributed the cards.

Then quite calmly, without disturbing the three on the cracker-box, he

held before their eyes the jack of hearts.

An exclamation broke from the interested group. Tim Nolan, who was the

nearest, leaned forward and turned over the three on the board. They

were the eight of diamonds and two tens of spades.

“That's how the thing is worked nine times out of ten,” announced

Newmark. “Once in a while you'll run against a straight game, but not

often.”

“But you showed us the jack every time before you throwed them!” puzzled

Johnny Simms.

“Sleight of hand,” explained Newmark. “The simplest kind of palming.”

“Well, Charlie,” said big Tim, “looks to me as if you had just about as

much chance as a snowball in hell.”

“Where'd you get onto doing all that, Newmark?” inquired North. “You

ain't a tin horn yourself?”

Newmark laughed briefly. “Not I,” said he. “I learned a lot of those

tricks from a travelling magician in college.”

During this demonstration Orde had sat well in the background, his chin

propped on his hand, watching intently all that was going on. After

the comment and exclamations following the exposure of the method had

subsided, he spoke.

“Boys,” said he, “how game are you to get Charlie's money back--and then

some?”

“Try us,” returned big Tim.

“This game's at McNeill's, and McNeill's is a tough hole,” warned Orde.

“Maybe everything will go peaceful, and maybe not. And you boys that go

with me have got to keep sober. There isn't going to be any row unless

I say so, and I'm not taking any contract to handle a lot of drunken

river-hogs as well as go against a game.”

“All right,” agreed Nolan, “I'm with you.”

The thirty or so men of the rear crew then in camp signified their

intention to stay by the procession.

“You can't make those sharps disgorge,” counselled Newmark. “At the

first look of trouble they will light out. They have it all fixed. Force

won't do you much good--and may get some of you shot.”

“I'm not going to use force,” denied Orde. “I'm just going to play their

game. But I bet I can make it go. Only I sort of want the moral support

of the boys.”

“I tell you, you CAN'T win!” cried Newmark disgustedly. “It's a brace

game pure and simple.”

“I don't know about it's being pure,” replied Orde drolly, “but it's

simple enough, if you know how to make the wheels go 'round. How is it,

boys--will you back my play?”

And such was their confidence that, in face of Newmark's demonstration,

they said they would.

VII

After the men had been paid off, perhaps a dozen of them hung around

the yards awaiting evening and the rendezvous named by Orde. The rest

drifted away full of good intentions, but did not show up again. Orde

himself was busy up to the last moment, but finally stamped out of the

office just as the boarding-house bell rang for supper. He surveyed what

remained of his old crew and grinned.

“Well, boys, ready for trouble?” he greeted them. “Come on.”

They set out up the long reach of Water Street, their steel caulks

biting deep into the pitted board-walks.

For nearly a mile the street was flanked solely by lumber-yards, small

mills, and factories. Then came a strip of unimproved land, followed

immediately by the wooden, ramshackle structures of Hell's Half-Mile.

In the old days every town of any size had its Hell's Half-Mile, or the

equivalent. Saginaw boasted of its Catacombs; Muskegon, Alpena, Port

Huron, Ludington, had their “Pens,” “White Rows,” “River Streets,”

“Kilyubbin,” and so forth. They supported row upon row of saloons, alike

stuffy and squalid; gambling hells of all sorts; refreshment “parlours,”

where drinks were served by dozens of “pretty waiter-girls,” and huge

dance-halls.

The proprietors of these places were a bold and unscrupulous lot.

In their everyday business they had to deal with the most dangerous

rough-and-tumble fighters this country has ever known; with men bubbling

over with the joy of life, ready for quarrel if quarrel also spelled

fun, drinking deep, and heavy-handed and fearless in their cups. But

each of these rivermen had two or three hundred dollars to “blow” as

soon as possible. The pickings were good. Men got rich very quickly at

this business. And there existed this great advantage in favour of the

dive-keeper: nobody cared what happened to a riverman. You could pound

him over the head with a lead pipe, or drug his drink, or choke him to

insensibility, or rob him and throw him out into the street, or even

drop him tidily through a trap-door into the river flowing conveniently

beneath. Nobody bothered--unless, of course, the affair was so bungled

as to become public. The police knew enough to stay away when the drive

hit town. They would have been annihilated if they had not. The only fly

in the divekeeper's ointment was that the riverman would fight back.

And fight back he did, until from one end of his street to the other he

had left the battered evidences of his skill as a warrior. His constant

heavy lifting made him as hard as nails and as strong as a horse; the

continual demand on his agility in riding the logs kept him active and

prevented him from becoming muscle-bound; in his wild heart was not the

least trace of fear of anything that walked, crawled, or flew. And

he was as tireless as machinery, and apparently as indifferent to

punishment as a man cast in iron.

Add to this a happy and complete disregard of consequences--to himself

or others--of anything he did, and, in his own words, he was a “hard man

to nick.”

As yet the season was too early for much joy along Hell's Half-Mile.

Orde's little crew, and the forty or fifty men of the drive that had

preceded him, constituted the rank and file at that moment in town. A

little later, when all the drives on the river should be in, and those

of its tributaries, and the men still lingering at the woods camps, at

least five hundred woods-weary men would be turned loose. Then Hell's

Half-Mile would awaken in earnest from its hibernation. The lights would

blaze from day to day. From its opened windows would blare the music,

the cries of men and women, the shuffle of feet, the noise of fighting,

the shrieks of wild laughter, curses deep and frank and unashamed, songs

broken and interrupted. Crews of men, arms locked, would surge up and

down the narrow sidewalks, their little felt hats cocked one side,

their heads back, their fearless eyes challenging the devil and all his

works--and getting the challenge accepted. Girls would flit across the

lit windows like shadows before flames, or stand in the doorways hailing

the men jovially by name. And every few moments, above the roar of this

wild inferno, would sound the sudden crash and the dull blows of combat.

Only, never was heard the bark of the pistol. The fighting was fierce,

and it included kicking with the sharp steel boot-caulks, biting and

gouging; but it barred knives and firearms. And when Hell's Half-Mile

was thus in full eruption, the citizens of Redding stayed away from

Water Street after dark. “Drive's in,” said they, and had business

elsewhere. And the next group of rivermen, hurrying toward the fun,

broke into an eager dog-trot. “Taking the old town apart to-night,” they

told each other. “Let's get in the game.”

To-night, however, the street was comparatively quiet. The saloons were

of modified illumination. In many of them men stood drinking, but in

a sociable rather than a hilarious mood. Old friends of the two

drives were getting together for a friendly glass. The barkeepers were

listlessly wiping the bars. The “pretty waiter-girls” gossiped with each

other and yawned behind their hands. From several doorways Orde's little

compact group was accosted by the burly saloonkeepers.

“Hullo, boys!” said they invariably, “glad to see you back. Come in and

have a drink on me.”

Well these men knew that one free drink would mean a dozen paid for. But

the rivermen merely shook their heads.

“Huh!” sneered one of the girls. “Them's no river-jacks! Them's just off

the hay trail, I bet!”

But even this time-honoured and generally effective taunt was ignored.

In the middle of the third block Orde wheeled sharp to the left down a

dark and dangerous-looking alley. Another turn to the right brought him

into a very narrow street. Facing this street stood a three-story wooden

structure, into which led a high-arched entrance up a broad half-flight

of wooden steps. This was McNeill's.

As Orde and his men turned into the narrow street, a figure detached

itself from the shadow and approached. Orde uttered an exclamation.

“You here, Newmark?” he cried.

“Yes,” replied that young man. “I want to see this through.”

“With those clothes?” marvelled Orde. “It's a wonder some of these thugs

haven't held you up long ago! I'll get Johnny here to go back with you

to the main street.”

“No,” argued Newmark, “I want to go in with you.”

“It's dangerous,” explained Orde. “You're likely to get slugged.”

“I can stand it if you can,” returned Newmark.

“I doubt it,” said Orde grimly. “However, it's your funeral. Come on, if

you want to.”

McNeill's lower story was given over entirely to drinking. A bar ran

down all one side of the room. Dozens of little tables occupied the

floor. “Pretty waiter-girls” were prepared to serve drinks at these

latter--and to share in them, at a commission. The second floor was a

theatre, and the third a dance-hall. Beneath the building were still

viler depths. From this basement the riverman and the shanty boy

generally graduated penniless, and perhaps unconscious, to the street.

Now, your lumber-jack did not customarily arrive at this stage without

more or less lively doings en route; therefore McNeill's maintained a

force of fighters. They were burly, sodden men, in striking contrast to

the clean-cut, clear-eyed rivermen, but strong in their experience and

their discipline. To be sure, they might not last quite as long as their

antagonists could--a whisky training is not conducive to long wind--but

they always lasted plenty long enough. Sand-bags and brass knuckles

helped some, ruthless singleness of purpose counted, and team work

finished the job. At times the storm rose high, but up to now McNeill

had always ridden it.

Orde and his men entered the lower hall, as though sauntering in without

definite aim. Perhaps a score of men were in the room. Two tables of

cards were under way--with a great deal of noisy card-slapping that

proclaimed the game merely friendly. Eight or ten other men wandered

about idly, chaffing loudly with the girls, pausing to overlook the card

games, glancing with purposeless curiosity at the professional gamblers

sitting quietly behind their various lay-outs. It was a dull evening.

Orde wandered about with the rest, a wide, good-natured smile on his

face.

“Start your little ball to rolling for that,” he instructed the roulette

man, tossing down a bill. “Dropped again!” he lamented humorously.

“Can't seem to have any luck.”

He drifted on to the crap game.

“Throw us the little bones, pardner,” he said. “I'll go you a five on

it.”

He lost here, and so found himself at the table presided over by the

three-card monte men. The rest of his party, who had according to

instructions scattered about the place, now began quietly to gravitate

in his direction.

“What kind of a lay-out is this?” inquired Orde.

The dealer held up the three cards face out.

“What kind of an eye have you got, bub?” he asked.

“Oh, I don't know. A pretty fair eye. Why?”

“Do you think you could pick out the jack when I throw them out like

this?” asked the dealer.

“Sure! She's that one.”

“Well,” exclaimed the gambler with a pretence of disgust, “damn if you

didn't! I bet you five dollars you can't do it again.”

“Take you!” replied Orde. “Put up your five.”

Again Orde was permitted to pick the jack.

“You've got the best eye that's been in this place since I got here,”

claimed the dealer admiringly. “Here, Dennis,” said he to his partner,

“try if you can fool this fellow.”

Dennis obligingly took the cards, threw them, and lost. By this time

the men, augmented by the idlers not busy with the card games, had drawn

close.

“Sail into 'em, bub,” encouraged one.

Whether it was that the gamblers, expert in the reading of a man's mood

and intentions, sensed the fact that Orde might be led to plunge, or

whether, more simply, they were using him as a capper to draw the crowd

into their game, it would be difficult to say, but twice more they

bungled the throw and permitted him to win.

Newmark plucked him at the sleeve.

“You're twenty dollars ahead,” he muttered. “Quit it! I never saw

anybody beat this game that much before.”

Orde merely shrugged him off with an appearance of growing excitement,

while an HABITUE of the place, probably one of the hired fighters,

growled into Newmark's ear.

“Shut up, you damn dude!” warned this man. “Keep out of what ain't none

of your business.”

“What limit do you put on this game, anyway?” Orde leaned forward, his

eyes alight.

The two gamblers spoke swiftly apart.

“How much do you want to bet?” asked one.

“Would you stand for five hundred dollars?” asked Orde.

A dead silence fell on the group. Plainly could be heard the men's

quickened breathing. The shouts and noise from the card parties

blundered through the stillness. Some one tiptoed across and whispered

in the ear of the nearest player. A moment later the chairs at the two

tables scraped back. One of them fell violently to the floor. Their

occupants joined the tense group about the monte game. All the girls

drew near. Only behind the bar the white-aproned bartenders wiped their

glasses with apparent imperturbability, their eyes, however, on their

brass knuckles hanging just beneath the counter, their ears pricked up

for the riot call.

The gambler pretended to deliberate, his cool, shifty eyes running over

the group before him. A small door immediately behind him swung slowly

ajar an inch or so.

“Got the money?” he asked.

“Have you?” countered Orde.

Apparently satisfied, the man nodded.

“I'll go you, bub, if I lose,” said he. “Lay out your money.”

Orde counted out nine fifty-dollar bills and five tens. Probably no one

in the group of men standing about had realised quite how much money

five hundred dollars meant until they saw it thus tallied out before

them.

“All right,” said the gambler, taking up the cards.

“Hold on!” cried Orde. “Where's yours?”

“Oh, that's all right,” the gambler reassured him. “I'm with the house.

I guess McNeill's credit is good,” he laughed.

“That may all be,” insisted Orde, “but I'm putting up my good money, and

I expect to see good money put up in return.”

They wrangled over this point for some time, but Orde was obstinate.

Finally the gamblers yielded. A canvass of the drawer, helped out by the

bar and the other games, made up the sum. It bulked large on the table

beside Orde's higher denominations.

The interested audience now consisted of the dozen men comprised by

Orde's friends; nearly twice as many strangers, evidently rivermen;

eight hangers-on of the joint, probably fighters and “bouncers”; half a

dozen professional gamblers, and several waitresses. The four barkeepers

still held their positions. Of these, the rivermen were scattered

loosely back of Orde, although Orde's own friends had by now gathered

compactly enough at his shoulder. The mercenaries and gamblers had

divided, and flanked the table at either side. Newmark, a growing wonder

and disgust creeping into his usually unexpressive face, recognised

the strategic advantage of this arrangement. In case of difficulty,

a determined push would separate the rivermen from the gamblers long

enough for the latter to disappear quietly through the small door at the

back.

“Satisfied?” inquired the gambler briefly.

“Let her flicker,” replied Orde with equal brevity.

A gasp of anticipation went up. Quite coolly the gambler made his

passes. With equal coolness and not the slightest hesitation, Orde

planted his great red fist on one of the cards.

“That is the jack,” he announced, looking the gambler in the eye.

“Oh, is it?” sneered the dealer. “Well, turn it over and let's see.”

“No!” roared Orde. “YOU TURN OVER THE OTHER TWO!”

A low oath broke from the gambler, and his face contorted in a spasm.

The barkeepers slid out from behind the bar. For a moment the situation

was tense and threatening. The dealer with a sweeping glance again

searched the faces of those before him. In that moment, probably, he

made up his mind that an open scandal must be avoided. Force and broken

bones, even murder, might be all right enough under colour of right. If

Orde had turned up for a jack the card on which he now held his fist,

and then had attempted to prove cheating, a cry of robbery and a lively

fight would have given opportunity for making way with the stakes.

But McNeill's could not afford to be shown up before thirty interested

rivermen as running an open-and-shut brace-game. However, the gambler

made a desperate try at what he must have known was a very forlorn hope.

“That isn't the way this game is played,” said he. “Show up your jack.”

“It's the way I play it,” replied Orde sternly. “These gentlemen heard

the bet.” He reached over and dexterously flipped over the other two

cards. “You see, neither of these is the jack; this must be.”

“You win,” assented the gambler, after a pause.

Orde, his fist still on the third card, began pocketing the stakes with

the other hand. The gambler reached, palm up, across the table.

“Give me the other card,” said he.

Orde picked it up, laughing. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, holding

the bit of pasteboard tantalisingly outstretched, as though he were

going to turn also this one face up. Then, quite deliberately he looked

to right and to left where the fighters awaited their signal, laughed

again, and handed the card to the gambler.

At once pandemonium broke loose. The rivermen of Orde's party fairly

shouted with joy over the unexpected trick; the employees of the resort

whispered apart; the gambler explained, low-voiced and angry, his

reasons for not putting up a fight for so rich a stake.

“All to the bar!” yelled Orde.

They made a rush, and lined up and ordered their drinks. Orde poured his

on the floor and took the glass belonging to the man next him.

“Get them to give you another, Tim,” said he. “No knock-out drops, if I

can help it.”

The men drank, and some one ordered another round.

“Tim,” said Orde, low-voiced, “get the crowd together and we'll pull

out. I've a thousand dollars on me, and they'll sand-bag me sure if I go

alone. And let's get out right off.”

Ten minutes later they all stood safely on the lighted thoroughfare of

Water Street.

“Good-night, boys,” said Orde. “Go easy, and show up at the booms

Monday.”

He turned up the street toward the main part of the town. Newmark joined

him.

“I'll walk a little ways with you,” he explained. “And I say, Orde, I

want to apologise to you. 'Most of the evening I've been thinking you

the worst fool I ever saw, but you can take care of yourself at every

stage of the game. The trick was good, but your taking the other

fellow's drink beat it.”

VIII

Orde heard no more of Newmark--and hardly thought of him--until over two

weeks later.

In the meantime the riverman, assuming the more conventional garments

of civilisation, lived with his parents in the old Orde homestead at the

edge of town. This was a rather pretentious two-story brick structure,

in the old solid, square architecture, surrounded by a small orchard,

some hickories, and a garden. Orde's father had built it when he arrived

in the pioneer country from New England forty years before. At that time

it was considered well out in the country. Since then the town had

crept to it, so that the row of grand old maples in front shaded a

stone-guttered street. A little patch of corn opposite, and many still

vacant lots above, placed it, however, as about the present limit of

growth.

Jack Orde was the youngest and most energetic of a large family that had

long since scattered to diverse cities and industries. He and Grandpa

and Grandma Orde dwelt now in the big, echoing, old-fashioned house

alone, save for the one girl who called herself the “help” rather than

the servant. Grandpa Orde, now above sixty, was tall, straight, slender.

His hair was quite white, and worn a little long. His features were

finely chiselled and aquiline. From them looked a pair of piercing,

young, black eyes. In his time, Grandpa Orde had been a mighty breaker

of the wilderness; but his time had passed, and with the advent of a

more intensive civilisation he had fallen upon somewhat straitened ways.

Grandma Orde, on the other hand, was a very small, spry old lady, with

a small face, a small figure, small hands and feet. She dressed in the

then usual cap and black silk of old ladies. Half her time she spent at

her housekeeping, which she loved, jingling about from cellar to attic

store-room, seeing that Amanda, the “help,” had everything in order.

The other half she sat in a wooden “Dutch” rocking-chair by a window

overlooking the garden. Her silk-shod feet rested neatly side by side

on a carpet-covered hassock, her back against a gay tapestried cushion.

Near her purred big Jim, a maltese rumoured to weigh fifteen pounds.

Above her twittered a canary.

And the interior of the house itself was in keeping. The low ceilings,

the slight irregularities of structure peculiar to the rather

rule-of-thumb methods of the earlier builders, the deep window

embrasures due to the thickness of the walls, the unexpected passages

leading to unsuspected rooms, and the fact that many of these apartments

were approached by a step or so up or a step or so down--these lent

to it a quaint, old-fashioned atmosphere enhanced further by the steel

engravings, the antique furnishings, the many-paned windows, and all

the belongings of old people who have passed from a previous generation

untouched by modern ideas.

To this house and these people Orde came direct from the greatness of

the wilderness and the ferocity of Hell's Half-Mile. Such contrasts were

possible even ten or fifteen years ago. The untamed country lay at the

doors of the most modern civilisation.

Newmark, reappearing one Sunday afternoon at the end of the two weeks,

was apparently bothered. He examined the Orde place for some moments;

walked on beyond it; finding nothing there, he returned, and after some

hesitation turned in up the tar sidewalk and pulled at the old-fashioned

wire bell-pull. Grandma Orde herself answered the door.

At sight of her fine features, her dainty lace cap and mitts, and the

stiffness of her rustling black silks, Newmark took off his gray felt

hat.

“Good-afternoon,” said he. “Will you kindly tell me where Mr. Orde

lives?”

“This is Mr. Orde's,” replied the little old lady.

“Pardon me,” persisted Newmark, “I am looking for Mr. Jack Orde, and I

was directed here. I am sorry to have troubled you.”

“Mr. Jack Orde lives here,” returned Grandma Orde. “He is my son. Would

you like to see him?”

“If you please,” assented Newmark gravely, his thin, shrewd face masking

itself with its usual expression of quizzical cynicism.

“Step this way, please, and I'll call him,” requested his interlocutor,

standing aside from the doorway.

Newmark entered the cool, dusky interior, and was shown to the left into

a dim, long room. He perched on a mahogany chair, and had time to notice

the bookcases with the white owl atop, the old piano with the yellowing

keys, the haircloth sofa and chairs, the steel engravings, and the two

oil portraits, when Orde's large figure darkened the door.

For an instant the young man, who must just have come in from the

outside sunshine, blinked into the dimness. Newmark, too, blinked back,

although he could by this time see perfectly well.

Newmark had known Orde only as a riverman. Like most Easterners, then

and now, he was unable to imagine a man in rough clothes as being

anything but essentially a rough man. The figure he saw before him

was decently and correctly dressed in what was then the proper Sunday

costume. His big figure set off the cloth to advantage, and even his

wind-reddened face seemed toned down and refined by the change in

costume and surroundings.

“Oh, it's you, Mr. Newmark!” cried Orde in his hearty way, and holding

out his hand. “I'm glad to see you. Where you been? Come on out of

there. This is the 'company place.'” Without awaiting a reply, he led

the way into the narrow hall, whence the two entered another, brighter

room, in which Grandma Orde sat, the canary singing above her head.

“Mother,” said Orde, “this is Mr. Newmark, who was with us on the drive

this spring.”

Grandma Orde laid her gold-bowed glasses and her black leather Bible on

the stand beside her.

“Mr. Newmark and I spoke at the door,” said she, extending her frail

hand with dignity. “If you were on the drive, Mr. Newmark, you must have

been one of the High Privates in this dreadful war we all read about.”

Newmark laughed and made some appropriate reply. A few moments later,

at Orde's suggestion, the two passed out a side door and back into the

remains of the old orchard.

“It's pretty nice here under the trees,” said Orde. “Sit down and light

up. Where you been for the last couple of weeks?”

“I caught Johnson's drive and went on down river with him to the lake,”

replied Newmark, thrusting the offered cigar in one corner of his mouth

and shaking his head at Orde's proffer of a light.

“You must like camp life.”

“I do not like it at all,” negatived Newmark emphatically, “but the

drive interested me. It interested me so much that I've come back to

talk to you about it.”

“Fire ahead,” acquiesced Orde.

“I'm going to ask you a few questions about yourself, and you can answer

them or not, just as you please.”

“Oh, I'm not bashful about my career,” laughed Orde.

“How old are you?” inquired Newmark abruptly.

“Thirty.”

“How long have you been doing that sort of thing--driving, I mean?”

“Off and on, about six years.”

“Why did you go into that particular sort of thing?”

Orde selected a twig and carefully threw it at a lump in the turf.

“Because there's nothing ahead of shovelling but dirt,” he replied with

a quaint grin.

“I see,” said Newmark, after a pause. “Then you think there's more

future to that sort of thing than the sort of thing the rest of your

friends go in for--law, and wholesale groceries, and banking and the

rest of it?”

“There is for me,” replied Orde simply.

“Yet you're merely river-driving on a salary at thirty.”

Orde flushed slowly, and shifted his position.

“Exactly so--Mr. District Attorney,” he said drily.

Newmark started from his absorption in his questioning and shifted his

unlighted cigar.

“Does sound like it,” he admitted; “but I'm not asking all this out of

idle curiosity. I've got a scheme in my head that I think may work out

big for us both.”

“Well,” assented Orde reservedly, “in that case--I'm foreman on this

drive because my outfit went kerplunk two years ago, and I'm making a

fresh go at it.”

“Failed?” inquired Newmark.

“Partner skedaddled,” replied Orde. “Now, if you're satisfied with my

family history, suppose you tell me what the devil you're driving at.”

He was plainly restive under the cross-examination to which he had been

subjected.

“Look here,” said Newmark, abruptly changing the subject, “you know that

rapids up river flanked by shallows, where the logs are always going

aground?”

“I do,” replied Orde, still grim.

“Well, why wouldn't it help to put a string of piers down both sides,

with booms between them to hold the logs in the deeper water?”

“It would,” said Orde.

“Why isn't it done, then?”

“Who would do it?” countered Orde, leaning back more easily in the

interest of this new discussion. “If Daly did it, for instance, then all

the rest of the drivers would get the advantage of it for nothing.”

“Get them to pay their share.”

Orde grinned. “I'd like to see you get any three men to agree to

anything on this river.”

“And a sort of dam would help at that Spruce Rapids?”

“Sure! If you improved the river for driving, she'd be easier to drive.

That goes without saying.”

“How many firms drive logs on this stream?”

“Ten,” replied Orde, without hesitation.

“How many men do they employ?”

“Driving?” asked Orde.

“Driving.”

“About five hundred; a few more or less.”

“Now suppose,” Newmark leaned forward impressively, “suppose a firm

should be organised to drive ALL the logs on the river. Suppose it

improved the river with necessary piers, dams, and all the rest of it,

so that the driving would be easier. Couldn't it drive with less than

five hundred men, and couldn't it save money on the cost of driving?”

“It might,” agreed Orde.

“You know the conditions here. If such a firm should be organised

and should offer to drive the logs for these ten firms at so much a

thousand, do you suppose it would get the business?”

“It would depend on the driving firm,” said Orde. “You see, mill men

have got to have their logs. They can't afford to take chances. It

wouldn't pay.”

“Then that's all right,” agreed Newmark, with a gleam of satisfaction

across his thin face. “Would you form a partnership with me having such

an object in view?”

Orde threw back his head and laughed with genuine amusement.

“I guess you don't realise the situation,” said he. “We'd have to have a

few little things like distributing booms, and tugs, and a lot of tools

and supplies and works of various kinds.”

“Well, we'd get them.”

It was now Orde's turn to ask questions.

“How much are you worth?” he inquired bluntly.

“About twenty thousand dollars,” replied Newmark.

“Well, if I raise very much more than twenty thousand cents, I'm lucky

just now.”

“How much capital would we have to have?” asked Newmark.

Orde thought for several minutes, twisting the petal of an old

apple-blossom between his strong, blunt fingers.

“Somewhere near seventy-five thousand dollars,” he estimated at last.

“That's easy,” cried Newmark. “We'll make a stock company--say a hundred

thousand shares. We'll keep just enough between us to control the

company--say fifty-one thousand. I'll put in my pile, and you can pay

for yours out of the earnings of the company.”

“That doesn't sound fair,” objected Orde.

“You pay interest,” explained Newmark. “Then we'll sell the rest of the

stock to raise the rest of the money.”

“If we can,” interjected Orde.

“I think we can,” asserted Newmark.

Orde fell into a brown study, occasionally throwing a twig or a particle

of earth at the offending lump in the turf. Overhead the migratory

warblers balanced right-side up or up-side down, searching busily among

the new leaves, uttering their simple calls. The air was warm and soft

and still, the sky bright. Fat hens clucked among the grasses. A feel of

Sunday was in the air.

“I must have something to live on,” said he thoughtfully at last.

“So must I,” said Newmark. “We'll have to pay ourselves salaries, of

course, but the smaller the better at first. You'll have to take charge

of the men and the work and all the rest of it--I don't know anything

about that. I'll attend to the incorporating and the routine, and I'll

try to place the stock. You'll have to see, first of all, whether you

can get contracts from the logging firms to drive the logs.”

“How can I tell what to charge them?”

“We'll have to figure that very closely. You know where these different

drives would start from, and how long each of them would take?”

“Oh, yes; I know the river pretty well.”

“Well, then we'll figure how many days' driving there is for each, and

how many men there are, and what it costs for wages, grub, tools--we'll

just have to figure as near as we can to the actual cost, and then add a

margin for profit and for interest on our investment.”

“It might work out all right,” admitted Orde.

“I'm confident it would,” asserted Newmark. “And there'd be no harm

figuring it all out, would there?”

“No,” agreed Orde, “that would be fun all right.”

At this moment Amanda appeared at the back door and waved an apron.

“Mr. Jack!” she called. “Come in to dinner.”

Newmark looked puzzled, and, as he arose, glanced surreptitiously at his

watch. Orde seemed to take the summons as one to be expected, however.

In fact, the strange hour was the usual Sunday custom in the Redding of

that day, and had to do with the late-church freedom of Amanda and her

like.

“Come in and eat with us,” invited Orde. “We'd be glad to have you.”

But Newmark declined.

“Come up to-morrow night, then, at half-past six, for supper,” Orde

urged him. “We can figure on these things a little. I'm in Daly's all

day, and hardly have time except evenings.”

To this Newmark assented. Orde walked with him down the deep-shaded

driveway with the clipped privet hedge on one side, to the iron gate

that swung open when one drove over a projecting lever. There he said

good-bye.

A moment later he entered the long dining-room, where Grandpa and

Grandma Orde were already seated. An old-fashioned service of smooth

silver and ivory-handled steel knives gave distinction to the plain

white linen. A tea-pot smothered in a “cosey” stood at Grandma Orde's

right. A sirloin roast on a noble platter awaited Grandpa Orde's knife.

Orde dropped into his place with satisfaction.

“Shut up, Cheep!” he remarked to a frantic canary hanging in the

sunshine.

“Your friend seems a nice-appearing young man,” said Grandma Orde.

“Wouldn't he stay to dinner?”

“I asked him,” replied Orde, “but he couldn't. He and I have a scheme

for making our everlasting fortunes.”

“Who is he?” asked grandma.

Orde dropped his napkin into his lap with a comical chuckle of dismay.

“Blest if I have the slightest idea, mother,” he said. “Newmark joined

us on the drive. Said he was a lawyer, and was out in the woods for his

health. He's been with us, studying and watching the work, ever since.”

IX

“I think I'll go see Jane Hubbard this evening,” Orde remarked to his

mother, as he arose from the table. This was his method of announcing

that he would not be home for supper.

Jane Hubbard lived in a low one-story house of blue granite, situated

amid a grove of oaks at the top of the hill. She was a kindly girl,

whose parents gave her free swing, and whose house, in consequence, was

popular with the younger people. Every Sunday she offered to all who

came a “Sunday-night lunch,” which consisted of cold meats, cold salad,

bread, butter, cottage cheese, jam, preserves, and the like, warmed by

a cup of excellent tea. These refreshments were served by the guests

themselves. It did not much matter how few or how many came.

On the Sunday evening in question Orde found about the usual crowd

gathered. Jane herself, tall, deliberate in movement and in speech,

kindly and thoughtful, talked in a corner with Ernest Colburn, who was

just out of college, and who worked in a bank. Mignonne Smith, a plump,

rather pretty little body with a tremendous aureole of hair like spun

golden fire, was trying to balance a croquet-ball on the end of a ruler.

The ball regularly fell off. Three young men, standing in attentive

attitudes, thereupon dove forward in an attempt to catch it before

it should hit the floor--which it generally did with a loud thump.

A collapsed chair of slender lines stacked against the wall attested

previous acrobatics. This much Orde, standing in the doorway, looked

upon quite as the usual thing. Only he missed the Incubus. Searching the

room with his eyes, he at length discovered that incoherent, desiccated,

but persistent youth VIS-A-VIS with a stranger. Orde made out the white

of her gown in the shadows, the willowy outline of her small and slender

figure, and the gracious forward bend of her head.

The company present caught sight of Orde standing in the doorway, and

suspended occupations to shout at him joyfully. He was evidently a

favourite. The strange girl in the corner turned to him a white, long

face, of which he could see only the outline and the redness of the lips

where the lamplight reached them. She leaned slightly forward and the

lips parted. Orde's muscular figure, standing square and uncompromising

in the doorway, the out-of-door freshness of his complexion, the

steadiness of his eyes laughing back a greeting, had evidently attracted

her. Or perhaps anything was a relief from the Incubus.

“So you're back at last, are you, Jack?” drawled Jane in her lazy,

good-natured way. “Come and meet Miss Bishop. Carroll, I want to present

Mr. Orde.”

Orde bowed ceremoniously into the penumbra cast by the lamp's broad

shade. The girl inclined gracefully her small head with the glossy hair.

The Incubus, his thin hands clasped on his knee, his sallow face twisted

in one of its customary wry smiles, held to the edge of his chair with

characteristic pertinacity.

“Well, Walter,” Orde addressed him genially, “are you having a good

time?”

“Yes-indeed!” replied the Incubus as though it were one word.

His chair was planted squarely to exclude all others. Orde surveyed the

situation with good-humour.

“Going to keep the other fellow from getting a chance, I see.”

“Yes-indeed!” replied the Incubus.

Orde bent over, and with great ease lifted Incubus, chair, and all, and

set him facing Mignonne Smith and the croquet-ball.

“Here, Mignonne,” said he, “I've brought you another assistant.”

He returned to the lamp, to find the girl, her dark eyes alight with

amusement, watching him intently. She held the tip of a closed fan

against her lips, which brought her head slightly forward in an attitude

as though she listened. Somehow there was about her an air of poise,

of absolute balanced repose quite different from Jane's rather awkward

statics, and in direct contrast to Mignonne's dynamics.

“Walter is a very bright man in his own line,” said Orde, swinging

forward a chair, “but he mustn't be allowed any monopolies.”

“How do you know I want him so summarily removed?” the girl asked him,

without changing either her graceful attitude of suspended motion or the

intentness of her gaze.

“Well,” argued Orde, “I got him to say all he ever says to any

girl--'Yes-indeed!'--so you couldn't have any more conversation from

him. If you want to look at him, why, there he is in plain sight.

Besides, I want to talk to you myself.”

“Do you always get what you want?” inquired the girl.

Orde laughed.

“Any one can get anything he wants, if only he wants it bad enough,” he

asserted.

The girl pondered this for a moment, and finally lowered and opened her

fan, and threw back her head in a more relaxed attitude.

“Some people,” she amended. “However, I forgive you. I will even flatter

you by saying I am glad you came. You look to have reached the age of

discretion. I venture to say that these boys' idea of a lively evening

is to throw bread about the table.”

Orde flushed a little. The last time he had supped at Jane Hubbard's,

that was exactly what they did do.

“They are young, of course,” he said, “and you and I are very old and

wise. But having a noisy, good time isn't such a great crime--or is it

where you came from?”

The girl leaned forward, a sparkle of interest in her eyes.

“Are you and I going to fight?” she demanded.

“That depends on you,” returned Orde squarely, but with perfect

good-humour.

They eyed each other a moment. Then the girl closed her fan, and leaned

forward to touch him on the arm with it.

“You are quite right not to allow me to say mean things about your

friends, and I am a nasty little snip.”

Orde bowed with sudden gravity.

“And they do throw bread,” said he.

They both laughed. She leaned back with a movement of satisfaction,

seeming to sink into the shadows.

“Now, tell me; what do you do?”

“What do I do?” asked Orde, puzzled.

“Yes. Everybody does something out West here. It's a disgrace not to do

something, isn't it?”

“Oh, my business! I'm a river-driver just now.”

“A river-driver?” she repeated, once more leaning forward. “Why, I've

just been hearing a great deal about you.”

“That so?” he inquired.

“Yes, from Mrs. Baggs.”

“Oh!” said Orde. “Then you know what a drunken, swearing, worthless lot

of bums and toughs we are, don't you?”

For the first time, in some subtle way she broke the poise of her

attitude.

“There is Hell's Half-Mile,” she reminded him.

“Oh, yes,” said Orde bitterly, “there's Hell's Half-Mile! Whose fault

is that? My rivermen's? My boys? Look here! I suppose you couldn't

understand it, if you tried a month; but suppose you were working out in

the woods nine months of the year, up early in the morning and in late

at night. Suppose you slept in rough blankets, on the ground or in

bunks, ate rough food, never saw a woman or a book, undertook work to

scare your city men up a tree and into a hole too easy, risked your life

a dozen times a week in a tangle of logs, with the big river roaring

behind just waiting to swallow you; saw nothing but woods and river,

were cold and hungry and wet, and so tired you couldn't wiggle, until

you got to feeling like the thing was never going to end, and until you

got sick of it way through in spite of the excitement and danger. And

then suppose you hit town, where there were all the things you hadn't

had--and the first thing you struck was Hell's Half-Mile. Say! you've

seen water behind a jam, haven't you? Water-power's a good thing in a

mill course, where it has wheels to turn; but behind a jam it just RIPS

things--oh, what's the use talking! A girl doesn't know what it means.

She couldn't understand.”

He broke off with an impatient gesture. She was looking at him intently,

her lips again half-parted.

“I think I begin to understand a little,” said she softly. She smiled to

herself. “But they are a hard and heartless class in spite of all their

energy and courage, aren't they?” she drew him out.

“Hard and heartless!” exploded Orde. “There's no kinder lot of men on

earth, let me tell you. Why, there isn't a man on that river who doesn't

chip in five or ten dollars when a man is hurt or killed; and that means

three or four days' hard work for him. And he may not know or like the

injured man at all! Why--”

“What's all the excitement?” drawled Jane Hubbard behind them. “Can't

you make it a to-be-continued-in-our-next? We're 'most starved.”

“Yes-indeed!” chimed in the Incubus.

The company trooped out to the dining-room where the table, spread with

all the good things, awaited them.

“Ernest, you light the candles,” drawled Jane, drifting slowly along the

table with her eye on the arrangements, “and some of you boys go get the

butter and the milk-pitcher from the ice-box.”

To Orde's relief, no one threw any bread, although the whole-hearted

fun grew boisterous enough before the close of the meal. Miss Bishop sat

directly across from him. He had small chance of conversation with her

in the hubbub that raged, but he gained full leisure to examine her

more closely in the fuller illumination. Throughout, her note was of

fineness. Her hands, as he had already noticed, were long, the fingers

tapering; her wrists were finely moulded, but slender, and running

without abrupt swelling of muscles into the long lines of her forearm;

her figure was rounded, but built on the curves of slenderness; her

piled, glossy hair was so fine that though it was full of wonderful

soft shadows denied coarser tresses, its mass hardly did justice to

its abundance. Her face, again, was long and oval, with a peculiar

transparence to the skin and a peculiar faint, healthy circulation

of the blood well below the surface, which relieved her complexion of

pallor, but did not give her a colour. The lips, on the contrary, were

satin red, and Orde was mildly surprised, after his recent talk, to find

them sensitively moulded, and with a quaint, child-like quirk at the

corners. Her eyes were rather contemplative, and so black as to resemble

spots.

In spite of her half-scornful references to “bread-throwing,” she joined

with evident pleasure in the badinage and more practical fun which

struck the note of the supper. Only Orde thought to discern even in her

more boisterous movements a graceful, courteous restraint, to catch in

the bend of her head a dainty concession to the joy of the moment,

to hear in the tones of her laughter a reservation of herself, which

nevertheless was not at all a reservation, against the others.

After the meal was finished, each had his candle to blow out, and then

all returned to the parlour, leaving the debris for the later attention

of the “hired help.”

Orde with determination made his way to Miss Bishop's side. She smiled

at him.

“You see, I am a hypocrite as well as a mean little snip,” said she. “I

threw a little bread myself.”

“Threw bread?” repeated Orde. “I didn't see you.”

“The moon is made of green cheese,” she mocked him, “and there are

countries where men's heads do grow beneath their shoulders.” She moved

gracefully away toward Jane Hubbard. “Do you Western 'business men'

never deal in figures of speech as well as figures of the other sort?”

she wafted back to him over her shoulder.

“I was very stupid,” acknowledged Orde, following her.

She stopped and faced him in the middle of the room, smiling

quizzically.

“Well?” she challenged.

“Well, what?” asked Orde, puzzled.

“I thought perhaps you wanted to ask me something.”

“Why?”

“Your following me,” she explained, the corners of her mouth smiling. “I

had turned away--”

“I just wanted to talk to you,” said Orde.

“And you always get what you want,” she repeated. “Well?” she conceded,

with a shrug of mock resignation. But the four other men here cut in

with a demand.

“Music!” they clamoured. “We want music!”

With a nod, Miss Bishop turned to the piano, sweeping aside her white

draperies as she sat. She struck a few soft chords, and then, her long

hands wandering idly and softly up and down the keys, she smiled at them

over her shoulder.

“What shall it be?” she inquired.

Some one thrust an open song-book on the rack in front of her. The

others gathered close about, leaning forward to see.

Song followed song, at first quickly, then at longer intervals. At last

the members of the chorus dropped away one by one to occupations of

their own. The girl still sat at the piano, her head thrown back idly,

her hands wandering softly in and out of melodies and modulations.

Watching her, Orde finally saw only the shimmer of her white figure, and

the white outline of her head and throat. All the rest of the room was

gray from the concentration of his gaze. At last her hands fell in her

lap. She sat looking straight ahead of her.

Orde at once arose and came to her.

“That was a wonderfully quaint and beautiful thing,” said he. “What was

it?”

She turned to him, and he saw that the mocking had gone from her eyes

and mouth, leaving them quite simple, like a child's.

“Did you like it?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Orde. He hesitated and stammered awkwardly. “It was so still

and soothing, it made me think of the river sometimes about dusk. What

was it?”

“It wasn't anything. I was improvising.”

“You made it up yourself?”

“It was myself, I suppose. I love to build myself a garden, and

wander on until I lose myself in it. I'm glad there was a river in the

garden--a nice, still, twilight river.”

She flashed up at him, her head sidewise.

“There isn't always.” She struck a crashing discord on the piano.

Every one looked up at the sudden noise of it.

“Oh, don't stop!” they cried in chorus, as though each had been

listening intently.

The girl laughed up at Orde in amusement. Somehow this flash of an

especial understanding between them to the exclusion of the others sent

a warm glow to his heart.

“I do wish you had your harp here,” said Jane Hubbard, coming indolently

forward. “You just ought to hear her play the harp,” she told the rest.

“It's just the best thing you ever DID hear!”

At this moment the outside door opened to admit Mr and Mrs. Hubbard, who

had, according to their usual Sunday custom, been spending the evening

with a neighbour. This was the signal for departure. The company began

to break up.

Orde pushed his broad shoulders in to screen Carroll Bishop from the

others.

“Are you staying here?” he asked.

She opened her eyes wide at his brusqueness.

“I'm visiting Jane,” she replied at length, with an affectation of

demureness.

“Are you going to be here long?” was Orde's next question.

“About a month.”

“I am coming to see you,” announced Orde. “Good-night.”

He took her hand, dropped it, and followed the others into the hall,

leaving her standing by the lamp. She watched him until the outer

door had closed behind him. Not once did he look back. Jane Hubbard,

returning after a moment from the hall, found her at the piano again,

her head slightly one side, playing with painful and accurate exactness

a simple one-finger melody.

Orde walked home down the hill in company with the Incubus. Neither had

anything to say; Orde because he was absorbed in thought, the Incubus

because nothing occurred to draw from him his one remark. Their feet

clipped sharply against the tar walks, or rang more hollow on the

boards. Overhead the stars twinkled through the still-bare branches of

the trees. With few exceptions the houses were dark. People “retired”

early in Redding. An occasional hall light burned dimly, awaiting some

one's return. At the gate of the Orde place, Orde roused himself to say

good-night. He let himself into the dim-lighted hall, hung up his

hat, and turned out the gas. For some time he stood in the dark,

quite motionless; then, with the accuracy of long habitude, he walked

confidently to the narrow stairs and ascended them. Subconsciously he

avoided the creaking step, but outside his mother's door he stopped,

arrested by a greeting from within.

“That you, Jack?” queried Grandma Orde.

For answer Orde pushed open the door, which stood an inch or so ajar,

and entered. A dim light from a distant street-lamp, filtered through

the branches of a tree, flickered against the ceiling. By its aid

he made out the great square bed, and divined the tiny figure of his

mother. He seated himself sidewise on the edge of the bed.

“Go to Jane's?” queried grandma in a low voice, to avoid awakening

grandpa, who slept in the adjoining room.

“Yes,” replied Orde, in the same tone.

“Who was there?”

“Oh, about the usual crowd.”

He fell into an abstracted silence, which endured for several minutes.

“Mother,” said he abruptly, at last, “I've met the girl I want for my

wife.”

Grandma Orde sat up in bed.

“Who is she?” she demanded.

“Her name is Carroll Bishop,” said Orde, “and she's visiting Jane

Hubbard.”

“Yes, but WHO is she?” insisted Grandma Orde. “Where is she from?”

Orde stared at her in the dim light.

“Why, mother,” he repeated for the second time that day, “blest if I

know that!”

X

Orde was up and out at six o'clock the following morning. By eight he

had reported for work at Daly's mill, where, with the assistance of a

portion of the river crew, he was occupied in sorting the logs in the

booms. Not until six o'clock in the evening did the whistle blow for the

shut-down. Then he hastened home, to find that Newmark had preceded him

by some few moments and was engaged in conversation with Grandma Orde.

The young man was talking easily, though rather precisely and with

brevity. He nodded to Orde and finished his remark.

After supper Orde led the way up two flights of narrow stairs to his

own room. This was among the gables, a chamber of strangely diversified

ceiling, which slanted here and there according to the demands of the

roof outside.

“Well,” said he, “I've made up my mind to-day to go in with you. It may

not work out, but it's a good chance, and I want to get in something

that looks like money. I don't know who you are, nor how much of a

business man you are or what your experience is, but I'll risk it.”

“I'm putting in twenty thousand dollars,” pointed out Newmark.

“And I'm putting in my everlasting reputation,” said Orde. “If we tell

these fellows that we'll get out their logs for them, and then don't do

it, I'll be DEAD around here.”

“So that's about a stand-off,” said Newmark. “I'm betting twenty

thousand on what I've seen and heard of you, and you're risking your

reputation that I don't want to drop my money.”

Orde laughed.

“And I reckon we're both right,” he responded.

“Still,” Newmark pursued the subject, “I've no objection to telling you

about myself. New York born and bred; experience with Cooper and Dunne,

brokers, eight years. Money from a legacy. Parents dead. No relatives to

speak to.”

Orde nodded gravely twice in acknowledgment.

“Now,” said Newmark, “have you had time to do any figuring?”

“Well,” replied Orde, “I got at it a little yesterday afternoon, and

a little this noon. I have a rough idea.” He produced a bundle of

scribbled papers from his coat-pocket. “Here you are. I take Daly as

a sample, because I've been with his outfit. It costs him to run and

deliver his logs one hundred miles about two dollars a thousand feet.

He's the only big manufacturer up here; the rest are all at Monrovia,

where they can get shipping by water. I suppose it costs the other

nine firms doing business on the river from two to two and a half a

thousand.”

Newmark produced a note-book and began to jot down figures.

“Do these men all conduct separate drives?” he inquired.

“All but Proctor and old Heinzman. They pool in together.”

“Now,” went on Newmark, “if we were to drive the whole river, how could

we improve on that?”

“Well, I haven't got it down very fine, of course,” Orde told him, “but

in the first place we wouldn't need so many men. I could run the river

on three hundred easy enough. That saves wages and grub on two hundred

right there. And, of course, a few improvements on the river would save

time, which in our case would mean money. We would not need so many

separate cook outfits and all that. Of course, that part of it we'd have

to get right down and figure on, and it will take time. Then, too, if

we agreed to sort and deliver, we'd have to build sorting booms down at

Monrovia.”

“Suppose we had all that. What, for example, do you reckon you could

bring Daly's logs down for?”

Orde fell into deep thought, from which he emerged occasionally to

scribble on the back of his memoranda.

“I suppose somewhere about a dollar,” he announced at last. He looked

up a trifle startled. “Why,” he cried, “that looks like big money! A

hundred per cent!”

Newmark watched him for a moment, a quizzical smile wrinkling the

corners of his eyes.

“Hold your horses,” said he at last. “I don't know anything about this

business, but I can see a few things. In the first place, close figuring

will probably add a few cents to that dollar. And then, of course, all

our improvements will be absolutely valueless to anybody after we've

got through using them. You said yesterday they'd probably stand us in

seventy-five thousand dollars. Even at a dollar profit, we'd have to

drive seventy-five million before we got a cent back. And, of

course, we've got to agree to drive for a little less than they could

themselves.”

“That's so,” agreed Orde, his crest falling.

“However,” said Newmark briskly, as he arose, “there's good money in it,

as you say. Now, how soon can you leave Daly?”

“By the middle of the week we ought to be through with this job.”

“That's good. Then we'll go into this matter of expense thoroughly, and

establish our schedule of rates to submit to the different firms.”

Newmark said a punctilious farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Orde.

“By the way,” said Orde to him at the gate, “where are you staying?”

“At the Grand.”

“I know most of the people here--all the young folks. I'd be glad to

take you around and get you acquainted.”

“Thank you,” replied Newmark, “you are very kind. But I don't go in much

for that sort of thing, and I expect to be very busy now on this new

matter; so I won't trouble you.”

XI

The new partners, as soon as Orde had released himself from Daly, gave

all their time to working out a schedule of tolls. Orde drew on his

intimate knowledge of the river and its tributaries, and the locations

of the different rollways, to estimate as closely as possible the time

it would take to drive them. He also hunted up Tom North and others

of the older men domiciled in the cheap boarding-houses of Hell's

Half-Mile, talked with them, and verified his own impressions. Together,

he and Newmark visited the supply houses, got prices, obtained lists.

All the evenings they figured busily, until at last Newmark expressed

himself as satisfied.

“Now, Orde,” said he, “here is where you come in. It's now your job to

go out and interview these men and get their contracts for driving their

next winter's cut.”

But Orde drew back.

“Look here, Joe,” he objected, “that's more in your line. You can talk

business to them better than I can.”

“Not a bit,” negatived Newmark. “They don't know me from Adam, and they

do know you, and all about you. We've got to carry this thing through at

first on our face, and they'd be more apt to entrust the matter to you

personally.”

“All right,” agreed Orde. “I'll start in on Daly.”

He did so the following morning. Daly swung his bulk around in his

revolving office-chair and listened attentively.

“Well, Jack,” said he, “I think you're a good riverman, and I believe

you can do it. I'd be only too glad to get rid of the nuisance of it,

let alone get it done cheaper. If you'll draw up your contract and bring

it in here, I'll sign it. I suppose you'll break out the rollways?”

“No,” said Orde; “we hadn't thought of doing more than the driving

and distributing. You'll have to deliver the logs in the river. Maybe

another year, after we get better organised, we'll be able to break

rollways--at a price per thousand--but until we get a-going we'll have

to rush her through.”

Orde repeated this to his associate.

“That was smooth enough sailing,” he exulted.

“Yes,” pondered Newmark, removing his glasses and tapping his thumb with

their edge. “Yes,” he repeated, “that was smooth sailing. What was that

about rollways?”

“Oh, I told him we'd expect him to break out his own,” said Orde.

“Yes, but what does that mean exactly?”

“Why,” explained Orde, with a slight stare of surprise, “when the

logs are cut and hauled during the winter, they are banked on the

river-banks, and even in the river-channel itself. Then, when the thaws

come in the spring, these piles are broken down and set afloat in the

river.”

“I see,” said Newmark. “Well, but why shouldn't we undertake that part

of it? I should think that would be more the job of the river-drivers.”

“It would hold back our drive too much to have to stop and break

rollways,” explained Orde.

The next morning they took the early train for Monrovia, where were

situated the big mills and the offices of the nine other lumber

companies. Within an hour they had descended at the small frame terminal

station, and were walking together up the village street.

Monrovia was at that time a very spread-out little place of perhaps two

thousand population. It was situated a half mile from Lake Michigan,

behind the sparsely wooded sand hills of its shore. From the river,

which had here grown to a great depth and width, its main street ran

directly at right angles. Four brick blocks of three stories lent

impressiveness to the vista. The stores in general, however, were low

frame structures. All faced broad plank sidewalks raised above the

street to the level of a waggon body. From this main street ran off,

to right and left, other streets, rendered lovely by maple trees that

fairly met across the way. In summer, over sidewalk and roadway alike

rested a dense, refreshing dark shadow that seemed to throw from itself

an odour of coolness. This was rendered further attractive by the

warm spicy odour of damp pine that arose from the resilient surface of

sawdust and shingles broken beneath the wheels of traffic. Back

from these trees, in wide, well-cultivated lawns, stood the better

residences. They were almost invariably built of many corners, with

steep roofs meeting each other at all angles, with wide and ornamented

red chimneys, numerous windows, and much scroll work adorning each apex

and cornice. The ridge poles bristled in fancy foot-high palisades of

wood. Chimneys were provided with lightning-rods. Occasionally an

older structure, on square lines, recorded the era of a more dignified

architecture. Everywhere ran broad sidewalks and picket fences. Beyond

the better residence districts were the board shanties of the mill

workers.

Orde and Newmark tramped up the plank walk to the farthest brick

building. When they came to a cross street, they had to descend to it

by a short flight of steps on one side, and ascend from it by a

corresponding flight on the other. At the hotel, Newmark seated himself

in a rocking-chair next the big window.

“Good luck!” said he.

Orde mounted a wide, dark flight of stairs that led from the street to a

darker hall. The smell of stale cigars and cocoa matting was in the

air. Down the dim length of this hall he made his way to a door, which

without ceremony he pushed open.

He found himself in a railed-off space, separated from the main part of

the room by a high walnut grill.

“Mr. Heinzman in?” he asked of a clerk.

“I think so,” replied the clerk, to whom evidently Orde was known.

Orde spent the rest of the morning with Heinzman, a very rotund,

cautious person of German extraction and accent. Heinzman occupied

the time in asking questions of all sorts about the new enterprise. At

twelve he had not in any way committed himself nor expressed an opinion.

He, however, instructed Orde to return the afternoon of the following

day.

“I vill see Proctor,” said he.

Orde, rather exhausted, returned to find Newmark still sitting in the

rocking-chair with his unlighted cigar. The two had lunch together,

after which Orde, somewhat refreshed, started out. He succeeded in

getting two more promises of contracts and two more deferred interviews.

“That's going a little faster,” he told Newmark cheerfully.

The following morning, also, he was much encouraged by the reception

his plan gained from the other lumbermen. At lunch he recapitulated to

Newmark.

“That's four contracts already,” said he, “and three more practically

a sure thing. Proctor and Heinzman are slower than molasses about

everything, and mean as pusley, and Johnson's up in the air, the way he

always is, for fear some one's going to do him.”

“It isn't a bad outlook,” admitted Newmark.

But Heinzman offered a new problem for Orde's consideration.

“I haf talked with Proctor,” said he, “and ve like your scheme. If you

can deliffer our logs here for two dollars and a quarter, why, that is

better as ve can do it; but how do ve know you vill do it?”

“I'll guarantee to get them here all right,” laughed Orde.

“But what is your guarantee good for?” persisted Heinzman blandly,

locking his fingers over his rotund little stomach. “Suppose the logs

are not deliffered--what then? How responsible are you financially?”

“Well, we're investing seventy-five thousand dollars or so.”

Heinzman rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and wafted the

imaginary pulverisation away.

“Worth that for a judgment,” said he.

He allowed a pause to ensue.

“If you vill give a bond for the performance of your contract,” pursued

Heinzman, “that vould be satisfactory.”

Orde's mind was struck chaotic by the reasonableness of this request,

and the utter impossibility of acceding to it.

“How much of a bond?” he asked.

“Twenty-fife thousand vould satisfy us,” said Heinzman. “Bring us a

suitable bond for that amount and ve vill sign your contract.”

Orde ran down the stairs to find Newmark. “Heinzman won't sign unless we

give him a bond for performance,” he said in a low tone, as he dropped

into the chair next to Newmark.

Newmark removed his unlighted cigar, looked at the chewed end, and

returned it to the corner of his mouth.

“Heinzman has sense,” said he drily. “I was wondering if ordinary

business caution was unknown out here.”

“Can we get such a bond? Nobody would go on my bond for that amount.”

“Mine either,” said Newmark. “We'll just have to let them go and drive

ahead without them. I only hope they won't spread the idea. Better get

those other contracts signed up as soon as we can.”

With this object in view, Orde started out early the next morning,

carrying with him the duplicate contracts on which Newmark had been

busy.

“Rope 'em in,” advised Newmark. “It's Saturday, and we don't want to let

things simmer over Sunday, if we can help it.”

About eleven o'clock a clerk of the Welton Lumber Co. entered Mr.

Welton's private office to deliver to Orde a note.

“This just came by special messenger,” he explained.

Orde, with an apology, tore it open. It was from Heinzman, and requested

an immediate interview. Orde delayed only long enough to get Mr.

Welton's signature, then hastened as fast as his horse could take him

across the drawbridge to the village.

Heinzman he found awaiting him. The little German, with his round, rosy

cheeks, his dot of a nose, his big spectacles, and his rotund body,

looked even more than usual like a spider or a Santa Clause--Orde could

not decide which.

“I haf been thinking of that bond,” he began, waving a pudgy hand toward

a seat, “and I haf been talking with Proctor.”

“Yes,” said Orde hopefully.

“I suppose you would not be prepared to gif a bond?”

“I hardly think so.”

“Vell, suppose ve fix him this way,” went on Heinzman, clasping his

hands over his stomach and beaming through his spectacles. “Proctor and

I haf talked it ofer, and ve are agreet that the probosition is a good

one. Also ve think it is vell to help the young fellers along.” He

laughed silently in such a manner as to shake himself all over. “Ve do

not vish to be too severe, and yet ve must be assured that ve get our

logs on time. Now, I unterstood you to say that this new concern is a

stock company.”

Orde did not remember having said so, but he nodded.

“Vell, if you gif us a bond secured with stock in the new company, that

would be satisfactory to us.”

Orde's face cleared.

“Do you mean that, Mr. Heinzman?”

“Sure. Ve must haf some security, but ve do not vish to be too hard on

you boys.”

“Now, I call that a mighty good way out!” cried Orde.

“Make your contract out according to these terms, then,” said Heinzman,

handing him a paper, “and bring it in Monday.”

Orde glanced over the slip. It recited two and a quarter as the agreed

price; specified the date of delivery at Heinzman and Proctor's booms;

named twenty-five thousand dollars as the amount of the bond, to be

secured by fifty thousand dollars' worth of stock in the new company.

This looked satisfactory. Orde arose.

“I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Heinzman,” said he. “I'll bring it around

Monday.”

He had reached the gate to the grill before Heinzman called him back.

“By the vay,” the little German beamed up at him, swinging his fat legs

as the office-chair tipped back on its springs, “if it is to be a stock

company, you vill be selling some of the stock to raise money, is it not

so?”

“Yes,” agreed Orde, “I expect so.”

“How much vill you capitalise for?”

“We expect a hundred thousand ought to do the trick,” replied Orde.

“Vell,” said Heinzman, “ven you put it on the market, come and see me.”

He nodded paternally at Orde, beaming through his thick spectacles.

That evening, well after six, Orde returned to the hotel. After

freshening up in the marbled and boarded washroom, he hunted up Newmark.

“Well, Joe,” said he, “I'm as hungry as a bear. Come on, eat, and I'll

tell you all about it.”

They deposited their hats on the racks and pushed open the swinging

screen doors that led into the dining-room. There they were taken

in charge by a marvellously haughty and redundant head-waitress, who

signalled them to follow down through ranks of small tables watched

by more stately damsels. Newmark, reserved and precise, irreproachably

correct in his neat gray, seemed enveloped in an aloofness as

impenetrable as that of the head-waitress herself. Orde, however, was as

breezy as ever. He hastened his stride to overtake the head-waitress.

“Annie, be good!” he said in his jolly way. “We've got business to talk.

Put us somewhere alone.”

Newmark nodded approval, and thrust his hand in his pocket. But Annie

looked up into Orde's frank, laughing face, and her lips curved ever so

faintly in the condescension of a smile.

“Sure, sorr,” said she, in a most unexpected brogue.

“Well, I've got 'em all,” said Orde, as soon as the waitress had gone

with the order. “But the best stroke of business you'd never guess. I

roped in Heinzman.”

“Good!” approved Newmark briefly.

“It was really pretty decent of the little Dutchman. He agreed to let us

put up our stock as security. Of course, that security is good only if

we win out; and if we win out, why, then he'll get his logs, so he won't

have any use for security. So it's just one way of beating the devil

around the bush. He evidently wanted to give us the business, but

he hated like the devil to pass up his rules--you know how those old

shellbacks are.”

“H'm, yes,” said Newmark.

The waitress sailed in through a violently kicked swinging door, bearing

aloft a tin tray heaped perilously. She slanted around a corner in

graceful opposition to the centrifugal, brought the tray to port on a

sort of landing stage by a pillar, and began energetically to distribute

small “iron-ware” dishes, each containing a dab of something. When the

clash of arrival had died, Orde went on:

“I got into your department a little, too.”

“How's that?” asked Newmark, spearing a baked potato. “Heinzman said

he'd buy some of our stock. He seems to think we have a pretty good

show.”

Newmark paused, his potato half-way to his plate.

“Kind of him,” said he after a moment. “Did he sign a contract?”

“It wasn't made out,” Orde reminded him. “I've the memoranda here. We'll

make it out to-night. I am to bring it in Monday.”

“I see we're hung up here over Sunday,” observed Newmark. “No Sunday

trains to Redding.”

Orde became grave.

“I know it. I tried to hurry matters to catch the six o'clock, but

couldn't make it.” His round, jolly face fell sombre, as though a light

within had been extinguished. After a moment the light returned. “Can't

be helped,” said he philosophically.

They ate hungrily, then drifted out into the office again, where Orde

lit a cigar.

“Now, let's see your memoranda,” said Newmark.

He frowned over the three simple items for some time.

“It's got me,” he confessed at last.

“What?” inquired Orde.

“What Heinzman is up to.”

“What do you mean?” asked Orde, turning in his chair with an air of slow

surprise.

“It all looks queer to me. He's got something up his sleeve. Why should

he take a bond with that security from us? If we can't deliver the logs,

our company fails; that makes the stock worthless; that makes the bond

worthless--just when it is needed. Of course, it's as plain as the nose

on your face that he thinks the proposition a good one and is trying to

get control.”

“Oh, no!” cried Orde, astounded.

“Orde, you're all right on the river,” said Newmark, with a dry little

laugh, “but you're a babe in the woods at this game.”

“But Heinzman is honest,” cried Orde. “Why, he is a church member, and

has a class in Sunday-school.”

Newmark selected a cigar from his case, examined it from end to end,

finally put it between his lips. The corners of his mouth were twitching

quietly with amusement.

“Besides, he is going to buy some stock,” added Orde, after a moment.

“Heinzman has not the slightest intention of buying a dollar's worth of

stock,” asserted Newmark.

“But why--”

“--Did he make that bluff?” finished Newmark. “Because he wanted to find

out how much stock would be issued. You told him it would be a hundred

thousand dollars, didn't you?”

“Why--yes, I believe I did,” said Orde, pondering. Newmark threw back

his head and laughed noiselessly.

“So now he knows that if we forfeit the bond he'll have controlling

interest,” he pointed out.

Orde smoked rapidly, his brow troubled.

“But what I can't make out,” reflected Newmark, “is why he's so sure

we'll have to forfeit.”

“I think he's just taking a long shot at it,” suggested Orde, who seemed

finally to have decided against Newmark's opinion. “I believe you're

shying at mare's nests.”

“Not he. He has some good reason for thinking we won't deliver the logs.

Why does he insist on putting in a date for delivery? None of the others

does.”

“I don't know,” replied Orde. “Just to put some sort of a time limit on

the thing, I suppose.”

“You say you surely can get the drive through by then?”

Orde laughed.

“Sure? Why, it gives me two weeks' leeway over the worst possible luck I

could have. You're too almighty suspicious, Joe.”

Newmark shook his head.

“You let me figure this out,” said he.

But bedtime found him without a solution. He retired to his room under

fire of Orde's good-natured raillery. Orde himself shut his door, the

smile still on his lips. As he began removing his coat, however, the

smile died. The week had been a busy one. Hardly had he exchanged a

dozen words with his parents, for he had even been forced to eat his

dinner and supper away from home. This Sunday he had promised himself to

make his deferred but much-desired call on Jane Hubbard--and her guest.

He turned out the gas with a shrug of resignation. For the first

time his brain cleared of its turmoil of calculations, of guesses, of

estimates, and of men. He saw clearly the limited illumination cast

downward by the lamp beneath its wide shade, the graceful, white figure

against the shadow of the easy chair, the oval face cut in half by the

lamplight to show plainly the red lips with the quaint upward quirks at

the corners, and dimly the inscrutable eyes and the hair with the soft

shadows. With a sigh he fell asleep.

Some time in the night he was awakened by a persistent tapping on the

door. In the woodsman's manner, he was instantly broad awake. He lit

the gas and opened the door to admit Newmark, partially dressed over his

night gown.

“Orde,” said he briefly and without preliminary, “didn't you tell me the

other day that rollways were piled both on the banks and IN the river?”

“Yes, sometimes,” said Orde. “Why?

“Then they might obstruct the river?”

“Certainly.”

“I thought so!” cried Newmark, with as near an approach to exultation as

he ever permitted himself. “Now, just one other thing: aren't Heinzman's

rollways below most of the others?”

“Yes, I believe they are,” said Orde.

“And, of course, it was agreed, as usual, that Heinzman was to break out

his own rollways?”

“I see,” said Orde slowly. “You think he intends to delay things enough

so we can't deliver on the date agreed on.”

“I know it,” stated Newmark positively.

“But if he refuses to deliver the logs, no court of law will--”

“Law!” cried Newmark. “Refuse to deliver! You don't know that kind. He

won't refuse to deliver. There'll just be a lot of inevitable delays,

and his foreman will misunderstand, and all that. You ought to know more

about that than I do.”

Orde nodded, his eye abstracted.

“It's a child-like scheme,” commented Newmark. “If I'd had more

knowledge of the business, I'd have seen it sooner.”

“I'd never have seen it at all,” said Orde humbly. “You seem to be the

valuable member of this firm, Joe.”

“In my way,” said Newmark, “you in yours. We ought to make a good team.”

XII

Sunday afternoon, Orde, leaving Newmark to devices of his own, walked

slowly up the main street, turned to the right down one of the shaded

side residence streets that ended finally in a beautiful glistening

sand-hill. Up this he toiled slowly, starting at every step avalanches

and streams down the slope. Shortly he found himself on the summit, and

paused for a breath of air from the lake.

He was just above the tops of the maples, which seen from this angle

stretched away like a forest through which occasionally thrust roofs and

spires. Some distance beyond a number of taller buildings and the red

of bricks were visible. Beyond them still were other sand-hills, planted

raggedly with wind-twisted and stunted trees. But between the brick

buildings and these sand-hills flowed the river--wide, deep, and

still--bordered by the steamboat landings on the town side and by

fishermen's huts and net-racks and small boats on the other. Orde seated

himself on the smooth, clean sand and removed his hat. He saw these

things, and in imagination the far upper stretches of the river, with

the mills and yards and booms extending for miles; and still above them

the marshes and the flats where the river widened below the Big Bend.

That would be the location for the booms of the new company--a cheap

property on which the partners had already secured a valuation. And

below he dropped in imagination with the slackening current until

between two greater sand-hills than the rest the river ran out through

the channel made by two long piers to the lake--blue, restless,

immeasurable. To right and left stretched the long Michigan coast, with

its low yellow hills topped with the green of twisted pines, firs, and

beeches, with always its beach of sand, deep and dry to the very edge of

its tideless sea, strewn with sawlogs, bark, and the ancient remains of

ships.

After he had cooled he arose and made his way back to a pleasant

hardwood forest of maple and beech. Here the leaves were just bursting

from their buds. Underfoot the early spring flowers--the hepaticas,

the anemones, the trilium, the dog-tooth violets, the quaint, early,

bright-green undergrowths--were just reaching their perfection.

Migration was in full tide. Birds, little and big, flashed into view and

out again, busy in the mystery of their northward pilgrimage, giving

the appearance of secret and silent furtiveness, yet each uttering his

characteristic call from time to time, as though for a signal to others

of the host. The woods were swarming as city streets, yet to Orde these

little creatures were as though invisible. He stood in the middle of a

great multitude, he felt himself under the observation of many bright

eyes, he heard the murmuring and twittering that proclaimed a throng,

he sensed an onward movement that flowed slowly but steadily toward the

pole; nevertheless, a flash of wings, a fluttering little body, the dip

of a hasty short flight, represented the visible tokens. Across the pale

silver sun of April their shadows flickered, and with them flickered the

tracery of new leaves and the delicacy of the lace-like upper branches.

Orde walked slowly farther and farther into the forest, lost in an

enjoyment which he could not have defined accurately, but which was so

integral a portion of his nature that it had drawn him from the banks

and wholesale groceries to the woods. After a while he sat down on a

log and lit his pipe. Ahead the ground sloped upward. Dimly through the

half-fronds of the early season he could make out the yellow of sands

and the deep complementary blue of the sky above them. He knew the Lake

to lie just beyond. With the thought he arose. A few moments later he

stood on top the hill, gazing out over the blue waters.

Very blue they were, with a contrasting snowy white fringe of waves

breaking gently as far up the coast as the eye could reach. The beach,

on these tideless waters, was hard and smooth only in the narrow strip

over which ran the wash of the low surf. All the rest of the expanse of

sand back to the cliff-like hills lay dry and tumbled into hummocks and

drifts, from which projected here a sawlog cast inland from a raft by

some long-past storm, there a slab, again a ship's rib sticking gaunt

and defiant from the shifting, restless medium that would smother it.

And just beyond the edge of the hard sand, following the long curves of

the wash, lay a dark, narrow line of bark fragments.

The air was very clear and crystalline. The light-houses on the ends of

the twin piers, though some miles distant, seemed close at hand. White

herring gulls, cruising against the blue, flashed white as the sails of

a distant ship. A fresh breeze darkened the blue velvet surface of the

water, tumbled the white foam hissing up the beach, blew forward over

the dunes a fine hurrying mist of sand, and bore to Orde at last the

refreshment of the wide spaces. A woman, walking slowly, bent her head

against the force of this wind.

Orde watched her idly. She held to the better footing of the smooth

sand, which made it necessary that she retreat often before the

inrushing wash, sometimes rather hastily. Orde caught himself admiring

the grace of her deft and sudden movements, and the sway of her willowy

figure. Every few moments she turned and faced the lake, her head thrown

back, the wind whipping her garments about her.

As she drew nearer, Orde tried in vain to catch sight of her face. She

looked down, watching the waters advance and recede; she wore a brimmed

hat bent around her head by means of some sort of veil tied over the

top and beneath her chin. When she had arrived nearly opposite Orde she

turned abruptly inland, and a moment later began laboriously to climb

the steep sand.

The process seemed to amuse her. She turned her head sidewise to watch

with interest the hurrying, tumbling little cascades that slid from her

every step. From time to time she would raise her skirts daintily with

the tips of her fingers, and lean far over in order to observe with

interest how her feet sank to the ankles, and how the sand rushed from

either side to fill in the depressions. The wind carried up to Orde low,

joyous chuckles of delight, like those of a happy child.

As though directed by some unseen guide, her course veered more and more

until it led directly to the spot where Orde stood. When she was within

ten feet of him she at last raised her head so the young man could see

something besides the top of her hat. Orde looked plump into her eyes.

“Hullo!” she said cheerfully and unsurprised, and sank down cross-legged

at his feet.

Orde stood quite motionless, overcome by astonishment. Her face, its

long oval framed in the bands of the gray veil and the down-turned brim

of the hat, looked up smiling into his. The fresh air had deepened the

colour beneath her skin and had blown loose stray locks of the fine

shadow-filled hair. Her red lips, with the quaintly up-turned corners,

smiled at him with a new frankness, and the black eyes--the eyes so

black as to resemble spots--had lost their half-indolent reserve and

brimmed over quite frankly with the joy of life. She scooped up a

handful of the dry, clean sand from either side of her, raised it aloft,

and let it trickle slowly between her fingers. The wind snatched at the

sand and sprayed it away in a beautiful plume.

“Isn't this REAL fun?” she asked him.

“Why, Miss Bishop!” cried Orde, finding his voice. “What are you doing

here?”

A faint shade of annoyance crossed her brow.

“Oh, I could ask the same of you; and then we'd talk about how surprised

we are, world without end,” said she. “The important thing is that here

is sand to play in, and there is the Lake, and here are we, and the day

is charmed, and it's good to be alive. Sit down and dig a hole! We've

all the common days to explain things in.”

Orde laughed and seated himself to face her. Without further talk, and

quite gravely, they commenced to scoop out an excavation between

them, piling the sand over themselves and on either side as was most

convenient. As the hole grew deeper they had to lean over more and more.

Their heads sometimes brushed ever so lightly, their hands perforce

touched. Always the dry sand flowed from the edges partially to fill in

the result their efforts. Faster and faster they scooped it out again.

The excavation thus took on the shape of a funnel. Her cheeks glowed

pink, her eyes shone like stars. Entirely was she absorbed in the task.

At last a tiny commotion manifested itself in the bottom of the funnel.

Impulsively she laid her hand on Orde's, to stop them. Fascinated,

they watched. After incredible though lilliputian upheavals, at

length appeared a tiny black insect, struggling against the rolling,

overwhelming sands. With great care the girl scooped this newcomer

out and set him on the level ground. She looked up happily at Orde,

thrusting the loose hair from in front of her eyes.

“I was convinced we ought to dig a hole,” said she gravely. “Now, let's

go somewhere else.”

She arose to her feet, shaking the sand free from her skirts.

“I think, through these woods,” she decided. “Can we get back to town

this way?”

Receiving Orde's assurance, she turned at once down the slope through

the fringe of scrub spruces and junipers into the tall woods. Here the

air fell still. She remarked on how warm it seemed, and began to untie

from over her ears the narrow band of veil that held close her hat.

“Yes,” replied Orde. “The lumber-jacks say that the woods are the poor

man's overcoat.”

She paused to savour this, her head on one side, her arms upraised to

the knot.

“Oh, I like that!” said she, continuing her task. In a moment or so the

veil hung free. She removed it and the hat, and swung them both from one

finger, and threw back her head.

“Hear all the birds!” she said.

Softly she began to utter a cheeping noise between her lips and teeth,

low and plaintive. At once the volume of bird-sounds about increased;

the half-seen flashes became more frequent. A second later the twigs

were alive with tiny warblers and creepers, flirting from branch to

branch, with larger, more circumspect chewinks, catbirds, and finches

hopping down from above, very silent, very grave. In the depths of the

thickets the shyer hermit and olive thrushes and the oven birds revealed

themselves ghost-like, or as sea-growths lift into a half visibility

through translucent shadows the colour of themselves. All were very

intent, very earnest, very interested, each after his own manner, in the

comradeship of the featherhood he imagined to be uttering distressful

cries. A few, like the chickadees, quivered their wings, opened their

little mouths, fluttered down tiny but aggressive against the disaster.

Others hopped here and there restlessly, uttering plaintive, low-toned

cheeps. The shyest contented themselves by a discreet, silent, and

distant sympathy. Three or four freebooting Jays, attracted not so much

by the supposed calls for help as by curiosity, fluttered among the tops

of the trees, uttering their harsh notes.

Finally, the girl ended her performance in a musical laugh.

“Run away, Brighteyes,” she called. “It's all right; nobody's damaged.”

She waved her hand. As though at a signal, the host she had evoked

melted back into the shadows of the forest. Only the chickadee, impudent

as ever, retreated scolding rather ostentatiously, and the jays,

splendid in their ornate blue, screamed opinions at each other from the

tops of trees.

“How would you like to be a bird?” she inquired.

“Hadn't thought,” replied Orde.

“Don't you ever indulge in vain and idle speculations?” she inquired.

“Never mind, don't answer. It's too much to expect of a man.”

She set herself in idle motion down the slope, swinging the hat at the

end of its veil, pausing to look or listen, humming a little melody

between her closed lips, throwing her head back to breathe deep the warm

air, revelling in the woods sounds and woods odours and woods life with

entire self-abandonment. Orde followed her in silence. She seemed to

be quite without responsibility in regard to him; and yet an occasional

random remark thrown in his direction proved that he was not forgotten.

Finally they emerged from the beach woods.

They faced an open rolling country. As far as the eye could reach were

the old stumps of pine trees. Sometimes they stood in place, burned and

scarred, but attesting mutely the abiding place of a spirit long since

passed away. Sometimes they had been uprooted and dragged to mark the

boundaries of fields, where they raised an abatis of twisted roots to

the sky.

The girl stopped short as she came face to face with this open country.

The inner uplift, that had lent to her aspect the wide-eyed, careless

joy of a child, faded. In its place came a new and serious gravity. She

turned on him troubled eyes.

“You do this,” she accused him quite simply.

For answer he motioned to the left where below them lay a wide and

cultivated countryside--farmhouses surrounded by elms; compact wood lots

of hardwood; crops and orchards, all fair and pleasant across the bosom

of a fertile nature.

“And this,” said he. “That valley was once nothing but a pine

forest--and so was all the southern part of the State, the peach belt

and the farms. And for that matter Indiana, too, and all the other

forest States right out to the prairies. Where would we be now, if we

HADN'T done that?” he pointed across at the stump-covered hills.

Mischief had driven out the gravity from the girl's eyes. She had

lowered her head slightly sidewise as though to conceal their expression

from him.

“I was beginning to be afraid you'd say 'yes-indeed,'” said she.

Orde looked bewildered, then remembered the Incubus, and laughed.

“I haven't been very conversational,” he acknowledged.

“Certainly NOT!” she said severely. “That would have been very

disappointing. There has been nothing to say.” She turned and waved her

hat at the beech woods falling sombre against the lowering sun.

“Good-bye,” she said gravely, “and pleasant dreams to you. I hope those

very saucy little birds won't keep you awake.” She looked up at Orde.

“He was rather nice to us this afternoon,” she explained, “and it's

always well to be polite to them anyway.” She gazed steadily at Orde for

signs of amusement. He resolutely held his face sympathetic.

“Now I think we'll go home,” said she.

They made their way between the stumps to the edge of the sand-hill

overlooking the village. With one accord they stopped. The low-slanting

sun cast across the vista a sleepy light of evening.

“How would you like to live in a place like that all your life?” asked

Orde.

“I don't know.” She weighed her words carefully. “It would depend. The

place isn't of so much importance, it seems to me. It's the life one is

called to. It's whether one finds her soul's realm or not that a place

is liveable or not. I can imagine entering my kingdom at a railway

water-tank,” she said quaintly, “or missing it entirely in a big city.”

Orde looked out over the raw little village with a new interest.

“Of course I can see how a man's work can lie in a small place,” said

he; “but a woman is different.”

“Why is a woman different?” she challenged. “What is her 'work,' as you

call it; and why shouldn't it, as well as a man's, lie in a small place?

What is work--outside of drudgery--unless it is correspondence of one's

abilities to one's task?”

“But the compensations--” began Orde vaguely.

“Compensations?” she cried. “What do you mean? Here are the woods and

fields, the river, the lake, the birds, and the breezes. We'll check

them off against the theatre and balls. Books can be had here as well

as anywhere. As to people: in a large city you meet a great many,

and they're all busy, and unless you make an especial and particular

effort--which you're not likely to--you'll see them only casually and

once in a great while. In a small place you know fewer people; but you

know them intimately.” She broke off with a half-laugh. “I'm from New

York,” she stated humorously, “and you've magicked me into an eloquent

defense of Podunk!” She laughed up at Orde quite frankly. “Giant

Strides!” she challenged suddenly. She turned off the edge of the

sand-hill, and began to plunge down its slope, leaning far back, her

arms extended, increasing as much as possible the length of each step.

Orde followed at full speed. When the bottom was reached, he steadied

her to a halt. She shook herself, straightened her hat, and wound the

veil around it. Her whole aspect seemed to have changed with the descent

into the conventionality of the village street. The old, gentle though

capable and self-contained reserve had returned. She moved beside Orde

with dignity.

“I came down with Jane and Mrs. Hubbard to see Mr. Hubbard off on the

boat for Milwaukee last night,” she told him. “Of course we had to wait

over Sunday. Mrs. Hubbard and Jane had to see some relative or other;

but I preferred to take a walk.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Orde.

“At the Bennetts'. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes,” replied Orde.

They said little more until the Bennetts' gate was reached. Orde

declined to come in.

“Good-night,” she said. “I want to thank you. You did not once act as

though you thought I was silly or crazy. And you didn't try, as all the

rest of them would, to act silly too. You couldn't have done it; and

you didn't try. Oh, you may have felt it--I know!” She smiled one of her

quaint and quizzical smiles. “But men aren't built for foolishness. They

have to leave that to us. You've been very nice this afternoon; and it's

helped a lot. I'm good for quite a long stretch now. Good-night.”

She nodded to him and left him tongue-tied by the gate.

Orde, however, walked back to the hotel in a black rage with himself

over what he termed his imbecility. As he remembered it, he had made

just one consecutive speech that afternoon.

“Joe,” said he to Newmark, at the hotel office, “what's the plural form

of Incubus? I dimly remember it isn't 'busses.'”

“Incubi,” answered Newmark.

“Thanks,” said Orde gloomily.

XIII

“I have Heinzman's contract all drawn,” said Newmark the next morning,

“and I think I'll go around with you to the office.”

At the appointed time they found the little German awaiting them, a

rotund smile of false good-nature illuminating his rosy face. Orde

introduced his partner. Newmark immediately took charge of the

interview.

“I have executed here the contract, and the bonds secured by Mr. Orde's

and my shares of stock in the new company,” he explained. “It is

only necessary that you affix your signature and summon the required

witnesses.”

Heinzman reached his hands for the papers, beaming over his glasses at

the two young men.

As he read, however, his smile vanished, and he looked up sharply.

“Vat is this?” he inquired, a new crispness in his voice. “You tolt me,”

he accused Orde, “dot you were not brepared to break out the rollways.

You tolt me you would egspect me to do that for myself.”

“Certainly,” agreed Orde.

“Vell, why do you put in this?” demanded Heinzman, reading from the

paper in his hand. “'In case said rollways belonging to said parties

of the second part are not broken out by the time the drive has reached

them, and in case on demand said parties of the second part do refuse

or do not exercise due diligence in breaking out said rollways, the said

parties of the first part shall themselves break out said rollways, and

the said parties of the second part do hereby agree to reimburse said

parties of the first part at the rate of a dollar per thousand board

feet.'”

“That is merely to protect ourselves,” struck in Newmark.

“But,” exploded Heinzman, his face purpling, “a dollar a tousand is

absurd!”

“Of course it is,” agreed Newmark. “We expect it to be. But also we

expect you to break out your own rollways in time. It is intended as a

penalty in case you don't.”

“I vill not stand for such foolishness,” pounded Heinzman on the arm of

his chair.

“Very well,” said Newmark crisply, reaching for the contract.

But Heinzman clung to it.

“It is absurd,” he repeated in a milder tone. “See, I vill strike it

out.” He did so with a few dashes of the pen.

“We have no intention,” stated Newmark with decision, “of giving you the

chance to hang up our drive.”

Heinzman caught his breath like a child about to cry out.

“So that is what you think!” he shouted at them. “That's the sort of

men you think we are! I'll show you you cannot come into honest men's

offices to insoolt them by such insinuations!” He tore the contract in

pieces and threw it in the waste basket. “Get oudt of here!” he cried.

Newmark arose as dry and precise as ever. Orde was going red and white

by turns, and his hands twitched.

“Then I understand you to refuse our offer?” asked Newmark coolly.

“Refuse! Yes! You and your whole kapoodle!” yelled Heinzman.

He hopped down and followed them to the grill door, repeating over and

over that he had been insulted. The clerks stared in amazement.

Once at the foot of the dark stairs and in the open street, Orde looked

up at the sky with a deep breath of relief.

“Whew!” said he, “that was a terror! We've gone off the wrong foot that

time.”

Newmark looked at him with some amusement.

“You don't mean to say that fooled you!” he marvelled.

“What?” asked Orde.

“All that talk about insults, and the rest of the rubbish. He saw we

had spotted his little scheme; and he had to retreat somehow. It was as

plain as the nose on your face.”

“You think so?” doubted Orde.

“I know so. If he was mad at all, it was only at being found out.”

“Maybe,” said Orde.

“We've got an enemy on our hands in any case,” concluded Newmark, “and

one we'll have to look out for, I don't know how he'll do it; but he'll

try to make trouble on the river. Perhaps he'll try to block the stream

by not breaking his rollways.”

“One of the first things we'll do will be to boom through a channel

where Mr. Man's rollways will be,” said Orde.

A faint gleam of approval lit Newmark's eyes.

“I guess you'll be equal to the occasion,” said he drily.

Before the afternoon train, there remained four hours. The partners at

once hunted out the little one-story frame building near the river in

which Johnson conducted his business.

Johnson received them with an evident reserve of suspicion.

“I see no use in it,” said he, passing his hand over his hair “slicked”

down in the lumber-jack fashion. “I can run me own widout help from any

man.”

“Which seems to settle that!” said Newmark to Orde after they had left.

“Oh, well, his drive is small; and he's behind us,” Orde pointed out.

“True,” said Newmark thoughtfully.

“Now,” said Newmark, as they trudged back to their hotel to get

lunch and their hand-bags. “I'll get to work at my part of it. This

proposition of Heinzman's has given me an idea. I'm not going to try to

sell this stock outside, but to the men who own timber along the river.

Then they won't be objecting to the tolls; for if the company makes any

profits, part will go to them.”

“Good idea!” cried Orde.

“I'll take these contracts, to show we can do the business.”

“All correct.”

“And I'll see about incorporation. Also I'll look about and get a proper

office and equipments, and get hold of a book-keeper. Of course we'll

have to make this our headquarters.”

“I suppose so,” said Orde a little blankly. After an instant he laughed.

“Do you know, I hadn't thought of that? We'll have to live here, won't

we?”

“Also,” went on Newmark calmly, “I'll buy the supplies to the best

advantage I can, and see that they get here in good shape. I have our

preliminary lists, and as fast as you think you need anything, send a

requisition in to me, and I'll see to it.”

“And I?” inquired Orde.

“You'll get right at the construction. Get the booms built and improve

the river where it needs it. Begin to get your crew--I'm not going to

tell you how; you know better than I do. Only get everything in shape

for next spring's drive. You can start right off. We have my money to

begin on.”

Orde laughed and stretched his arms over his head.

“My! She's a nice big job, isn't she?” he cried joyously.

XIV

Orde, in spite of his activities, managed to see Carroll Bishop twice

during the ensuing week.

On his return home late Monday afternoon, Grandma Orde informed him

with a shrewd twinkle that she wanted him surely at home the following

evening.

“I've asked in three or four of the young people for a candy pull,” said

she.

“Who, mother?” asked Orde.

“Your crowd. The Smiths, Collinses, Jane Hubbard, and Her,” said Grandma

Orde, which probably went to show that she had in the meantime been

making inquiries, and was satisfied with them.

“Do you suppose they'll care for candy pulling?” hazarded Orde a little

doubtfully.

“You mean, will she?” countered Grandma. “Well, I hope for both your

sakes she is not beyond a little old-fashioned fun.”

So it proved. The young people straggled in at an early hour after

supper--every one had supper in those days. Carroll Bishop and Jane

arrived nearly the last. Orde stepped into the hall to help them with

their wraps. He was surprised as he approached Miss Bishop to lift her

cloak from her shoulders, to find that the top of her daintily poised

head, with its soft, fine hair, came well below the level of his eyes.

Somehow her poise, her slender grace of movement and of attitude, had

lent her the impression of a stature she did not possess. To-night her

eyes, while fathomless as ever, shone quietly in anticipation.

“Do you know,” she told Orde delightedly, “I have never been to a real

candy pull in my life. It was so good of your mother to ask me. What a

dear she looks to-night. And is that your father? I'm going to speak to

him.”

She turned through the narrow door into the lighted, low-ceilinged

parlour where the company were chatting busily. Orde mechanically

followed her. He was arrested by the sound of Jane Hubbard's slow

good-humoured voice behind him.

“Now, Jack,” she drawled, “I agree with you perfectly; but that is NO

reason why I should be neglected entirely. Come and hang up my coat.”

Full of remorse, Orde turned. Jane Hubbard stood accusingly in the

middle of the hall, her plain, shrewd, good-humoured face smiling

faintly. Orde met her frank wide eyes with some embarrassment.

“Here it is,” said Jane, holding out the coat. “I don't much care

whether you hang it up or not. I just wanted to call you back to wish

you luck.” Her slow smile widened, and her gray eyes met his still more

knowingly.

Orde seized the coat and her hand at the same time.

“Jane, you're a trump,” said he. “No wonder you're the most popular girl

in town.”

“Of course I am, Jack,” she agreed indolently. She entered the parlour.

The candy pulling was a success. Of course everybody got burned a

little and spattered a good deal; but that was to be expected. After

the product had been broken and been piled on dishes, all trooped to the

informal “back sitting-room,” where an open fire invited to stories and

games of the quieter sort. Some of the girls sat in chairs, though most

joined the men on the hearth.

Carroll Bishop, however, seemed possessed of a spirit of restlessness.

The place seemed to interest her. She wandered here and there in the

room, looking now at the walnut-framed photograph of Uncle Jim Orde,

now at the great pink conch shells either side the door, now at the

marble-topped table with its square paper-weight of polished agate and

its glass “bell,” beneath which stood a very life-like robin. This “back

sitting-room” contained little in the way of ornament. It was filled, on

the contrary, with old comfortable chairs, and worn calf-backed books.

The girl peered at the titles of these; but the gas-jets had been turned

low in favour of the firelight, and she had to give over the effort

to identify the volumes. Once she wandered close to Grandma Orde's

cushioned wooden rocker, and passed her hand lightly over the old lady's

shoulder.

“Do you mind if I look at things?” she asked. “It's so dear and sweet

and old and different from our New York homes.”

“Look all you want to, dearie,” said Grandma Orde.

After a moment she passed into the dining-room. Here Orde found her, her

hands linked in front of her.

“Oh, it is so quaint and delightful,” she exhaled slowly. “This dear,

dear old house with its low ceilings and its queer haphazard lines, and

its deep windows, and its old pictures, and queer unexpected things that

take your breath away.”

“It is one of the oldest houses in town,” said Orde, “and I suppose it

is picturesque. But, you see, I was brought up here, so I'm used to it.”

“Wait until you leave it,” said she prophetically, “and live away from

it. Then all these things will come back to you to make your heart ache

for them.”

They rambled about together, Orde's enthusiasm gradually kindling at the

flame of her own. He showed her the marvellous and painstaking pencil

sketch of Napoleon looking out over a maltese-cross sunset done by Aunt

Martha at the age of ten. It hung framed in the upper hall.

“It has always been there, ever since I can remember,” said Orde, “and

it has seemed to belong there. I've never thought of it as good or bad,

just as belonging.”

“I know,” she nodded.

In this spirit also they viewed the plaster statue of Washington in the

lower hall, and the Roger's group in the parlour. The glass cabinet of

“curiosities” interested her greatly--the carved ivory chessmen, the

dried sea-weeds, the stone from Sugar Loaf Rock, the bit from the wreck

of the NORTH STAR, the gold and silver shells, the glittering geodes and

pyrites, the sandal-wood fan, and all the hundred and one knick-knacks

it was then the custom to collect under glass. They even ventured

part way up the creaky attic stairs, but it was too dark to enter that

mysterious region.

“I hear the drip of water,” she whispered, her finger on her lips.

“It's the tank,” said Orde.

“And has it a Dark Place behind it?” she begged.

“That's just what it has,” said he.

“And--tell me--are there real hair trunks with brass knobs on 'em?”

“Yes, mother has two or three.”

“O-o-h!” she breathed softly. “Don't tell me what's in them. I want to

believe in brocades and sashes. Do you know,” she looked at him soberly,

“I never had any dark places behind the tank, nor mysterious trunks,

when I was a child.”

“You might begin now,” suggested Orde.

“Do you mean to insinuate I haven't grown up?” she mocked. “Thank you!

Look OUT!” she cried suddenly, “the Boojum will catch us,” and picking

up her skirts she fairly flew down the narrow stairs. Orde could hear

the light swish of her draperies down the hall, and then the pat of her

feet on the stair carpet of the lower flight.

He followed rather dreamily. A glance into the sitting-room showed the

group gathered close around the fire listening to Lem Collin's attempt

at a ghost story. She was not there. He found her, then, in the parlour.

She was kneeling on the floor before the glass cabinet of curiosities,

and she had quite flattened her little nose against the pane. At his

exclamation she looked up with a laugh.

“This is the proper altitude from which to view a cabinet of

curiosities,” said she, “and something tells me you ought to flatten

your nose, too.” She held out both hands to be helped up. “Oh, WHAT a

house for a child!” she cried.

After the company had gone, Orde stood long by the front gate looking up

into the infinite spaces. Somehow, and vaguely, he felt the night to be

akin to her elusive spirit. Farther and farther his soul penetrated

into its depths; and yet other depths lay beyond, other mysteries, other

unguessed realms. And yet its beauty was the simplicity of space and

dark and the stars.

The next time he saw her was at her own house--or rather the house of

the friend she visited. Orde went to call on Friday evening and was

lucky enough to find the girls home and alone. After a decent interval

Jane made an excuse and went out. They talked on a great variety of

subjects, and with a considerable approach toward intimacy. Not until

nearly time to go did Orde stumble upon the vital point of the evening.

He had said something about a plan for the week following.

“But you forget that by that time I shall be gone,” said she.

“Gone!” he echoed blankly. “Where?”

“Home,” said she. “Don't you remember I am to go Sunday morning?”

“I thought you were going to stay a month.”

“I was, but I--certain things came up that made it necessary for me to

leave sooner.”

“I--I'm sorry you're going,” stammered Orde.

“So am I,” said she. “I've had a very nice time here.”

“Then I won't see you again,” said Orde, still groping for realisation.

“I must go to Monrovia to-morrow. But I'll be down to see you off.”

“Do come,” said she.

“It's not to be for good?” he expostulated. “You'll be coming back.”

She threw her hands palm out, with a pretty gesture of ignorance.

“That is in the lap of the gods,” said she.

“Will you write me occasionally?” he begged.

“As to that--” she began--“I'm a very poor correspondent.”

“But won't you write?” he insisted.

“I do not make it a custom to write to young men.”

“Oh!” he cried, believing himself enlightened. “Will you answer if I

write you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether there is a reply to make.”

“But may I write you?”

“I suppose I couldn't very well prevent you, if you were sure to put on

a three-cent stamp.”

“Do you want me to?” persisted Orde.

She began gently to laugh, quite to herself, as though enjoying a joke

entirely within her own personal privilege.

“You are so direct and persistent and boy-like,” said she presently.

“Now if you'll be very good, and not whisper to the other little pupils,

I'll tell you how they do such things usually.” She sat up straight from

the depths of her chair, her white, delicately tapering forearms resting

lightly on her knees. “Young men desiring to communicate with young

ladies do not ask them bluntly. They make some excuse, like sending

a book, a magazine, a marked newspaper, or even a bit of desired

information. At the same time, they send notes informing the girl of the

fact. The girl is naturally expected to acknowledge the politeness. If

she wishes the correspondence to continue, she asks a question, or in

some other way leaves an opening. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see,” said Orde, slightly crestfallen. “But that's a long time

to wait. I like to feel settled about a thing. I wanted to know.”

She dropped back against the cushioned slant of her easy chair, and

laughed again.

“And so you just up and asked!” she teased.

“I beg your pardon if I was rude,” he said humbly.

The laughter died slowly from her eyes.

“Don't,” she said. “It would be asking pardon for being yourself. You

wanted to know: so you asked. And I'm going to answer. I shall be very

glad to correspond with you and tell you about my sort of things, if

you happen to be interested in them. I warn you: they are not very

exciting.”

“They are yours,” said he.

She half rose to bow in mock graciousness, caught herself, and sank

back.

“No, I won't,” she said, more than half to herself. She sat brooding

for a moment; then suddenly her mood changed. She sprang up, shook her

skirts free, and seated herself at the piano. To Orde, who had also

arisen, she made a quaint grimace over her shoulder.

“Admire your handiwork!” she told him. “You are rapidly bringing me

to 'tell the truth and shame the devil.' Oh, he must be dying of

mortification this evening!” She struck a great crashing chord, holding

the keys while the strings reverberated and echoed down slowly into

silence again. “It isn't fair,” she went on, “for you big simple men

to disarm us. I don't care! I have my private opinion of such brute

strength. JE ME MOQUE!”

She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes. Then ruthlessly she drowned

his reply in a torrent of music. Like mad she played, rocking her

slender body back and forth along the key-board; holding rigid her

fingers, her hands, and the muscles of her arms. The bass notes roared

like the rumbling of thunder; the treble flashed like the dart of

lightnings. Abruptly she muted the instrument. Silence fell as something

that had been pent and suddenly released. She arose from the piano stool

quite naturally, both hands at her hair.

“Aren't Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard dear old people?” said she.

“What is your address in New York?” demanded Orde. She sank into a chair

nearby with a pretty uplifted gesture of despair.

“I surrender!” she cried, and then she laughed until the tears started

from her eyes and she had to brush them away with what seemed to Orde an

absurd affair to call a handkerchief. “Oh, you are delicious!” she said

at last. “Well, listen. I live at 12 West Ninth Street. Can you remember

that?” Orde nodded. “And now any other questions the prisoner can reply

to without incriminating herself, she is willing to answer.” She folded

her hands demurely in her lap.

Two days later Orde saw the train carry her away. He watched the rear

car disappear between the downward slopes of two hills, and then finally

the last smoke from the locomotive dissipate in the clear blue.

Declining Jane's kindly meant offer of a lift, he walked back to town.

XV

The new firm plunged busily into its more pressing activities. Orde

especially had an infinitude of details on his hands. The fat note-book

in his side pocket filled rapidly with rough sketches, lists, and

estimates. Constantly he interviewed men of all kinds--rivermen, mill

men, contractors, boat builders, hardware dealers, pile-driver captains,

builders, wholesale grocery men, cooks, axe-men, chore boys--all a

little world in itself.

The signs of progress soon manifested themselves. Below Big Bend the

pile-drivers were at work, the square masses of their hammers rising

rapidly to the tops of the derricks, there to pause a moment before

dropping swiftly to a dull THUMP! They were placing a long, compact row,

which should be the outer bulwarks separating the sorting-booms from

the channel of the river. Ashore the carpenters were knocking together

a long, low structure for the cook-house and a larger building, destined

to serve as bunk-house for the regular boom-crew. There would also be a

blacksmith's forge, a storehouse, a tool and supply-house, a barn, and

small separate shanties for the married men. Below more labourers with

picks, shovels, axes, and scrapers were cutting out and levelling a road

which would, when finished, meet the county road to town. The numerous

bayous of great marsh were crossed by “float-bridges,” lying flat on the

surface of the water, which spurted up in rhythmical little jets under

the impact of hoofs. Down stream eight miles, below the mills, and just

beyond where the drawbridge crossed over to Monrovia, Duncan McLeod's

shipyards clipped and sawed, and steamed and bent and bolted away at two

tugboats, the machinery for which was already being stowed in the hold

of a vessel lying at wharf in Chicago. In the storerooms of hardware

firms porters carried and clerks checked off chains, strap iron, bolts,

spikes, staples, band iron, bar iron, peavies, cant-hooks, pike-poles,

sledge-hammers, blocks, ropes, and cables.

These things took time and attention to details; also a careful

supervision. The spring increased, burst into leaf and bloom, and

settled into summer. Orde was constantly on the move. As soon as

low water came with midsummer, however, he arranged matters to run

themselves as far as possible, left with Newmark minute instructions as

to personal supervision, and himself departed to Redding. Here he joined

a crew which Tom North had already collected, and betook himself to the

head of the river.

He knew exactly what he intended to do. Far back on the head-waters he

built a dam. The construction of it was crude, consisting merely of log

cribs filled with stone and debris placed at intervals across the bed

of the stream, against which slanted logs made a face. The gate operated

simply, and could be raised to let loose an entire flood. And indeed

this was the whole purpose of the dam. It created a reservoir from which

could be freed new supplies of water to eke out the dropping spring

freshets.

Having accomplished this formidable labour--for the trees had to be cut

and hauled, the stone carted, and the earth shovelled--the crew next

moved down a good ten miles to where the river dropped over a rapids

rough and full of boulders. Here were built and placed a row of

stone-filled log cribs in a double row down stream to define the channel

and to hold the drive in it and away from the shallows near either bank.

The profile of these cribs was that of a right-angled triangle, the

slanting side up stream. Booms chained between them helped deflect the

drive from the shoals. Their more important office, however, was to give

footing to the drivers.

For twenty-five miles then nothing of importance was undertaken. Two

or three particularly bad boulders were split out by the explosion

of powder charges; a number of snags and old trees were cut away and

disposed of; the channel was carefully examined for obstructions of any

kind whatever. Then the party came to the falls.

Here Orde purposed his most elaborate bit of rough engineering. The

falls were only about fifteen feet high, but they fell straight down to

a bed of sheer rock. This had been eaten by the eddies into pot-holes

and crannies until a jagged irregular scoop-hollow had formed

immediately underneath the fall. Naturally this implied a ledge below.

In flood time the water boiled and roared through this obstruction in

a torrent. The saw logs, caught in the rush, plunged end on into the

scoop-hollow, hit with a crash, and were spewed out below more or less

battered, barked, and stripped. Sometimes, however, when the chance of

the drive brought down a hundred logs together, they failed to shoot

over the barrier of the ledge. Then followed a jam, a bad jam, difficult

and dangerous to break. The falls had taken her usurious share of the

lives the river annually demands as her toll.

This condition of affairs Orde had determined, if possible, to obviate.

From the thirty-five or forty miles of river that lay above, and from

its tributaries would come the bulk of the white and Norway pine for

years to follow. At least two thirds of each drive Orde figured would

come from above the fall.

“If,” said he to North, “we could carry an apron on a slant from just

under the crest and over the pot-holes, it would shoot both the water

and the logs off a better angle.”

“Sure,” agreed North, “but you'll have fun placing your apron with all

that water running through. Why, it would drown us!”

“I've got a notion on that,” said Orde. “First thing is to get the

material together.”

A hardwood forest topped the slope. Into this went the axe-men. The

straightest trees they felled, trimmed, and dragged, down travoy trails

they constructed, on sleds they built for the purpose, to the banks of

the river. Here they bored the two holes through either end to receive

the bolts when later they should be locked together side by side in

their places. As fast as they were prepared, men with cant-hooks rolled

them down the slope to a flat below the falls. They did these things

swiftly and well, because they were part of the practised day's work,

but they shook their heads at the falls.

After the trees had been cut in sufficient number--there were

seventy-five of them, each twenty-six feet long--Orde led the way back

up stream a half mile to a shallows, where he commanded the construction

of a number of exaggerated sawhorses with very widespread slanting legs.

In the meantime the cook-wagon and the bed-wagon had evidently been

making many trips to Sand Creek, fifteen miles away, as was attested by

a large pile of heavy planks. When the sawhorses were completed, Orde

directed the picks and shovels to be brought up.

At this point the river, as has been hinted, widened over shoals. The

banks at either hand, too, were flat and comparatively low. As is often

the case in bends of rivers subject to annual floods, the banks sloped

back for some distance into a lower black-ash swamp territory.

Orde set his men to digging a channel through this bank. It was no

slight job, from one point of view, as the slope down into the swamp

began only at a point forty or fifty feet inland; but on the other hand

the earth was soft and free from rocks. When completed the channel gave

passage to a rather feeble streamlet from the outer fringe of the river.

The men were puzzled, but Orde, by the strange freak of his otherwise

frank and open nature, as usual told nothing of his plans, even to Tom

North.

“He can't expect to turn that river,” said Tim Nolan, who was once more

with the crew. “He'd have to dig a long ways below that level to catch

the main current--and then some.”

“Let him alone,” advised North, puffing at his short pipe. “He's wiser

than a tree full of owls.”

Next Orde assigned two men to each of the queer-shaped sawhorses, and

instructed them to place the horses in a row across the shallowest

part of the river, and broadside to the stream. This was done. The men,

half-way to their knees in the swift water, bore down heavily to keep

their charges in place. Other men immediately began to lay the heavy

planks side by side, perpendicular to and on the up-stream side of the

horses. The weight of the water clamped them in place; big rocks and

gravel shovelled on in quantity prevented the lower ends from rising;

the wide slant of the legs directed the pressure so far downward that

the horses were prevented from floating away. And slowly the bulk of

the water, thus raised a good three feet above its former level, turned

aside into the new channel and poured out to inundate the black-ash

swamp beyond.

A good volume still poured over the top of the temporary dam and down to

the fall; but it was by this expedient so far reduced that work became

possible.

“Now, boys!” cried Orde. “Lively, while we've got the chance!”

By means of blocks and tackles and the team horses the twenty-six-foot

logs were placed side by side, slanting from a point two feet below the

rim of the fall to the ledge below. They were bolted together top

and bottom through the four holes bored for that purpose. This was a

confusing and wet business. Sufficient water still flowed in the natural

channel of the river to dash in spray over the entire work. Men toiled,

wet to the skin, their garments clinging to them, their eyes full of

water, barely able to breathe, yet groping doggedly at it, and arriving

at last. The weather was warm with the midsummer. They made a joke of

the difficulty, and found inexhaustible humour in the fact that one of

their number was an Immersion Baptist. When the task was finished, they

pried the flash-boards from the improvised dam; piled them neatly beyond

reach of high water; rescued the sawhorses and piled them also for

a possible future use; blocked the temporary channel with a tree or

so--and earth. The river, restored to its immemorial channel by these

men who had so nonchalantly turned it aside, roared on, singing again

the song it had until now sung uninterruptedly for centuries. Orde and

his crew tramped back to the falls, and gazed on their handiwork with

satisfaction. Instead of plunging over an edge into a turmoil of foam

and eddies, now the water flowed smoothly, almost without a break, over

an incline of thirty degrees.

“Logs'll slip over that slick as a gun barrel,” said Tom North. “How

long do you think she'll last?”

“Haven't an idea,” replied Orde. “We may have to do it again next

summer, but I don't think it. There's nothing but the smooth of the

water to wear those logs until they begin to rot.”

Quite cheerfully they took up their long, painstaking journey back down

the river.

Travel down the river was at times very pleasant, and at times very

disagreeable. The ground had now hardened so that a wanigan boat was

unnecessary. Instead, the camp outfit was transported in waggons, which

often had to journey far inland, to make extraordinary detours, but

which always arrived somehow at the various camping places. Orde and his

men, of course, took the river trail.

The river trail ran almost unbroken for over a hundred miles of

meandering way. It climbed up the high banks at the points, it crossed

the bluffs along their sheer edges, it descended to the thickets in

the flats, it crossed the swamps on pole-trails, it skirted the great,

solemn woods. Sometimes, in the lower reaches, its continuity was broken

by a town, but always after it recovered from its confusion it led on

with purpose unvarying. Never did it desert for long the river. The

cool, green still reaches, or the tumbling of the white-water, were

always within its sight, sometimes beneath its very tread. When

occasionally it cut in across a very long bend, it always sent from

itself a little tributary trail which traced all the curves, and

returned at last to its parent, undoubtedly with a full report of its

task. And the trail was beaten hard by the feet of countless men, who,

like Orde and his crew, had taken grave, interested charge of the river

from her birth to her final rest in the great expanses of the Lake. It

is there to-day, although the life that brought it into being has been

gone from it these many years.

In midsummer Orde found the river trail most unfamiliar in appearance.

Hardly did he recognise it in some places. It possessed a wide,

leisurely expansiveness, an indolent luxury, a lazy invitation born of

broad green leaves, deep and mysterious shadows, the growth of ferns,

docks, and the like cool in the shade of the forest, the shimmer of

aspens and poplars through the heat, the green of tangling vines, the

drone of insects, the low-voiced call of birds, the opulent splashing of

sun-gold through the woods, quite lacking to the hard, tight season in

which his river work was usually performed. What, in the early year,

had been merely a whip of brush, now had become a screen through whose

waving, shifting interstices he caught glimpses of the river flowing

green and cool. What had been bare timber amongst whose twigs and

branches the full daylight had shone unobstructed, now had clothed

itself in foliage and leaned over to make black and mysterious the water

that flowed beneath. Countless insects hovered over the polished surface

of that water. Dragon-flies cruised about. Little birds swooped silently

down and fluttered back, intent on their tiny prey. Water-bugs skated

hither and thither in apparently purposeless diagonals. Once in a great

while the black depths were stirred. A bass rolled lazily over, carrying

with him his captured insect, leaving on the surface of the water

concentric rings which widened and died away.

The trail led the crew through many minor labours, all of which consumed

time. At Reed's Mill Orde entered into diplomatic negotiations with Old

Man Reed, whom he found singularly amenable. The skirmish in the spring

seemed to have taken all the fight out of him; or perhaps, more simply,

Orde's attitude toward him at that time had won him over to the young

man's side. At any rate, as soon as he understood that Orde was now in

business for himself, he readily came to an agreement. Thereupon Orde's

crew built a new sluiceway and gate far enough down to assure a good

head in the pond above. Other dam owners farther down the stream also

signed agreements having to do with supplying water over and above what

the law required of them. Above one particularly shallow rapid Orde

built a dam of his own.

All this took time, and the summer months slipped away. Orde had fallen

into the wild life as into a habit. He lived on the river or the

trail. His face took on a ruddier hue than ever; his clothes faded to a

nondescript neutral colour of their own; his hair below his narrow felt

hat bleached three shades. He did his work, and figured on his schemes,

and smoked his pipe, and occasionally took little trips to the nearest

town, where he spent the day at the hotel desks reading and answering

his letters. The weather was generally very warm. Thunder-storms were

not infrequent. Until the latter part of August, mosquitoes and black

flies were bad.

About the middle of September the crew had worked down as far as

Redding, leaving behind them a river tamed, groomed, and harnessed for

their uses. Remained still the forty miles between Redding and the

Lake to be improved. As, however, navigation for light draught vessels

extended as far as that city, Orde here paid off his men. A few days'

work with a pile driver would fence the principal shoals from the

channel.

He stayed over night with his parents, and at once took the train for

Monrovia. There he made his way immediately to the little office the new

firm had rented. Newmark had just come down.

“Hullo, Joe,” greeted Orde, his teeth flashing in contrast to the tan of

his face. “I'm done. Anything new since you wrote last?”

Newmark had acquired his articles of incorporation and sold his stock.

How many excursions, demonstrations, representations, and arguments that

implied, only one who has undertaken the floating of a new and untried

scheme can imagine. Perhaps his task had in it as much of difficulty as

Orde's taming of the river. Certainly he carried it to as successful a

conclusion. The bulk of the stock he sold to the log-owners themselves;

the rest he scattered here and there and everywhere in small lots, as

he was able. Some five hundred and thousand dollar blocks even went to

Chicago. His own little fortune of twenty thousand he paid in for the

shares that represented his half of the majority retained by himself and

Orde. The latter gave a note at ten per cent for his proportion of the

stock. Newmark then borrowed fifteen thousand more, giving as security

a mortgage on the company's newly acquired property--the tugs, booms,

buildings, and real estate. Thus was the financing determined. It

left the company with obligations of fifteen hundred dollars a year in

interest, expenses which would run heavily into the thousands, and an

obligation to make good outside stock worth at par exactly forty-nine

thousand dollars. In addition, Orde had charged against his account a

burden of two thousand dollars a year interest on his personal debt. To

offset these liabilities--outside the river improvements and equipments,

which would hold little or no value in case of failure--the firm held

contracts to deliver about one hundred million feet of logs. After some

discussion the partners decided to allow themselves twenty-five hundred

dollars apiece by way of salary.

“If we don't make any dividends at first,” Orde pointed out, “I've got

to keep even on my interest.”

“You can't live on five hundred,” objected Newmark.

“I'll be on the river and at the booms six months of the year,” replied

Orde, “and I can't spend much there.”

“I'm satisfied,” said Newmark thoughtfully, “I'm getting a little better

than good interest on my own investment from the start. And in a few

years after we've paid up, there'll be mighty big money in it.”

He removed his glasses and tapped his palm with their edge.

“The only point that is at all risky to me,” said he, “is that we have

only one-season contracts. If for any reason we hang up the drive, or

fail to deliver promptly, we're going to get left the year following.

And then it's B-U-S-T, bust.”

“Well, we'll just try not to hang her,” replied Orde.

XVI

Orde's bank account, in spite of his laughing assertion to Newmark,

contained some eleven hundred dollars. After a brief but comprehensive

tour of inspection over all the works then forward, he drew a hundred

of this and announced to Newmark that business would take him away for

about two weeks.

“I have some private affairs to attend to before settling down to

business for keeps,” he told Newmark vaguely.

At Redding, whither he went to pack his little sole-leather trunk, he

told Grandma Orde the same thing. She said nothing at the time, but

later, when Grandpa Orde's slender figure had departed, very courteous,

very erect, very dignified, with its old linen duster flapping around

it, she came and stood by the man leaning over the trunk.

“Speak to her, Jack,” said she quietly. “She cares for you.”

Orde looked up in astonishment, but he did not pretend to deny the

implied accusation as to his destination.

“Why, mother!” he cried. “She's only seen me three or four times! It's

absurd--yet.”

“I know,” nodded Grandma Orde, wisely. “I know. But you mark my words;

she cares for you.”

She said nothing more, but stood looking while Orde folded and laid

away, his head bent low in thought. Then she placed her hand for

an instant on his shoulder and went away. The Ordes were not a

demonstrative people.

The journey to New York was at that time very long and disagreeable, but

Orde bore it with his accustomed stoicism. He had visited the metropolis

before, so it was not unfamiliar to him. He was very glad, however, to

get away from the dust and monotony of the railroad train. The September

twilight was just falling. Through its dusk the street lamps were

popping into illumination as the lamp-lighter made his rapid way. Orde

boarded a horse-car and jingled away down Fourth Avenue. He was pleased

at having arrived, and stretched his legs and filled his lungs twice

with so evident an enjoyment that several people smiled.

His comfort was soon disturbed, however, by an influx of people boarding

the car at Twenty-third Street. The seats were immediately filled, and

late comers found themselves obliged to stand in the aisle. Among these

were several women. The men nearest buried themselves in the papers

after the almost universal metropolitan custom. Two or three arose to

offer their seats, among them Orde. When, however, the latter had turned

to indicate to one of the women the vacated seat, he discovered it

occupied by a chubby and flashily dressed youth of the sort common

enough in the vicinity of Fourteenth Street; impudent of eye, cynical of

demeanour, and slightly contemptuous of everything unaccustomed. He had

slipped in back of Orde when that young man arose, whether under

the impression that Orde was about to get off the car or from sheer

impudence, it would be impossible to say.

Orde stared at him, a little astonished.

“I intended that seat for this lady,” said Orde, touching him on the

shoulder.

The youth looked up coolly.

“You don't come that!” said he.

Orde wasted no time in discussion, which no doubt saved the necessity of

a more serious disturbance. He reached over suddenly, seized the

youth by the collar, braced his knee against the seat, and heaved the

interloper so rapidly to his feet that he all but plunged forward among

the passengers sitting opposite.

“Your seat, madam,” said Orde.

The woman, frightened, unwilling to become the participant of a scene

of any sort, stood looking here and there. Orde, comprehending her

embarrassment, twisted his antagonist about, and, before he could

recover his equilibrium sufficiently to offer resistance, propelled him

rapidly to the open door, the passengers hastily making way for them.

“Now, my friend,” said Orde, releasing his hold on the other's collar,

“don't do such things any more. They aren't nice.”

Trivial as the incident was, it served to draw Orde to the particular

notice of an elderly man leaning against the rear rail. He was a very

well-groomed man, dressed in garments whose fit was evidently the

product of the highest art, well buttoned up, well brushed, well cared

for in every way. In his buttonhole he wore a pink carnation, and in his

gloved hand he carried a straight, gold-headed cane. A silk hat covered

his head, from beneath which showed a slightly empurpled countenance,

with bushy white eyebrows, a white moustache, and a pair of rather

bloodshot, but kindly, blue eyes. In spite of his somewhat pudgy

rotundity, he carried himself quite erect, in a manner that bespoke the

retired military man.

“You have courage, sir,” said this gentleman, inclining his bead gravely

to Orde.

The young man laughed in his good-humoured fashion.

“Not much courage required to root out that kind of a skunk,” said he

cheerfully.

“I refer to the courage of your convictions. The young men of this

generation seem to prefer to avoid public disturbances. That breed is

quite capable of making a row, calling the police, raising the deuce,

and all that.”

“What of it?” said Orde.

The elderly gentleman puffed out his cheeks.

“You are from the West, are you not?” he stated, rather than asked.

“We call it the East out there,” said Orde. “It's Michigan.”

“I should call that pretty far west,” said the old gentleman.

Nothing more was said. After a block or two Orde descended on his way to

a small hotel just off Broadway. The old gentleman saluted. Orde nodded

good-humouredly. In his private soul he was a little amused at the old

boy. To his view a man and clothes carried to their last refinement were

contradictory terms.

Orde ate, dressed, and set out afoot in search of Miss Bishop's address.

He arrived in front of the house a little past eight o'clock, and, after

a moment's hesitation, mounted the steps and rang the bell.

The door swung silently back to frame an impassive man-servant dressed

in livery. To Orde's inquiry he stated that Miss Bishop had gone out

to the theatre. The young man left his name and a message of regret. At

this the footman, with an irony so subtle as to be quite lost on Orde,

demanded a card. Orde scribbled a line in his note-book, tore it out,

folded it, and left it. In it he stated his regret, his short residence

in the city, and desired an early opportunity to call. Then he departed

down the brownstone steps, totally unconscious of the contempt he had

inspired in the heart of the liveried man behind him.

He retired early and arose early, as had become his habit. When he

descended to the office the night clerk, who had not yet been relieved,

handed him a note delivered the night before. Orde ripped it open

eagerly.

“MY DEAR MR. ORDE:

“I was so sorry to miss you that evening because of a stupid play. Come

around as early as you can to-morrow morning. I shall expect you.

“Sincerely yours,

“CARROLL BISHOP.”

Orde glanced at the clock, which pointed to seven. He breakfasted, read

the morning paper, finally started leisurely in the direction of West

Ninth Street. He walked slowly, so as to consume more time, then at

University Place was seized with a panic, and hurried rapidly to his

destination. The door was answered by the same man who had opened the

night before, but now, in some indefinable way, his calm, while flawless

externally, seemed to have lifted to a mere surface, as though he might

hastily have assumed his coat. To Orde's inquiry he stated with great

brevity that Miss Bishop was not yet visible, and prepared to close the

door.

“You are mistaken,” said Orde, with equal brevity, and stepped inside.

“I have an engagement with Miss Bishop. Tell her Mr. Orde is here.”

The man departed in some doubt, leaving Orde standing in the gloomy

hall. That young man, however, quite cheerfully parted the heavy

curtains leading into a parlour, and sat down in a spindle-legged chair.

At his entrance, a maid disappeared out another door, carrying with her

the implements of dusting and brushing.

Orde looked around the room with some curiosity. It was long, narrow,

and very high. Tall windows admitted light at one end. The illumination

was, however, modified greatly by hangings of lace covering all the

windows, supplemented by heavy draperies drawn back to either side. The

embrasure was occupied by a small table, over which seemed to flutter

a beautiful marble Psyche. A rubber plant, then as now the mark of the

city and suburban dweller, sent aloft its spare, shiny leaves alongside

a closed square piano. The lack of ornaments atop the latter bespoke

the musician. Through the filtered gloom of the demi-light Orde surveyed

with interest the excellent reproductions of the Old World masterpieces

framed on the walls--“Madonnas” by Raphael, Murillo, and Perugino,

the “Mona Lisa,” and Botticelli's “Spring”--the three oil portraits

occupying the large spaces; the spindle-legged chairs and tables, the

tea service in the corner, the tall bronze lamp by the piano, the neat

little grate-hearth, with its mantel of marble; the ormolu clock, all

the decorous and decorated gentility which marked the irreproachable

correctness of whoever had furnished the apartment. Dark and heavy

hangings depended in front of a double door leading into another room

beyond. Equally dark and heavy hangings had closed behind Orde as he

entered. An absolute and shrouded stillness seemed to settle down upon

him. The ormolu clock ticked steadily. Muffled sounds came at long

intervals from behind the portieres. Orde began to feel oppressed and

subdued.

For quite three quarters of an hour he waited without hearing any

other indications of life than the muffled sounds just remarked upon.

Occasionally he shifted his position, but cautiously, as though he

feared to awaken some one. The three oil portraits stared at him with

all the reserved aloofness of their painted eyes. He began to doubt

whether the man had announced him at all.

Then, breaking the stillness with almost startling abruptness, he heard

a clear, high voice saying something at the top of the stairs outside.

A rhythmical SWISH of skirts, punctuated by the light PAT-PAT of a

girl tripping downstairs, brought him to his feet. A moment later the

curtains parted and she entered, holding out her hand.

“Oh, I did keep you waiting such a long time!” she cried.

He stood holding her hand, suddenly unable to say a word, looking at her

hungrily. A flood of emotion, of which he had had no prevision, swelled

up within him to fill his throat. An almost irresistible impulse all but

controlled him to crush her to him, to kiss her lips and her throat, to

lose his fingers in the soft, shadowy fineness of her hair. The crest

of the wave passed almost immediately, but it left him shaken. A faint

colour deepened under the transparence of her skin; her fathomless black

eyes widened ever so little; she released her hand.

“It was good of you to come so promptly,” said she. “I'm so anxious to

hear all about the dear people at Redding.”

She settled gracefully in one of the little chairs. Orde sat down, once

more master of himself, but still inclined to devour her with his gaze.

She was dressed in a morning gown, all laces and ribbons and long,

flowing lines. Her hair was done low on the back of her head and on the

nape of her neck. The blood ebbed and flowed beneath her clear skin.

A faint fragrance of cleanliness diffused itself about her--the cool,

sweet fragrance of daintiness. They entered busily into conversation.

Her attitudes were no longer relaxed and languidly graceful as in the

easy chairs under the lamplight. She sat forward, her hands crossed on

her lap, a fire smouldering deep beneath the cool surface lights of her

eyes.

The sounds in the next room increased in volume, as though several

people must have entered that apartment. In a moment or so the curtains

to the hall parted to frame the servant.

“Mrs. Bishop wishes to know, miss,” said that functionary, “if you're

not coming to breakfast.”

Orde sprang to his feet.

“Haven't you had your breakfast yet?” he cried, conscience stricken.

“Didn't you gather the fact that I'm just up?” she mocked him. “I assure

you it doesn't matter. The family has just come down.”

“But,” cried Orde, “I wasn't here until nine o'clock. I thought, of

course, you'd be around. I'm mighty sorry--”

“Oh, la la!” she cried, cutting him short. “What a bother about nothing.

Don't you see--I'm ahead a whole hour of good talk.”

“You see, you told me in your note to come early,” said Orde.

“I forgot you were one of those dreadful outdoor men. You didn't see any

worms, did you? Next time I'll tell you to come the day after.”

Orde was for taking his leave, but this she would not have.

“You must meet my family,” she negatived. “For if you're here for so

short a time we want to see something of you. Come right out now.”

Orde thereupon followed her down a narrow, dark hall, squeezed between

the stairs and the wall, to a door that opened slantwise into a

dining-room the exact counterpart in shape to the parlour at the other

side of the house. Only in this case the morning sun and more diaphanous

curtains lent an air of brightness, further enhanced by a wire stand of

flowers in the bow-windows.

The centre of the room was occupied by a round table, about which

were grouped several people of different ages. With her back to the

bow-window sat a woman well beyond middle age, but with evidently some

pretensions to youth. She was tall, desiccated, quick in movement. Dark

rings below her eyes attested either a nervous disease, an hysterical

temperament, or both. Immediately at her left sat a boy of about

fourteen years of age, his face a curious contradiction between a

naturally frank and open expression and a growing sullenness. Next him

stood a vacant chair, evidently for Miss Bishop. Opposite lolled a young

man, holding a newspaper in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. He

was very handsome, with a drooping black moustache, dark eyes, under

lashes almost too luxuriant, and a long, oval face, dark in complexion,

and a trifle sardonic in expression. In the VIS-A-VIS to Mrs. Bishop,

Orde was surprised to find his ex-military friend of the street

car. Miss Bishop performed the necessary introductions, which each

acknowledged after his fashion, but with an apparent indifference that

dashed Orde, accustomed to a more Western cordiality. Mrs. Bishop held

out a languidly graceful hand, the boy mumbled a greeting, the young man

nodded lazily over his newspaper. Only General Bishop, recognising him,

arose and grasped his hand, with a real, though rather fussy, warmth.

“My dear sir,” he cried, “I am honoured to see you again. This, my

dear,” he addressed his wife, “is the young man I was telling you

about--in the street car,” he explained.

“How very interesting,” said Mrs. Bishop, with evidently no

comprehension and less interest.

Gerald Bishop cast an ironically amused glance across at Orde. The boy

looked up at him quickly, the sullenness for a moment gone from his

face.

Carroll Bishop appeared quite unconscious of an atmosphere which seemed

to Orde strained, but sank into her place at the table and unfolded

her napkin. The silent butler drew forward a chair for Orde, and stood

looking impassively in Mrs. Bishop's direction.

“You will have some breakfast with us?” she inquired. “No? A cup of

coffee, at least?”

She began to manipulate the coffee pot, without paying the slightest

attention to Orde's disclaimer. The general puffed out his cheeks, and

coughed a bit in embarrassment.

“A good cup of coffee is never amiss to an old campaigner,” he said to

Orde. “It's as good as a full meal in a pinch. I remember when I was a

major in the Eleventh, down near the City of Mexico, in '48, the time

Hardy's command was so nearly wiped out by that viaduct--” He half

turned toward Orde, his face lighting up, his fingers reaching for the

fork with which, after the custom of old soldiers, to trace the chart of

his reminiscences.

Mrs. Bishop rattled her cup and saucer with an uncontrollably nervous

jerk of her slender body. For some moments she had awaited a chance to

get the general's attention. “Spare us, father,” she said brusquely.

“Will you have another cup of coffee?”

The old gentleman, arrested in mid-career, swallowed, looked a trifle

bewildered, but subsided meekly.

“No, thank you, my dear,” said he, and went furiously at his breakfast.

Orde, overwhelmed by embarrassment, discovered that none of the others

had paid the incident the slightest attention. Only on the lips of

Gerald Bishop he surprised a fine, detached smile.

At this moment the butler entered bearing the mail. Mrs. Bishop tore

hers open rapidly, dropping the mangled envelopes at her side. The

contents of one seemed to vex her.

“Oh!” she cried aloud. “That miserable Marie! She promised me to have it

done to-day, and now she puts it off until Monday. It's too provoking!”

She turned to Orde for sympathy. “Do you know ANYTHING more aggravating

than to work and slave to the limit of endurance, and then have

everything upset by the stupidity of some one else?”

Orde murmured an appropriate reply, to which Mrs. Bishop paid no

attention whatever. She started suddenly up from the table.

“I must see about it!” she cried. “I plainly see I shall have to do it

myself. I WILL do it myself. I promised it for Sunday.”

“You mustn't do another stitch, mother,” put in Carroll Bishop

decidedly. “You know what the doctor told you. You'll have yourself down

sick.”

“Well, see for yourself!” cried Mrs. Bishop. “That's what comes of

leaving things to others! If I'd done it myself, it would have saved me

all this bother and fuss, and it would have been done. And now I've got

to do it anyway.”

“My dear,” put in the general, “perhaps Carroll can see Marie about it.

In any case, there's nothing to work yourself up into such an excitement

about.”

“It's very easy for you to talk, isn't it?” cried Mrs. Bishop, turning

on him. “I like the way you all sit around like lumps and do nothing,

and then tell me how I ought to have done it. John, have the carriage

around at once.” She turned tensely to Orde. “I hope you'll excuse me,”

she said very briefly; “I have something very important to attend to.”

Carroll had also risen. Orde held out his hand.

“I must be going,” said he.

“Well,” she conceded, “I suppose I'd better see if I can't help mother

out. But you'll come in again. Come and dine with us this evening.

Mother will be delighted.”

As Mrs. Bishop had departed from the room, Orde had to take for granted

the expression of this delight. He bowed to the other occupants of

the table. The general was eating nervously. Gerald's eyes were fixed

amusedly on Orde.

To Orde's surprise, he was almost immediately joined on the street by

young Mr. Bishop, most correctly appointed.

“Going anywhere in particular?” he inquired. “Let's go up the avenue,

then. Everybody will be out.”

They turned up the great promenade, a tour of which was then, even more

than now, considered obligatory on the gracefully idle. Neither said

anything--Orde because he was too absorbed in the emotions this

sudden revelation of Carroll's environment had aroused in him; Gerald,

apparently, because he was too indifferent. Nevertheless it was the

young exquisite who finally broke the silence.

“It was an altar cloth,” said he suddenly.

“What?” asked Orde, rather bewildered.

“Mother is probably the most devout woman in New York,” went on Gerald's

even voice. “She is one of the hardest workers in the church. She keeps

all the fast days, and attends all the services. Although she has no

strength to speak of, she has just completed an elaborate embroidered

altar cloth. The work she accomplished while on her knees. Often she

spent five or six hours a day in that position. It was very devout, but

against the doctor's orders, and she is at present much pulled down.

Finally she gave way to persuasion to the extent of sending the

embroidery out to be bound and corded. As a result, the altar cloth will

not be done for next Sunday.”

He delivered this statement in a voice absolutely colourless, without

the faintest trace discernible of either approval or disapproval,

without the slightest irony, yet Orde felt vaguely uncomfortable.

“It must have been annoying to her,” he said gravely, “and I hope she

will get it done in time. Perhaps Miss Bishop will be able to do it.”

“That,” said Gerald, “is Madison Square--or perhaps you know New York?

My sister would, of course, be only too glad to finish the work, but I

fear that my mother's peculiarly ardent temperament will now insist on

her own accomplishment of the task. But perhaps you do not understand

temperaments?”

“Very little, I'm afraid,” confessed Orde.

They walked on for some distance farther.

“Your father was in the Mexican War?” said Orde, to change the trend of

his own thoughts.

“He was a most distinguished officer. I believe he received the Medal of

Honour for a part in the affair of the Molina del Rey.”

“What command had he in the Civil War?” asked Orde. “I fooled around the

outskirts of that a little myself.”

“My father resigned from the army in '54,” replied Gerald, with his

cool, impersonal courtesy.

“That was too bad; just before the chance for more service,” said Orde.

“Army life was incompatible with my mother's temperament,” stated

Gerald.

Orde said nothing more. It was Gerald's turn to end the pause.

“You are from Redding, of course,” said he. “My sister is very

enthusiastic about the place. You are in business there?”

Orde replied briefly, but, forced by the direct, cold, and polite

cross-questioning of his companion, he gave the latter a succinct idea

of the sort of operations in which he was interested.

“And you,” he said at last; “I suppose you're either a broker or lawyer;

most men are down here.”

“I am neither one nor the other,” stated Gerald. “I am possessed of a

sufficient income from a legacy to make business unnecessary.”

“I don't believe I'd care to--be idle,” said Orde vaguely.

“There is plenty to occupy one's time,” replied Gerald. “I have my

clubs, my gymnasium, my horse, and my friends.”

“Isn't there anything that particularly attracts you?” asked Orde.

The young man's languid eyes grew thoughtful, and he puffed more

strongly on his cigarette.

“I should like,” said he slowly, at last, “to enter the navy.”

“Why don't you?” asked Orde bluntly.

“Certain family reasons make it inexpedient at present,” said Gerald.

“My mother is in a very nervous state; she depends on us, and any hint

of our leaving her is sufficient to render her condition serious.”

By this time the two young men were well uptown. On Gerald's initiative,

they turned down a side street, and shortly came to a stop.

“That is my gymnasium,” said Gerald, pointing to a building across the

way. “Won't you come in with me? I am due now for my practice.”

XVII

Orde's evening was a disappointment to him. Mrs. Bishop had, by

Carroll's report, worked feverishly at the altar cloth all the

afternoon. As a consequence, she had gone to bed with a bad headache.

This state of affairs seemed to throw the entire family into a state

of indecision. It was divided in mind as to what to do, the absolute

inutility of any effort balancing strongly against a sense of what the

invalid expected.

“I wonder if mother wouldn't like just a taste of this beef,” speculated

the general, moving fussily in his chair. “I believe somebody ought to

take some up. She MIGHT want it.”

The man departed with the plate, but returned a few moments later,

impassive--but still with the plate.

“Has she got her hot-water bag?” asked the boy unexpectedly.

“Yes, Master Kendrick,” replied the butler.

After a preoccupied silence the general again broke out:

“Seems to me somebody ought to be up there with her.”

“You know, father, that she can't stand any one in the room,” said

Carroll equably.

Toward the close of the meal, however, a distant bell tinkled faintly.

Every one jumped as though guilty. Carroll said a hasty excuse and ran

out. After ringing the bell, the invalid had evidently anticipated its

answer by emerging from her room to the head of the stairs, for Orde

caught the sharp tones of complaint, and overheard something about “take

all night to eat a simple meal, when I'm lying here suffering.”

At the end of an interval a maid appeared in the doorway to say that

Miss Carroll sent word she would not be down again for a time, and did

not care for any more dinner. This seemed to relieve the general's mind

of responsibility. He assumed his little fussy air of cheerfulness,

told several stories of the war, and finally, after Kendrick had left,

brought out some whisky and water. He winked slyly at Orde.

“Can't do this before the youngsters, you know,” he chirruped craftily.

Throughout the meal Gerald had sat back silent, a faint amusement in his

eye. After dinner he arose, yawned, consulted his watch, and departed,

pleading an engagement. Orde lingered some time, listening to the

general, in the hope that Carroll would reappear. She did not, so

finally he took his leave.

He trudged back to his hotel gloomily. The day had passed in a most

unsatisfactory manner, according to his way of looking at it. Yet he had

come more clearly to an understanding of the girl; her cheerfulness, her

unselfishness, and, above all, the sweet, beautiful philosophy of life

that must lie back, to render her so uncomplainingly the slave of the

self-willed woman, yet without the indifferent cynicism of Gerald, the

sullen, yet real, partisanship of Kendrick, or the general's week-kneed

acquiescence.

The next morning he succeeded in making an arrangement by letter for an

excursion to the newly projected Central Park. Promptly at two o'clock

he was at the Bishops' house. To his inquiry the butler said that Mrs.

Bishop had recovered from her indisposition, and that Miss Bishop would

be down immediately. Orde had not long to wait for her. The SWISH,

PAT-PAT of her joyous descent of the stairs brought him to his feet. She

swept aside the portieres, and stood between their folds, bidding him

welcome.

“I'm so sorry about last night,” said she, “but poor mother does depend

on me so at such times. Isn't it a gorgeous day to walk? It won't be

much like OUR woods, will it? But it will be something. OH, I'm so glad

to get out!”

She was in one of her elfish moods, the languid grace of her sleepy-eyed

moments forgotten. With a little cry of rapture she ran to the piano,

and dashed into a gay, tinkling air with brilliancy and abandon. Her

head, surmounted by a perky, high-peaked, narrow-brimmed hat, with a

flaming red bird in front, glorified by the braid and “waterfall” of

that day, bent forward and turned to flash an appeal for sympathy toward

Orde.

“There, I feel more able to stay on earth!” she cried, springing to her

feet. “Now I'll get on my gloves and we'll start.”

She turned slowly before the mirror, examining quite frankly the hang

of her skirt, the fit of her close-cut waist, the turn of the adorable

round, low-cut collars that were then the mode.

“It pays to be particular; we are in New York,” she answered, or

parried, Orde's glance of admiration.

The gloves finally drawn on and buttoned, Orde held aside the portieres,

and she passed fairly under his uplifted hand. He wanted to drop his

arm about her, this slender girl with her quaint dignity, her bird-like

ways, her gentle, graceful, mysterious, feminine soul. The flame-red

bird lent its colour to her cheeks; her eyes, black and fathomless, the

pupils wide in this dim light, shone with two stars of delight.

But, as they moved toward the massive front doors, Mrs. Bishop came

down the stairs behind them. She, too, was dressed for the street. She

received Orde's greeting and congratulation over her improved health

in rather an absent manner. Indeed, as soon as she could hurry this

preliminary over, she plunged into what evidently she considered a more

important matter.

“You aren't thinking of going out, are you?” she asked Carroll.

“I told you, mother; don't you remember? Mr. Orde and I are going to get

a little air in the park.”

“I'm sorry,” said Mrs. Bishop, with great brevity and decision, “but

I'm going to the rectory to help Mr. Merritt, and I shall want you to go

too, to see about the silver.”

“But, mother,” expostulated Carroll, “wouldn't Marie do just as well?”

“You know very well she can't be trusted without direction.”

“I DO so want to go to the park,” said Carroll wistfully. Mrs. Bishop's

thin, nervous figure jerked spasmodically. “There is very little asked

of you from morning until night,” she said, with some asperity, “and I

should think you'd have some slight consideration for the fact that I'm

just up from a sick bed to spare me all you could. Besides which, you

do very little for the church. I won't insist. Do exactly as you think

best.”

Carroll threw a pathetic glance at Orde.

“How soon are you going?” she asked her mother.

“In about ten minutes,” replied Mrs. Bishop; “as soon as I've seen

Honorine about the dinner.” She seemed abruptly to realise that the

amenities demanded something of her. “I'm sorry we must go so soon,” she

said briefly to Orde, “but of course church business--We shall hope to

see you often.”

Once more Orde held aside the curtains. The flame-bird drooped from the

twilight of the hall into the dimness of the parlour. All the brightness

seemed to have drained from the day, and all the joy of life seemed

to have faded from the girl's soul. She sank into a chair, and tried

pathetically to smile across at Orde.

“I'm such a baby about disappointments,” said she.

“I know,” he replied, very gently.

“And it's such a blue and gold day.”

“I know,” he repeated.

She twisted her glove in her lap, a bright spot of colour burning in

each cheek.

“Mother is not well, and she has a great deal to try her. Poor mother!”

she said softly, her head cast down.

“I know,” said Orde in his gentle tones.

After a moment he arose to go. She remained seated, her head down.

“I'm sorry about this afternoon,” said he cheerfully, “but it couldn't

be helped, could it? Jane used to tell me about your harp playing. I'm

going to come in to hear you this evening. May I?”

“Yes,” she said, in a stifled voice, and held out her hand. She sat

quite still until she heard the front door close after him; then she ran

to the curtains and looked after his sturdy, square figure, as it swung

up the street.

“Well done; oh, well done, gentle heart!” she breathed after him. Then

she went back to the piano.

But Orde's mouth, could she have seen it, was set in grim lines, and

his feet, could she have heard them, rang on the pavement with quite

superfluous vigour. He turned to the left, and, without pause, walked

some ten or twelve miles.

The evening turned out very well, fortunately; Orde could not have stood

much more. They had the parlour quite to themselves. Carroll took the

cover from the tall harp, and, leaning her cheek against it, she played

dreamily for a half hour. Her arms were bare, and as her fingers reached

out lingeringly and caressingly to draw the pure, golden chords from

the golden instrument, her soft bosom pressed against the broad

sounding board. There is about the tones of a harp well played something

luminous, like rich, warm sunlight. When the girl muted the strings at

last, it seemed to Orde as though all at once the room had perceptibly

darkened. He took his leave finally, his spirit soothed and restored.

Tranquillity was not for long, however. Orde's visits were, naturally,

as frequent as possible. To them almost instantly Mrs. Bishop opposed

the strong and intuitive jealousy of egotism. She had as yet no fears as

to the young man's intentions, but instinctively she felt an influence

that opposed her own supreme dominance. In consequence, Orde had much

time to himself. Carroll and the rest of the family, with the possible

exception of Gerald, shared the belief that the slightest real

opposition to Mrs. Bishop would suffice to throw her into one of her

“spells,” a condition of alarming and possibly genuine collapse. “To

drive mother into a spell” was an expression of the worst possible

domestic crime. It accused the perpetrator--through Mrs. Bishop--of

forgetting the state of affairs, of ingratitude for care and affection,

of common inhumanity, and of impiety in rendering impossible of

performance the multifarious church duties Mrs. Bishop had invented and

assumed as so many particularly shining virtues. Orde soon discovered

that Carroll went out in society very little for the simple reason that

she could never give an unqualified acceptance to an invitation. At the

last moment, when she had donned her street wraps and the carriage was

at the door, she was liable to be called back, either to assist at some

religious function, which, by its sacred character, was supposed to have

precedence over everything, or to attend a nervous crisis, brought on

by some member of the household, or by mere untoward circumstances. The

girl always acquiesced most sweetly in these recurrent disappointments.

And the very fact that she accepted few invitations gave Orde many more

chances to see her, in spite of Mrs. Bishop's increasing exactions.

He did not realise this fact, however, but ground his teeth and clung

blind-eyed to his temper whenever the mother cut short his visits or

annulled his engagements on some petty excuse of her own. He could

almost believe these interruptions malicious, were it not that he soon

discovered Mrs. Bishop well disposed toward him personally whenever he

showed himself ready to meet her even quarter way on the topics that

interested her--the church and her health.

In this manner the week passed. Orde saw as much as he could of Miss

Bishop. The remainder of the time he spent walking the streets and

reading in the club rooms to which Gerald's courtesy had given him

access. Gerald himself seemed to be much occupied. Precisely at eleven

every morning, however, he appeared at the gymnasium for his practice;

and in this Orde dropped into the habit of joining him. When the young

men first stripped in each other's presence, they eyed each other with

a secret surprise. Gerald's slender and elegant body turned out to be

smoothly and gracefully muscled on the long lines of the Flying Mercury.

His bones were small, but his flesh was hard, and his skin healthy with

the flow of blood beneath. Orde, on the other hand, had earned from the

river the torso of an ancient athlete. The round, full arch of his chest

was topped by a mass of clean-cut muscle; across his back, beneath

the smooth skin, the muscles rippled and ridged and dimpled with every

movement; the beautiful curve of the deltoids, from the point of the

shoulder to the arm, met the other beautiful curve of the unflexed

biceps and that fulness of the back arm so often lacking in a one-sided

development; the surface of the abdomen showed the peculiar corrugation

of the very strong man; the round, columnar neck arose massive.

“By Jove!” said Gerald, roused at last from his habitual apathy.

“What's the matter?” asked Orde, looking up from tying the rubber-soled

shoes that Gerald had lent him.

“Murphy,” called Gerald, “come here.”

A very hairy, thick-set, bullet-headed man, the type of

semi-professional “handlers,” emerged from somewhere across the

gymnasium.

“Do you think you could down this fellow?” asked Gerald.

Murphy looked Orde over critically.

“Who ye ringin' in on me?” he inquired.

“This is a friend of mine,” said Gerald severely.

“Beg your pardon. The gentleman is well put up. How much experience has

he had?”

“Ever box much?” Gerald asked Orde.

“Box?” Orde laughed. “Never had time for that sort of thing. Had the

gloves on a few times.”

“Where did you get your training, sir?” asked the handler.

“My training?” repeated Orde, puzzled. “Oh, I see! I was always pretty

heavy, and I suppose the work on the river keeps a man in pretty good

shape.”

Gerald's languor had vanished, and a glint had appeared in his eye that

would have reminded Orde of Miss Bishop's most mischievous mood could he

have seen it.

“Put on the gloves with Murphy,” he suggested, “will you? I'd like to

see you two at it.”

“Surely,” agreed Orde good-naturedly. “I'm not much good at it, but I'd

just as soon try.” He was evidently not in the least afraid to meet the

handler, though as evidently without much confidence in his own skill.

“All right; I'll be with you in a second,” said Gerald, disappearing. In

the anteroom he rung a bell, and to the boy who leisurely answered its

summons he said rapidly:

“Run over to the club and find Mr. Winslow, Mr. Clark, and whoever

else is in the smoking room, and tell them from me to come over to the

gymnasium. Tell them there's some fun on.”

Then he returned to the gymnasium floor, where Murphy was answering

Orde's questions as to the apparatus. While the two men were pulling on

the gloves, Gerald managed a word apart with the trainer.

“Can you do him, Murph?” he whispered.

“Sure!” said the handler. “Them kind's always as slow as dray-horses.

They gets muscle-bound.”

“Give it to him,” said Gerald, “but don't kill him. He's a friend of

mine.”

Then he stepped back, the same joy in his soul that inspires a

riverman when he encounters a high-banker; a hunter when he takes out a

greenhorn, or a cowboy as he watches the tenderfoot about to climb the

bronco.

“Time!” said he.

The first round was sharp. When Gerald called the end, Orde grinned at

him cheerfully.

“Don't look like I was much at this game, does it?” said he. “I wouldn't

pull down many persimmons out of that tree. Your confounded man's too

lively; I couldn't hit him with a shotgun.”

Orde had stood like a rock, his feet planted to the floor, while Murphy

had circled around him hitting at will. Orde hit back, but without

landing. Nevertheless Murphy, when questioned apart, did not seem

satisfied.

“The man's pig-iron,” said he. “I punched him plenty hard enough, and it

didn't seem to jar him.”

The gallery at one end the running track had by now half filled with

interested spectators.

“Time!” called Gerald for round two.

This time Murphy went in more viciously, aiming and measuring his blows

accurately. Orde stood as before, a humourous smile of self-depreciation

on his face, hitting back at the elusive Murphy, but without much

effect, his feet never stirring in their tracks. The handler used his

best tactics and landed almost at will, but without apparent damage. He

grew ugly--finally lost his head.

“Well, if ye will have it!” he muttered, and aimed what was intended as

a knockout blow.

Gerald uttered a half cry of warning as his practised eye caught

Murphy's intention. The blow landed. Orde's head snapped back, but to

the surprise of every one the punch had no other effect, and a quick

exchange of infighting sent Murphy staggering back from the encounter.

The smile had disappeared from Orde's face, and his eye had calmed.

“Look here,” he called to Gerald, “I don't understand this game very

well. At school we used 'taps.' Is a man supposed to hit hard?”

Gerald hesitated, then looked beyond Orde to the gallery. To a man it

made frantic and silent demonstration.

“Of course you hit,” he replied. “You can't hurt any one with those big

gloves.”

Orde turned back to his antagonist. The latter advanced once more,

his bullet head sunk between his shoulders, his little eyes twinkling.

Evidently Mr. Bishop's friend would now take the aggressive, and forward

movement would deliver an extra force to the professional's blows.

Orde did not wait for Murphy, however. Like a tiger he sprang forward,

hitting out fiercely, first with one hand then with the other. Murphy

gave ground, blocked, ducked, exerted all a ring general's skill either

to stop or avoid the rush. Orde followed him insistent. Several times he

landed, but always when Murphy was on the retreat, so the blows had

not much weight. Several times Murphy ducked in and planted a number of

short-arm jabs at close range. The round ended almost immediately to a

storm of applause from the galleries.

“What do you think of his being muscle-bound?” Gerald asked Murphy, as

the latter flung himself panting on the wrestling mat for his rest.

“He's quick as chained lightning,” acknowledged the other grudgingly.

“But I'll get him. He can't keep that up; he'll be winded in half a

minute.”

Orde sat down on a roll of mat. His smile had quite vanished, and he

seemed to be awaiting eagerly the beginning of the next round.

“Time!” called Gerald for the third.

Orde immediately sprang at his adversary, repeating the headlong rush

with which the previous round had ended. Murphy blocked, ducked, and

kept away, occasionally delivering a jolt as opportunity offered,

awaiting the time when Orde's weariness would leave him at the other's

mercy. That moment did not come. The young man hammered away tirelessly,

insistently, delivering a hurricane of his two-handed blows, pressing

relentlessly in as Murphy shifted and gave ground, his head up, his

eyes steady, oblivious to the return hammering the now desperate handler

opposed to him. Two minutes passed without perceptible slackening

in this terrific pace. The gallery was in an uproar, and some of the

members were piling down the stairs to the floor. Perspiration stood out

all over Murphy's body. His blows failed of their effect, and some of

Orde's were landing. At length, bewildered more by the continuance than

the violence of the attack, he dropped his ring tactics and closed in to

straight slugging, blow against blow, stand up, give and take.

As he saw his opponent stand, Orde uttered a sound of satisfaction.

He dropped slightly his right shoulder behind his next blow. The glove

crashed straight as a pile-driver through Murphy's upraised hands to

his face, which it met with a smack. The trainer, lifted bodily from

the ground, was hurled through the air, to land doubled up against the

supports of a parallel bars. There he lay quite still, his palms up, his

head sunk forward.

Orde stared at him a moment in astonishment, as though expecting him

to arise. When, however, he perceived that Murphy was in reality

unconscious, he tore off the gloves and ran forward to kneel by the

professional's side.

“I didn't suppose one punch like that would hurt him,” he muttered to

the men crowding around. “Especially with the gloves. Do you suppose

he's killed?”

But already Murphy's arms were making aimless motions, and a deep breath

raised his chest.

“He's just knocked out,” reassured one of the men, examining the

prostrate handler with a professional attention. “He'll be as good as

ever in five minutes. Here,” he commanded one of the gymnasium rubbers

who had appeared, “lend a hand here with some water.”

The clubmen crowded about, all talking at once.

“You're a wonder, my friend,” said one.

“By Jove, he's hardly breathing fast after all that rushing,” said a

second.

“So you didn't think one punch like that would hurt him,” quoted another

with good-natured sarcasm.

“No,” said Orde, simply. “I've hit men that hard before with my bare

fist.”

“Did they survive?”

“Surely.”

“What kind of armour-plates were they, in heaven's name?”

Orde had recovered his balance and humour.

“Just plain ordinary rivermen,” said he with a laugh.

“Gentlemen,” struck in Gerald, “I want to introduce you to my friend.”

He performed the introductions. It was necessary for him to explain

apart that Orde was in reality his friend, an amateur, a chance visitor

in the city. All in all, the affair made quite a little stir, and went

far to give Orde a standing with these sport-loving youths.

Finally Gerald and Orde were permitted to finish their gymnasium

practice. Murphy had recovered, and came forward.

“You have a strong punch, sir, and you're a born natural fighter, sir,”

said he. “If you had a few lessons in boxing, sir, I'd put you against

the best.”

But later, when the young men were resting, each under his sheet after

a rub-down, the true significance of the affair for Orde came out. Since

the fight, Gerald's customary lassitude of manner seemed quite to have

left him. His eye was bright, a colour mounted beneath the pale olive of

his skin, the almost effeminate beauty of his countenance had animated.

He looked across at Orde several times, hesitated, and at last decided

to speak.

“Look here, Orde,” said he, “I want to confess something to you. When

you first came here three days ago, I had lots of fun with myself about

you. You know your clothes aren't quite the thing, and I thought your

manner was queer, and all that. I was a cad. I want to apologise. You're

a man, and I like you better than any fellow I've met for a long time.

And if there's any trouble--in the future--that is--oh, hang it, I'm on

your side--you know what I mean!”

Orde smiled slowly.

“Bishop,” was his unexpected reply, “you're not near so much of a dandy

as you think you are.”

XVIII

Affairs went thus for a week. Orde was much at the Bishop residence,

where he was cordially received by the general, where he gained an

occasional half-hour with Carroll, and where he was almost ignored by

Mrs. Bishop in her complete self-absorption. Indeed, it is to be doubted

whether he attained any real individuality to that lady, who looked on

all the world outside her family as useful or useless to the church.

In the course of the happy moments he had alone with Carroll, he

arrived at a more intimate plane of conversation with her. He came to an

understanding of her unquestioning acceptance of Mrs. Bishop's attitude.

Carroll truly believed that none but herself could perform for her

mother the various petty offices that lady demanded from her next of

kin, and that her practical slavery was due by every consideration of

filial affection. To Orde's occasional tentative suggestion that the

service was of a sort better suited to a paid companion or even a

housemaid, she answered quite seriously that it made mother nervous to

have others about her, and that it was better to do these things than to

throw her into a “spell.” Orde chafed at first over seeing his precious

opportunities thus filched from him; later he fretted because he

perceived that Carroll was forced, however willingly, to labours beyond

her strength, to irksome confinement, and to that intimate and wearing

close association with the abnormal which in the long run is bound to

deaden the spirit. He lost sight of his own grievance in the matter.

With perhaps somewhat of exaggeration he came mightily to desire for her

more of the open air, both of body and spirit. Often when tramping back

to his hotel he communed savagely with himself, turning the problem over

and over in his mind until, like a snowball, it had gathered to itself

colossal proportions.

And in his hotel room he brooded over the state of affairs until his

thoughts took a very gloomy tinge indeed. To begin with, in spite of his

mother's assurance, he had no faith in his own cause. His acquaintance

with Carroll was but an affair of months, and their actual meetings

comprised incredibly few days. Orde was naturally humble-minded. It

did not seem conceivable to him that he could win her without a long

courtship. And superadded was the almost intolerable weight of Carroll's

ideas as to her domestic duties. Although Orde held Mrs. Bishop's

exactions in very slight esteem, and was most sceptical in regard to

the disasters that would follow their thwarting, nevertheless he had to

confess to himself that all Carroll's training, life, the very purity

and sweetness of her disposition lent the situation an iron reality for

her. He became much discouraged.

Nevertheless, at the very moment when he had made up his mind that it

would be utterly useless even to indulge in hope for some years to come,

he spoke. It came about suddenly, and entirely without premeditation.

The two had escaped for a breath of air late in the evening. Following

the conventions, they merely strolled to the end of the block and back,

always within sight of the house. Fifth Avenue was gay with illumination

and the prancing of horses returning uptown or down to the Washington

Square district. In contrast the side street, with its austere rows of

brownstone houses, each with its area and flight of steps, its spaced

gas lamps, its deserted roadway, seemed very still and quiet. Carroll

was in a tired and pensive mood. She held her head back, breathing

deeply.

“It's only a little strip, but it's the stars,” said she, looking up to

the sky between the houses. “They're so quiet and calm and big.”

She seemed to Orde for the first time like a little girl. The maturer

complexities which we put on with years, with experience, and with the

knowledge of life had for the moment fallen from her, leaving merely the

simple soul of childhood gazing in its eternal wonder at the stars. A

wave of tenderness lifted Orde from his feet. He leaned over, his breath

coming quickly.

“Carroll!” he said.

She looked up at him, and shrank back.

“No, no! You mustn't,” she cried. She did not pretend to misunderstand.

The preliminaries seemed in some mysterious fashion to have been said

long ago.

“It's life or death with me,” he said.

“I must not,” she cried, fluttering like a bird. “I promised myself long

ago that I must always, ALWAYS take care of mother.”

“Please, please, dear,” pleaded Orde. He had nothing more to say than

this, just the simple incoherent symbols of pleading; but in such crises

it is rather the soul than the tongue that speaks. His hand met hers and

closed about it. It did not respond to his grasp, nor did it draw away,

but lay limp and warm and helpless in his own.

She shook her head slowly.

“Don't you care for me, dear?” asked Orde very gently.

“I have no right to tell you that,” answered she. “I have tried, oh, so

hard, to keep you from saying this, for I knew I had no right to hear

you.”

Orde's heart leaped with a wild exultation.

“You do care for me!” he cried.

They had mounted the steps and stood just within the vestibule. Orde

drew her toward him, but she repulsed him gently.

“No,” she shook her head. “Please be very good to me. I'm very weak.”

“Carroll!” cried Orde. “Tell me that you love me! Tell me that you'll

marry me!”

“It would kill mother if I should leave her,” she said sadly.

“But you must marry me,” pleaded Orde. “We are made for each other. God

meant us for each other.”

“It would have to be after a great many years,” she said doubtfully.

She pulled the bell, which jangled faintly in the depths of the house.

“Good-night,” she said. “Come to me to-morrow. No, you must not come

in.” She cut short Orde's insistence and the eloquence that had just

found its life by slipping inside the half-open door and closing it

after her.

Orde stood for a moment uncertain; then turned away and walked up the

street, his eyes so blinded by the greater glory that he all but ran

down an inoffensive passer-by.

At the hotel he wrote a long letter to his mother. The first part was

full of the exultation of his discovery. He told of his good fortune

quite as something just born, utterly forgetting his mother's

predictions before he came East. Then as the first effervescence died,

a more gloomy view of the situation came uppermost. To his heated

imagination the deadlock seemed complete. Carroll's devotion to what she

considered her duty appeared unbreakable. In the reaction Orde doubted

whether he would have it otherwise. And then his fighting blood surged

back to his heart. All the eloquence, the arguments, the pleadings he

should have commanded earlier in the evening hurried belated to their

posts. After the manner of the young and imaginative when in the

white fire of emotion, he began dramatising scenes between Carroll and

himself. He saw them plainly. He heard the sound of his own voice as

he rehearsed the arguments which should break her resolution. A woman's

duty to her own soul; her obligation toward the man she could make or

mar by her love; her self-respect; the necessity of a break some time;

the advantage of having the crisis over with now rather than later; a

belief in the ultimate good even to Mrs. Bishop of throwing that

lady more on her own resources; and so forth and so on down a list of

arguments obvious enough or trivial enough, but all inspired by the soul

of fervour, all ennobled by the spirit of truth that lies back of the

major premise that a woman should cleave to a man, forsaking all others.

Orde sat back in his chair, his eyes vacant, his pen all but falling

from his hand. He did not finish the letter to his mother. After a while

he went upstairs to his own room.

The fever of the argument coursed through his veins all that long night.

Over and over again he rehearsed it in wearisome repetition until it had

assumed a certain and almost invariable form. And when he had reached

the end of his pleading he began it over again, until the daylight found

him weary and fevered. He arose and dressed himself. He could eat no

breakfast. By a tremendous effort of the will he restrained himself from

going over to Ninth Street until the middle of the morning.

He entered the drawing-room to find her seated at the piano. His heart

bounded, and for an instant he stood still, summoning his forces to the

struggle for which he had so painfully gathered his ammunition. She did

not look up as he approached until he stood almost at her shoulder. Then

she turned to him and held out both her hands.

“It is no use, Jack,” she said. “I care for you too much. I will marry

you whenever you say.”

XIX

Orde left that evening early. This was at Carroll's request. She

preferred herself to inform her family of the news.

“I don't know yet how mother is going to get along,” said she. “Come

back to-morrow afternoon and see them all.”

The next morning Orde, having at last finished and despatched the letter

to his mother, drifted up the avenue and into the club. As he passed

the smoking room he caught sight of Gerald seated in an armchair by the

window. He entered the room and took a seat opposite the young fellow.

Gerald held out his hand silently, which the other took.

“I'm glad to hear it,” said Gerald at last. “Very glad. I told you I

was on your side.” He hesitated, then went on gravely: “Poor Carroll is

having a hard time, though. I think it's worse than she expected. It's

no worse than I expected. You are to be one of the family, so I am going

to give you a piece of advice. It's something, naturally, I wouldn't

speak of otherwise. But Carroll is my only sister, and I want her to be

happy. I think you are the man to make her so, but I want you to avoid

one mistake. Fight it out right now, and never give back the ground you

win.”

“I feel that,” replied Orde quietly.

“Mother made father resign from the army; and while he's a dear old boy,

he's never done anything since. She holds me--although I see through

her--possibly because I'm weak or indifferent, possibly because I have

a silly idea I can make a bad situation better by hanging around. She is

rapidly turning Kendrick into a sullen little prig, because he believes

implicitly all the grievances against the world and the individual she

pours out to him. You see, I have no illusions concerning my family.

Only Carroll has held to her freedom of soul, because that's the joyous,

free, sweet nature of her, bless her! For the first time she's pitted

her will against mother's, and it's a bad clash.”

“Your mother objected?” asked Orde.

Gerald laughed a little bitterly. “It was very bad,” said he. “You've

grown horns, hoofs, and a tail overnight. There's nothing too criminal

to have escaped your notice. I have been forbidden to consort with you.

So has the general. The battle of last night had to do with your coming

to the house at all. As it is not Carroll's house, naturally she has no

right to insist.”

“I shall not be permitted to see her?” cried Orde.

“I did not say that. Carroll announced then quite openly that she would

see you outside. I fancy that was the crux of the matter. Don't you

see? The whole affair shifted ground. Carroll has offered direct

disobedience. Oh, she's a bully little fighter!” he finished in admiring

accents. “You can't quite realise what she's doing for your sake; she's

not only fighting mother, but her own heart.”

Orde found a note at the hotel, asking him to be in Washington Square at

half-past two.

Carroll met him with a bright smile.

“Things aren't quite right at home,” she said. “It is a great shock to

poor mother at first, and she feels very strongly. Oh, it isn't you,

dear; it's the notion that I can care for anybody but her. You see,

she's been used to the other idea so long that I suppose it seemed a

part of the universe to her. She'll get used to it after a little, but

it takes time.”

Orde examined her face anxiously. Two bright red spots burned on her

cheeks; her eyes flashed with a nervous animation, and a faint shade had

sketched itself beneath them.

“You had a hard time,” he murmured, “you poor dear!”

She smiled up at him.

“We have to pay for the good things in life, don't we, dear? And they

are worth it. Things will come right after a little. We must not be too

impatient. Now, let's enjoy the day. The park isn't so bad, is it?”

At five o'clock Orde took her back to her doorstep, where he left her.

This went on for several days.

At the end of that time Orde could not conceal from himself that the

strain was beginning to tell. Carroll's worried expression grew from

day to day, while the animation that characterised her manner when

freed from the restraint became more and more forced. She was as though

dominated by some inner tensity, which she dared not relax even for a

moment. To Orde's questionings she replied as evasively as she could,

assuring him always that matters were going as well as she had expected;

that mother was very difficult; that Orde must have patience, for things

would surely come all right. She begged him to remain quiescent until

she gave him the word; and she implored it so earnestly that Orde,

though he chafed, was forced to await the turn of events. Every

afternoon she met him, from two to five. The situation gave little

opportunity for lovers' demonstrations. She seemed entirely absorbed by

the inner stress of the struggle she was going through, so that hardly

did she seem able to follow coherently even plans for the future. She

appeared, however, to gain a mysterious refreshment from Orde's

mere proximity; so gradually he, with that streak of almost feminine

intuition which is the especial gift to lovers, came to the point of

sitting quite silent with her, clasping her hand out of sight of the

chance passer-by. When the time came to return, they arose and walked

back to Ninth Street, still in silence. At the door they said good-bye.

He kissed her quite soberly.

“I wish I could help, sweetheart,” said he.

She shook her head at him.

“You do help,” she replied.

From Gerald at the club, Orde sought more intimate news of what was

going on. For several days, however, the young man absented himself from

his usual haunts. It was only at the end of the week that Orde succeeded

in finding him.

“No,” Gerald answered his greeting, “I haven't been around much. I've

been sticking pretty close home.”

Little by little, Orde's eager questions drew out the truth of the

situation. Mrs. Bishop had shut herself up in a blind and incredible

obstinacy, whence she sallied with floods of complaints, tears,

accusations, despairs, reproaches, vows, hysterics--all the battery

of the woman misunderstood, but in which she refused to listen to a

consecutive conversation. If Carroll undertook to say anything,

the third word would start her mother off into one of her long and

hysterical tirades. It was very wearing, and there seemed to be nothing

gained from day to day. Her child had disobeyed her. And as a climax,

she had assumed the impregnable position of a complete prostration,

wherein she demanded the minute care of an invalid in the crisis of a

disorder. She could bear no faintest ray of illumination, no lightest

footfall. In a hushed twilight she lay, her eyes swathed, moaning feebly

that her early dissolution at the hands of ingratitude was imminent.

Thus she established a deadlock which was likely to continue

indefinitely. The mere mention of the subject nearest Carroll's heart

brought the feeble complaint:

“Do you want to kill me?”

The only scrap of victory to be snatched from this stricken field

was the fact that Carroll insisted on going to meet her lover every

afternoon. The invalid demanded every moment of her time, either for

personal attendance or in fulfilment of numerous and exacting church

duties. An attempt, however, to encroach thus on the afternoon hours met

a stone wall of resolution on Carroll's part.

This was the situation Orde gathered from his talk with Gerald. Though

he fretted under the tyranny exacted, he could see nothing which could

relieve the situation save his own withdrawal. He had already long

over-stayed his visit; important affairs connected with his work

demanded his attention, he had the comfort of Carroll's love assured;

and the lapse of time alone could be depended on to change Mrs. Bishop's

attitude, a consummation on which Carroll seemed set. Although Orde felt

all the lively dissatisfaction natural to a newly accepted lover who

had gained slight opportunity for favours, for confidences, even for the

making of plans, nevertheless he could see for the present nothing else

to do.

The morning after he had reached this conclusion he again met Gerald

at the gymnasium. That young man, while as imperturbable and languid in

movement as ever, concealed an excitement. He explained nothing until

the two, after a shower and rub-down, were clothing themselves leisurely

in the empty couch-room.

“Orde,” said Gerald suddenly, “I'm worried about Carroll.”

Orde straightened his back and looked steadily at Gerald, but said

nothing.

“Mother has commenced bothering her again. It wasn't so bad as long as

she stuck to daytime, but now she's taken to prowling in a dozen times a

night. I hear their voices for an hour or so at a time. I'm afraid it's

beginning to wear on Carroll more than you realise.”

“Thank you,” said Orde briefly.

That afternoon with Carroll he took the affair firmly in hand.

“This thing has come to the point where it must stop,” said he, “and

I'm going to stop it. I have some rights in the matter of the health and

comfort of the girl I love.”

“What do you intend to do?” asked Carroll, frightened.

“I shall have it out with your mother,” replied Orde.

“You mustn't do that,” implored Carroll. “It would do absolutely no

good, and would just result in a quarrel that could never be patched

up.”

“I don't know as I care particularly,” said Orde.

“But I do. Think--she is my mother.”

Orde stirred uneasily with a mental reservation as to selfishness, but

said nothing.

“And think what it means to a girl to be married and go away from home

finally without her parent's consent. It's the most beautiful and sacred

thing in her life, and she wants it to be perfect. It's worth waiting

and fighting a little for. After all, we are both young, and we have

known each other such a very short time.”

So she pleaded with him, bringing forward all the unanswerable arguments

built by the long average experience of the world--arguments which

Orde could not refute, but whose falsity to the situation he felt most

keenly. He could not specify without betraying Gerald's confidence.

Raging inwardly, he consented to a further armistice.

At his hotel he found a telegram. He did not open it until he had

reached his own room. It was from home, urging his immediate return for

the acceptance of some contracted work.

“To hell with the contracted work!” he muttered savagely, and calling a

bell-boy, sent an answer very much to that effect. Then he plunged his

hands into his pockets, stretched out his legs, and fell into a deep and

gloomy meditation.

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in!” he called, without turning his head.

He heard the door open and shut. After a moment he looked around.

Kendrick Bishop stood watching him.

Orde lit the gas.

“Hello, Kendrick!” said he. “Sit down.” The boy made no reply. Orde

looked at him curiously, and saw that he was suffering from an intense

excitement. His frame trembled convulsively, his lips were white, his

face went red and pale by turns. Evidently he had something to say, but

could not yet trust his voice. Orde sat down and waited.

“You've got to let my mother alone,” he managed to say finally.

“I have done nothing to your mother, Kendrick,” said Orde kindly.

“You've brought her to the point of death,” asserted Keudrick violently.

“You're hounding her to her grave. You're turning those she loves best

against her.”

Orde thought to catch the echo of quotation in these words.

“Did your mother send you to me?” he asked.

“If we had any one else worth the name of man in the family, I wouldn't

have to come,” said Kendrick, almost in the manner of one repeating a

lesson.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Orde after a moment of thought.

“Go away,” cried Kendrick. “Stop this unmanly contest against a

defenceless woman.”

“I cannot do that,” replied Orde quietly.

Kendrick's face assumed a livid pallor, and his eyes seemed to turn

black with excitement. Trembling in every limb, but without hesitation,

he advanced on Orde, drew a short riding-whip from beneath his coat, and

slashed the young man across the face. Orde made an involuntary movement

to arise, but sank back, and looked steadily at the boy. Once again

Kendrick hit; raised his arm for the third time; hesitated. His lips

writhed, and then, with a sob, he cast the little whip from him and

burst from the room.

Orde sat without moving, while two red lines slowly defined themselves

across his face. The theatrical quality of the scene and the turgid

rhetorical bathos of the boy's speeches attested his youth and the

unformed violence of his emotions. Did they also indicate a rehearsal,

or had the boy merely been goaded to vague action by implicit belief in

a woman's vagaries? Orde did not know, but the incident brought home to

him, as nothing else could, the turmoil of that household.

“Poor youngster!” he concluded his reverie, and went to wash his face in

hot water.

He had left Carroll that afternoon in a comparatively philosophical

and hopeful frame of mind. The next day she came to him with hurried,

nervous steps, her usually pale cheeks mounting danger signals of

flaming red, her eyes swimming. When she greeted him she choked, and two

of the tears overflowed. Quite unmindful of the nursemaids across the

square, Orde put his arm comfortingly about her shoulder. She hid her

face against his sleeve and began softly to cry.

Orde did not attempt as yet to draw from her the cause of this unusual

agitation. A park bench stood between two dense bushes, screened from

all directions save one. To this he led her. He comforted her as one

comforts a child, stroking clumsily her hair, murmuring trivialities

without meaning, letting her emotion relieve itself. After awhile she

recovered somewhat her control of herself and sat up away from him,

dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief dampened into a tiny wad. But

even after she had shaken her head vigorously at last, and smiled up at

him rather tremulously in token that the storm was over, she would not

tell him that anything definite had happened to bring on the outburst.

“I just needed you,” she said, “that's all. It's just nothing but being

a woman, I think. You'll get used to little things like that.”

“This thing has got to quit!” said he grimly.

She said nothing, but reached up shyly and touched his face where

Kendrick's whip had stung, and her eyes became very tender. A carriage

rolled around Washington Arch, and, coming to a stand, discharged its

single passenger on the pavement.

“Why, it's Gerald!” cried Carroll, surprised.

The young man, catching sight of them, picked his way daintily and

leisurely toward them. He was, as usual, dressed with meticulous nicety,

the carnation in his button-hole, the gloss on his hat and shoes, the

freshness on his gloves, the correct angle on his stick. His dark, long

face with its romantic moustache, and its almost effeminate soft eyes,

was as unemotional and wearied as ever. As he approached, he raised his

stick slightly by way of salutation.

“I have brought,” said he, “a carriage, and I wish you would both do me

the favour to accompany me on a short excursion.”

Taking their consent for granted, he signalled the vehicle, which

rapidly approached.

The three--Carroll and Orde somewhat bewildered--took their seats.

During a brief drive, Gerald made conversation on different topics,

apparently quite indifferent as to whether or not his companions

replied. After an interval the carriage drew up opposite a brown-stone

dwelling on a side street. Gerald rang the bell, and a moment later the

three were ushered by a discreet and elderly maid into a little square

reception-room immediately off the hall. The maid withdrew.

Gerald carefully deposited his top hat on the floor, placed in it his

gloves, and leaned his stick against its brim.

“I have brought you here, among other purposes, to hear from me a little

brief wisdom drawn from experience and the observation of life,” he

began, addressing his expectant and curious guests. “That wisdom is

briefly this: there comes a time in the affairs of every household when

a man must assert himself as the ruler. In all the details he may depend

on the woman's judgment, experience, and knowledge, but when it comes to

the big crises, where life is deflected into one channel or the other,

then, unless the man does the deciding, he is lost for ever, and

his happiness, and the happiness of those who depend on him. This is

abstruse, but I come to the particular application shortly.

“But moments of decision are always clouded by many considerations. The

decision is sure to cut across much that is expedient, much that seems

to be necessary, much that is dear. Carroll remembers the case of our

own father. The general would have made a name for himself in the army;

his wife demanded his retirement; he retired, and his career ended. That

was the moment of his decision. It is very easy to say, in view of that

simple statement, that the general was weak in yielding to his wife, but

a consideration of the circumstances--”

“Why do you say all this?” interrupted Orde.

Gerald raised his hand.

“Believe me, it is necessary, as you will agree when you have heard me

through. Mrs. Bishop was in poor health; the general in poor financial

circumstances. The doctors said the Riviera. Mrs. Bishop's parents, who

were wealthy, furnished the money for her sojourn in that climate. She

could not bear to be separated from her husband. A refusal to resign

then, a refusal to accept the financial aid offered, would have been

cast against him as a reproach--he did not love his wife enough to

sacrifice his pride, his ambition, his what-you-will. Nevertheless, that

was his moment of decision.

“I could multiply instances, yet it would only accumulate needless

proof. My point is that in these great moments a man can afford to

take into consideration only the affair itself. Never must he think of

anything but the simple elements of the problem--he must ignore whose

toes are trodden upon, whose feelings are hurt, whose happiness is

apparently marred. For note this: if a man does fearlessly the right

thing, I am convinced that in the readjustment all these conflicting

interests find themselves bettered instead of injured. You want a

concrete instance? I believe firmly that if the general had kept to his

army life, and made his wife conform to it, after the storm had passed

she would have settled down to a happy existence. I cannot prove it--I

believe it.”

“This may be all very true, Gerald,” said Orde, “but I fail to see why

you have brought us to this strange house to tell it.”

“In a moment,” replied Gerald. “Have patience. Believing that

thoroughly, I have come in the last twenty-four hours to a decision.

That this happens not to affect my own immediate fortunes does not seem

to me to invalidate my philosophy.”

He carefully unbuttoned his frock coat, crossed his legs, produced a

paper and a package from his inside pocket, and eyed the two before him.

“I have here,” he went on suddenly, “marriage papers duly made out;

in this package is a plain gold ring; in the next room is waiting, by

prearrangement, a very good friend of mine in the clergy. Personally I

am at your disposal.”

He looked at them expectantly.

“The very thing!” “Oh, no!” cried Orde and Carroll in unison.

Nevertheless, in spite of this divergence of opinion, ten minutes later

the three passed through the door into the back apartment--Carroll still

hesitant, Orde in triumph, Gerald as correct and unemotional as ever.

In this back room they found waiting a young clergyman conversing easily

with two young girls. At the sight of Carroll, these latter rushed

forward and overwhelmed her with endearments. Carroll broke into a

quickly suppressed sob and clasped them close to her.

“Oh, you dears!” she cried, “I'm so glad you're here!” She flashed a

grateful look in Gerald's direction, and a moment later took occasion to

press his arm and whisper:

“You've thought of everything! You're the dearest brother in the world!”

Gerald received this calmly, and set about organising the ceremony. In

fifteen minutes the little party separated at the front door, amid a

chatter of congratulations and good wishes. Mr. and Mrs. Orde entered

the cab and drove away.

XX

“Oh, it IS the best way, dear, after all!” cried Carroll, pressing close

to her husband. “A few minutes ago I was all doubts and fears, but now

I feel so safe and settled,” she laughed happily. “It is as though I

had belonged to you always, you old Rock of Gibraltar! and anything that

happens now will come from the outside, and not from the inside, won't

it, dear?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” said Orde.

“Poor mother! I wonder how she'll take it.”

“We'll soon know, anyway,” replied Orde, a little grimly.

In the hallway of the Bishop house Orde kissed her.

“Be brave, sweetheart,” said he, “but remember that now you're my wife.”

She nodded at him gravely and disappeared.

Orde sat in the dim parlour for what seemed to be an interminable

period. Occasionally the sounds of distant voices rose to his ear and

died away again. The front door opened to admit some one, but Orde

could not see who it was. Twice a scurrying of feet overhead seemed to

indicate the bustle of excitement. The afternoon waned. A faint whiff

of cooking, escaping through some carelessly open door, was borne to

his nostrils. It grew dark, but the lamps remained unlighted. Finally he

heard the rustle of the portieres, and turned to see the dim form of the

general standing there.

“Bad business! bad business!” muttered the old man. “It's very hard

on me. Perhaps you did the right thing--you must be good to her--but I

cannot countenance this affair. It was most high-handed, sir!”

The portieres fell again, and he disappeared.

Finally, after another interval, Carroll returned. She went immediately

to the gas-fixture, which she lit. Orde then saw that she was sobbing

violently. She came to him, and for a moment hid her face against his

breast. He patted her hair, waiting for her to speak. After a little she

controlled herself.

“How was it?” asked Orde, then.

She shivered.

“I never knew people could be so cruel,” she complained in almost a

bewildered manner. “Jack, we must go to-night. She--she has ordered me

out of the house, and says she never wants to see my face again.” She

broke down for a second. “Oh, Jack! she can't mean that. I've always

been a good daughter to her. And she's very bitter against Gerald. Oh!

I told her it wasn't his fault, but she won't listen. She sent for

that odious Mr. Merritt--her rector, you know--and he supported her. I

believe he's angry because we did not go to him. Could you believe

such a thing! And she's shut herself up in her air of high virtue, and

underneath it she's, oh, so angry!”

“Well, it's natural she should be upset,” comforted Orde. “Don't think

too much of what she does now. Later she'll get over it.”

Carroll shivered again.

“You don't know, dear, and I'm not going to tell you. Why,” she cried,

“she told me that you and I were in a conspiracy to drive her to her

grave so we could get her money!”

“She must be a little crazy,” said Orde, still pacifically.

“Come, help me,” said Carroll. “I must get my things.”

“Can't you just pack a bag and leave the rest until tomorrow? It's about

hungry time.”

“She says I must take every stitch belonging to me tonight.”

They packed trunks until late that night, quite alone. Gerald had

departed promptly after breaking the news, probably without realising

to what a pass affairs would come. A frightened servant, evidently in

disobedience of orders and in fear of destruction, brought them a tray

of food, which she put down on a small table and hastily fled. In a room

down the hall they could hear the murmur of voices where Mrs. Bishop

received spiritual consolation from her adviser. When the trunks were

packed, Orde sent for a baggage waggon. Carroll went silently from place

to place, saying farewell to such of her treasures as she had made up

her mind to leave. Orde scribbled a note to Gerald, requesting him

to pack up the miscellanies and send them to Michigan by freight. The

baggage man and Orde carried the trunks downstairs. No one appeared.

Carroll and Orde walked together to the hotel. Next morning an interview

with Gerald confirmed them in their resolution of immediate departure.

“She is set in her opposition now, and at present she believes firmly

that her influence will separate you. Such a state of mind cannot be

changed in an hour.”

“And you?” asked Carroll.

“Oh, I,” he shrugged, “will go on as usual. I have my interests.”

“I wish you would come out in our part of the country,” ventured Orde.

Gerald smiled his fine smile.

“Good-bye,” said he. “Going to a train is useless, and a bore to

everybody.”

Carroll threw herself on his neck in an access of passionate weeping.

“You WILL write and tell me of everything, won't you?” she begged.

“Of course. There now, good-bye.”

Orde followed him into the hall.

“It would be quite useless to attempt another interview?” he inquired.

Gerald made a little mouth.

“I am in the same predicament as yourselves,” said he, “and have since

nine this morning taken up my quarters at the club. Please do not tell

Carroll; it would only pain her.”

At the station, just before they passed in to the train, the general

appeared.

“There, there!” he fussed. “If your mother should hear of my being here,

it would be a very bad business, very bad. This is very sad; but--well,

good-bye, dear; and you, sir, be good to her. And write your daddy,

Carroll. He'll be lonesome for you.” He blew his nose very loudly and

wiped his glasses. “Now, run along, run along,” he hurried them. “Let us

not have any scenes. Here, my dear, open this envelope when you are well

started. It may help cheer the journey. Not a word!”

He hurried them through the gate, paying no heed to what they were

trying to say. Then he steamed away and bustled into a cab without once

looking back.

When the train had passed the Harlem River and was swaying its uneven

way across the open country, Carroll opened the envelope. It contained a

check for a thousand dollars.

“Dear old daddy!” she murmured. “Our only wedding present!”

“You are the capitalist of the family,” said Orde. “You don't know

how poor a man you've married. I haven't much more than the proverbial

silver watch and bad nickel.”

She reached out to press his hand in reassurance. He compared it

humorously with his own.

“What a homely, knotted, tanned old thing it is by yours,” said he.

“It's a strong hand,” she replied soberly, “it's a dear hand.” Suddenly

she snatched it up and pressed it for a fleeting instant against her

cheek, looking at him half ashamed.

XXI

The winter months were spent at Monrovia, where Orde and his wife lived

for a time at the hotel. This was somewhat expensive, but Orde was not

quite ready to decide on a home, and he developed unexpected opposition

to living at Redding in the Orde homestead.

“No, I've been thinking about it,” he told Grandma Orde. “A young couple

should start out on their own responsibility. I know you'd be glad to

have us, but I think it's better the other way. Besides, I must be at

Monrovia a good deal of the time, and I want Carroll with me. She can

make you a good long visit in the spring, when I have to go up river.”

To this Grandma Orde, being a wise old lady, had to nod her assent,

although she would much have liked her son near her.

At Monrovia, then, they took up their quarters. Carroll soon became

acquainted with the life of the place. Monrovia, like most towns of its

sort and size, consisted of an upper stratum of mill owners and lumber

operators, possessed of considerable wealth, some cultivation,

and definite social ideas; a gawky, countrified, middle estate of

storekeepers, catering both to the farm and local trade and the lumber

mill operatives, generally of Holland extraction, who dwelt in simple

unpainted board shanties. The class first mentioned comprised a small

coterie, among whom Carroll soon found two or three congenials--Edith

Fuller, wife of the young cashier in the bank; Valerie Cathcart, whose

husband had been killed in the Civil War; Clara Taylor, wife of the

leading young lawyer of the village; and, strangely enough, Mina

Heinzman, the sixteen-year-old daughter of old Heinzman, the lumberman.

Nothing was more indicative of the absolute divorce of business and

social life than the unbroken evenness of Carroll's friendship for the

younger girl. Though later the old German and Orde locked in serious

struggle on the river, they continued to meet socially quite as usual;

and the daughter of one and the wife of the other never suspected

anything out of the ordinary. This impersonality of struggle has always

been characteristic of the pioneer business man's good-nature.

Newmark received the news of his partner's sudden marriage without

evincing any surprise, but with a sardonic gleam in one corner of his

eye. He called promptly, conversed politely for a half hour, and then

took his leave.

“How do you like him?” asked Orde, when he had gone.

“He looks like a very shrewd man,” replied Carroll, picking her words

for fear of saying the wrong thing.

Orde laughed.

“You don't like him,” he stated.

“I don't dislike him,” said Carroll. “I've not a thing against him.

But we could never be in the slightest degree sympathetic. He and I

don't--don't--”

“Don't jibe,” Orde finished for her. “I didn't much think you would. Joe

never was much of a society bug.” It was on the tip of Carroll's

tongue to reply that “society bugs” were not the only sort she could

appreciate, but she refrained. She had begun to realise the extent of

her influence over her husband's opinion.

Newmark did not live at the hotel. Early in the fall he had rented a

small one-story house situated just off Main Street, set well back from

the sidewalk among clumps of oleanders. Into this he retired as a snail

into its shell. At first he took his meals at the hotel, but later he

imported an impassive, secretive man-servant, who took charge of

him completely. Neither master nor man made any friends, and in fact

rebuffed all advances. One Sunday, Carroll and Orde, out for a walk,

passed this quaint little place, with its picket fence.

“Let's go in and return Joe's call,” suggested Orde.

Their knock at the door brought the calm valet.

“Mr. Newmark is h'out, sir,” said he. “Yes, sir, I'll tell him that you

called.”

They turned away. As they sauntered down the little brick-laid walk,

Carroll suddenly pressed close to her husband's arm.

“Jack,” she begged, “I want a little house like that, for our very own.”

“We can't afford it, sweetheart.”

“Not to own,” she explained, “just to rent. It will be next best to

having a home of our own.”

“We'd have to have a girl, dear,” said Orde, “and we can't even afford

that, yet.”

“A girl!” cried Carroll indignantly. “For us two!”

“You couldn't do the housework and the cooking,” said Orde. “You've

never done such a thing in your life, and I won't have my little girl

slaving.”

“It won't be slaving, it will be fun--just like play-housekeeping,”

protested Carroll. “And I've got to learn some time. I was brought up

most absurdly, and I realise it now.”

“We'll see,” said Orde vaguely.

The subject was dropped for the time being. Later Carroll brought it up

again. She was armed with several sheets of hotel stationery, covered

with figures showing how much cheaper it would be to keep house than to

board.

“You certainly make out a strong case--on paper,” laughed Orde. “If you

buy a rooster and a hen, and she raises two broods, at the end of a

year you'll have twenty-six; and if they all breed--even allowing half

roosters--you'll have over three hundred; and if they all breed, you'll

have about thirty-five hundred; and if--”

“Stop! stop!” cried Carroll, covering her ears.

“All right,” agreed Orde equably, “but that's the way it figures. Funny

the earth isn't overrun with chickens, isn't it?”

She thrust her tables of figures into her desk drawer. “You're just

making fun of me always,” she said reproachfully.

Two days later Orde took her one block up the street to look at a

tiny little house tucked on a fifty-foot lot beneath the shadow of the

church.

“It's mighty little,” said he. “I'll have to go out in the hall to

change my collar, and we couldn't have more than two people at a time to

call on us.”

“It's a dear!” said she, “and I'm not so e-nor-mous myself, whatever YOU

may be.”

They ended by renting the little house, and Carroll took charge of it

delightedly. What difficulties she overcame, and what laughable and

cryable mistakes she made only those who have encountered a like

situation could realise. She learned fast, however, and took a real

pride in her tiny box of a home. A piano was, of course, out of the

question, but the great golden harp occupied one corner, or rather

one side, of the parlour. Standing thus enshrouded in its covering, it

rather resembled an august and tremendous veiled deity. To Carroll's

great delight, Orde used solemnly to go down on all fours and knock

his forehead thrice on the floor before it when he entered the house

at evening. When the very cold weather came and they had to light the

base-burner stove, which Orde stoutly maintained occupied all the other

half of the parlour, the harp's delicate constitution necessitated its

standing in the hall. Nevertheless, Carroll had great comfort from it.

While Orde was away at the office, she whispered through its mellow

strings her great happiness, the dreams for her young motherhood which

would come in the summer, the vague and lingering pain over the hapless

but beloved ones she had left behind her in her other life. Then she

arose refreshed, and went about the simple duties of her tiny domain.

The winter was severe. All the world was white. The piles of snow along

the sidewalks grew until Carroll could hardly look over them. Great

fierce winds swept in from the lake. Sometimes Orde and his wife drove

two miles to the top of the sand hills, where first they had met in this

their present home, and looked out beyond the tumbled shore ice to the

steel-gray, angry waters. The wind pricked their faces, and, going

home, the sleigh-bells jingled, the snowballs from the horses' hoofs hit

against the dash, the cold air seared the inside of their nostrils. When

Orde helped Carroll from beneath the warm buffalo robes, she held up to

him a face glowing with colour, framed in the soft fluffy fur of a hood.

“You darling!” he cried, and stooped to kiss her smooth, cold cheek.

When he had returned from the stable around the corner, he found the lit

lamp throwing its modified light and shade over the little round table.

He shook down the base-burner vigorously, thrust several billets of wood

in its door, and turned to meet her eyes across the table.

“Kind of fun being married, isn't it?” said he.

“Kind of,” she admitted, nodding gravely.

The business of the firm was by now about in shape. All the boom

arrangements had been made; the two tugs were in the water and their

machinery installed; supplies and equipments were stored away; the

foremen of the crews engaged, and the crews themselves pretty well

picked out. Only there needed to build the wanigan, and to cart in the

supplies for the upper river works before the spring break-up and the

almost complete disappearance of the roads. Therefore, Orde had the good

fortune of unusual leisure to enjoy these first months with his

bride. They entered together the Unexplored Country, and found it more

wonderful than they had dreamed. Almost before they knew it, January and

February had flown.

“We must pack up, sweetheart,” said Orde.

“It's only yesterday that we came,” she cried regretfully.

They took the train for Redding, were installed in the gable room,

explored together for three days the delights of the old-fashioned

house, the spicy joys of Grandma Orde's and Amanda's cookery, the almost

adoring adulation of the old folks. Then Orde packed his “turkey,”

assumed his woods clothes, and marched off down the street carrying his

bag on his back.

“He looks like an old tramp in that rig,” said Grandma Orde, closing the

storm door.

“He looks like a conqueror of wildernesses!” cried Carroll, straining

her eyes after his vanishing figure. Suddenly she darted after him,

calling in her high, bird-like tones. He turned and came back to her.

She clasped him by the shoulders, reluctant to let him go.

“Good-bye,” she said at last. “You'll take better care of my sweetheart

than you ever did of Jack Orde, won't you, dear?”

XXII

Orde had reconnoitred the river as a general reconnoitres his

antagonist, and had made his dispositions as the general disposes of his

army, his commissary, his reserves. At this point five men could keep

the river clear; at that rapid it would require twenty; there a dozen

would suffice for ordinary contingencies, and yet an emergency might

call for thirty--those thirty must not be beyond reach. In his mind's

eye he apportioned the sections of the upper river. Among the remoter

wildernesses every section must have its driving camp. The crews of

each, whether few or many, would be expected to keep clear and running

their own “beats” on the river. As far as the rear crew should overtake

these divisions, either it would absorb them or the members of them

would be thrown forward beyond the lowermost beat, to take charge of a

new division down stream. When the settled farm country or the little

towns were reached, many of the driving camps would become unnecessary;

the men could be boarded out at farms lying in their beats. A continual

advance would progress toward the Lake, the drive crews passing and

repassing each other like pigeons in the sown fields. Each of these

sections would be in charge of a foreman, whose responsibility ceased

with the delivery of the logs to the men next below. A walking boss

would trudge continually the river trail, or ride the logs down stream,

holding the correlation of these many units. Orde himself would drive up

and down the river, overseeing the whole plan of campaign, throwing the

camps forward, concentrating his forces here, spreading them elsewhere,

keeping accurately in mind the entire situation so that he could say

with full confidence: “Open Dam Number One for three hours at nine

o'clock; Dam Number Two for two hours and a half at ten thirty,” and so

on down the line; sure that the flood waters thus released would arrive

at the right moment, would supplement each other, and would so space

themselves as to accomplish the most work with the least waste. In that

one point more than in any other showed the expert. The water was his

ammunition, a definite and limited quantity of it. To “get the logs out

with the water” was the last word of praise to be said for the river

driver. The more logs, the greater the glory.

Thus it can readily be seen, this matter was rather a campaign than a

mere labour, requiring the men, the munitions, the organisation, the

tactical ability, the strategy, the resourcefulness, the boldness, and

the executive genius of a military commander.

To all these things, and to the distribution of supplies and implements

among the various camps, Orde had attended. The wanigan for the rear

crew was built. The foremen and walking boss had been picked out.

Everything was in readiness. Orde was satisfied with the situation

except that he found himself rather short-handed. He had counted on

three hundred men for his crews, but scrape and scratch as he would, he

was unable to gather over two hundred and fifty. This matter was not

so serious, however, as later, when the woods camps should break up, he

would be able to pick up more workmen.

“They won't be rivermen like my old crew, though,” said Orde regretfully

to Tom North, the walking boss. “I'd like to steal a few from some of

those Muskegon outfits.”

Until the logs should be well adrift, Orde had resolved to boss the rear

crew himself.

As the rear was naturally the farthest up stream, Orde had taken also

the contract to break the rollways belonging to Carlin, which in the

season's work would be piled up on the bank. Thus he could get to work

immediately at the break-up, and without waiting for some one else. The

seven or eight million feet of lumber comprised in Carlin's drive would

keep the men below busy until the other owners, farther down and up the

tributaries, should also have put their season's cut afloat.

The ice went out early, to Orde's satisfaction. As soon as the river

ran clear in its lower reaches he took his rear crew in to Carlin's

rollways.

This crew was forty in number, and had been picked from the best--a

hard-bitten, tough band of veterans, weather beaten, scarred in numerous

fights or by the backwoods scourge of small-pox, compact, muscular,

fearless, loyal, cynically aloof from those not of their cult,

out-spoken and free to criticise--in short, men to do great things under

the strong leader, and to mutiny at the end of three days under the

weak. They piled off the train at Sawyer's, stamped their feet on the

board platform of the station, shouldered their “turkeys,” and straggled

off down the tote-road. It was an eighteen-mile walk in. The ground had

loosened its frost. The footing was ankle-deep in mud and snow-water.

Next morning, bright and early, the breaking of the rollways began.

During the winter the logs had been hauled down ice roads to the river,

where they were “banked” in piles twenty, and even thirty, feet in

height. The bed of the stream itself was filled with them for a mile,

save in a narrow channel left down through the middle to allow for some

flow of water; the banks were piled with them, side on, ready to roll

down at the urging of the men.

First of all, the entire crew set itself, by means of its peavies, to

rolling the lower logs into the current, where they were rapidly borne

away. As the waters were now at flood, this was a quick and easy labour.

Occasionally some tiers would be stuck together by ice, in which case

considerable prying and heaving was necessary in order to crack them

apart. But forty men, all busily at work, soon had the river full. Orde

detailed some six or eight to drop below in order that the river might

run clear to the next section, where the next crew would take up the

task. These men, quite simply, walked to the edges of the rollway,

rolled a log apiece into the water, stepped aboard, leaned against their

peavies, and were swept away by the swift current. The logs on which

they stood whirled in the eddies, caromed against other timbers,

slackened speed, shot away; never did the riders alter their poses of

easy equilibrium. From time to time one propelled his craft ashore

by hooking to and pushing against other logs. There he stood on some

prominent point, leaning his chin contemplatively against the thick

shaft of his peavy, watching the endless procession of the logs drifting

by. Apparently he was idle, but in reality his eyes missed no shift of

the ordered ranks. When a slight hitch or pause, a subtle change in the

pattern of the brown carpet caught his attention, he sprang into life.

Balancing his peavy across his body, he made his way by short dashes

to the point of threatened congestion. There, working vigorously, swept

down stream with the mass, he pulled, hauled, and heaved, forcing the

heavy, reluctant timbers from the cohesion that threatened trouble

later. Oblivious to his surroundings, he wrenched and pried desperately.

The banks of the river drifted by. Point succeeded point, as though

withdrawn up stream by some invisible manipulator. The river appeared

stationary, the banks in motion. Finally he heard at his elbow the voice

of the man stationed below him, who had run out from his own point.

“Hullo, Bill,” he replied to this man, “you old slough hog! Tie into

this this!”

“All the time!” agreed Bill cheerfully.

In a few moments the danger was averted, the logs ran free. The rivermen

thereupon made their uncertain way back to shore, where they took the

river trail up stream again to their respective posts.

At noon they ate lunches they had brought with them in little canvas

bags, snatched before they left the rollways from a supply handy by the

cook. In the meantime the main crew were squatting in the lea of the

brush, devouring a hot meal which had been carried to them in wooden

boxes strapped to the backs of the chore boys. Down the river and up its

tributaries other crews, both in the employ of Newmark and Orde and of

others, were also pausing from their cold and dangerous toil. The river,

refreshed after its long winter, bent its mighty back to the great

annual burden laid upon it.

By the end of the second day the logs actually in the bed of the stream

had been shaken loose, and a large proportion of them had floated

entirely from sight. It now became necessary to break down the rollways

piled along the tops of the banks.

The evening of this day, however, Orde received a visit from Jim

Denning, the foreman of the next section below, bringing with him

Charlie, the cook of Daly's last year's drive. Leaving him by the larger

fire, Jim Denning drew his principal one side.

“This fellow drifted in to-night two days late after a drunk, and he

tells an almighty queer story,” said he. “He says a crew of bad men

from the Saginaw, sixty strong, have been sent in by Heinzman. He says

Heinzman hired them to come over not to work, but just to fight and

annoy us.”

“That so?” said Orde. “Well, where are they?”

“Don't know. But he sticks by his story, and tells it pretty straight.”

“Bring him over, and let's hear it,” said Orde.

“Hullo, Charlie!” he greeted the cook when the latter stood before him.

“What's this yarn Jim's telling me?”

“It's straight, Mr. Orde,” said the cook. “There's a big crew brought in

from the Saginaw Waters to do you up. They're supposed to be over here

to run his drive, but really they're goin' to fight and raise hell. For

why would he want sixty men to break out them little rollways of his'n

up at the headwaters?”

“Is that where they've gone?” asked Orde like a flash.

“Yes, sir. And he only owns a 'forty' up there, and it ain't more'n half

cut, anyway.”

“I didn't know he owned any.”

“Yes, sir. He bought that little Johnson piece last winter. I been

workin' up there with a little two-horse crew since January. We didn't

put up more'n a couple hundred thousand.”

“Is he breaking out his rollways below?” Orde asked Denning.

“No, sir,” struck in Charlie, “he ain't.”

“How do you happen to be so wise?” inquired Orde, “Seems to me you know

about as much as old man Solomon.”

“Well,” explained Charlie, “you see it's like this. When I got back from

the woods last week, I just sort of happened into McNeill's place. I

wasn't drinkin' a drop!” he cried virtuously, in answer to Orde's smile.

“Of course not,” said Orde. “I was just thinking of the last time we

were in there together.”

“That's just it!” cried Charlie. “They was always sore at you about

that. Well, I was lyin' on one of those there benches back of the

'Merican flags in the dance hall 'cause I was very sleepy, when in blew

old man Heinzman and McNeill himself. I just lay low for black ducks

and heard their talk. They took a look around, but didn't see no one, so

they opened her up wide.”

“What did you hear?” asked Orde.

“Well, McNeill he agreed to get a gang of bad ones from the Saginaw to

run in on the river, and I heard Heinzman tell him to send 'em in to

headwaters. And McNeill said, 'That's all right about the cash, Mr.

Heinzman, but I been figgerin' on gettin' even with Orde for some

myself.'”

“Is that all?” inquired Orde.

“That's about all,” confessed Charlie.

“How do you know he didn't hire them to carry down his drive for him?

He'd need sixty men for his lower rollways, and maybe they weren't all

to go to headwaters?” asked Orde by way of testing Charlie's beliefs.

“He's payin' them four dollars a day,” replied Charlie simply. “Now,

who'd pay that fer just river work?”

Orde nodded at Jim Denning.

“Hold on, Charlie,” said he. “Why are you giving all this away if you

were working for Heinzman?”

“I'm working for you now,” replied Charlie with dignity. “And, besides,

you helped me out once yourself.”

“I guess it's a straight tip all right,” said Orde to Denning, when the

cook had resumed his place by the fire.

“That's what I thought. That's why I brought him up.”

“If that crew's been sent in there, it means only one thing at that end

of the line,” said Orde.

“Sure. They're sent up to waste out the water in the reservoir and hang

this end of the drive,” replied Denning.

“Correct,” said Orde. “The old skunk knows his own rollways are so far

down stream that he's safe, flood water or no flood water.”

A pause ensued, during which the two smoked vigorously.

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Denning at last.

“What would you do?” countered Orde.

“Well,” said Denning slowly, and with a certain grim joy, “I don't bet

those Saginaw river-pigs are any more two-fisted than the boys on this

river. I'd go up and clean 'em out.”

“Won't do,” negatived Orde briefly. “In the first place, as you know

very well, we're short-handed now, and we can't spare the men from the

work. In the second place, we'd hang up sure, then; to go up in that

wilderness, fifty miles from civilisation, would mean a first-class row

of too big a size to handle. Won't do!”

“Suppose you get a lawyer,” suggested Denning sarcastically.

Orde laughed with great good-humour

“Where'd our water be by the time he got an injunction for us?”

He fell into a brown study, during which his pipe went out.

“Jim,” he said finally, “it isn't a fair game. I don't know what to do.

Delay will hang us; taking men off the work will hang us. I've just got

to go up there myself and see what can be done by talking to them.”

“Talking to them!” Denning snorted. “You might as well whistle down the

draught-pipe of hell! If they're just up there for a row, there'll be

whisky in camp; and you can bet McNeill's got some of 'em instructed on

YOUR account. They'll kill you, sure!”

“I agree with you it's risky,” replied Orde. “I'm scared; I'm willing to

admit it. But I don't see what else to do. Of course he's got no rights,

but what the hell good does that do us after our water is gone? And Jim,

my son, if we hang this drive, I'll be buried so deep I never will dig

out. No; I've got to go. You can stay up here in charge of the rear

until I get back. Send word by Charlie who's to boss your division while

you're gone.”

XXIII

Orde tramped back to Sawyer's early next morning, hitched into the light

buckboard the excellent team with which later, when the drive should

spread out, he would make his longest jumps, and drove to head-waters.

He arrived in sight of the dam about three o'clock. At the edge of the

clearing he pulled up to survey the scene.

A group of three small log-cabins marked the Johnson, and later the

Heinzman, camp. From the chimneys a smoke arose. Twenty or thirty

rivermen lounged about the sunny side of the largest structure. They

had evidently just arrived, for some of their “turkeys” were still piled

outside the door. Orde clucked to his horses, and the spidery wheels of

the buckboard swung lightly over the wet hummocks of the clearing, to

come to a stop opposite the men. Orde leaned forward against his knees.

“Hullo, boys!” said he cheerfully.

No one replied, though two or three nodded surlily. Orde looked them

over with some interest.

They were a dirty, unkempt, unshaven, hard-looking lot, with bloodshot

eyes, a flicker of the dare-devil in expression, beyond the first youth,

hardened into an enduring toughness of fibre--bad men from the Saginaw,

in truth, and, unless Orde was mistaken, men just off a drunk, and

therefore especially dangerous; men eager to fight at the drop of

the hat, or sooner, to be accommodating, and ready to employ in

their assaults all the formidable and terrifying weapons of the

rough-and-tumble; reckless, hard, irreverrent, blasphemous, to be gained

over by no words, fair or foul; absolutely scornful of any and all

institutions imposed on them by any other but the few men whom they

acknowledged as their leaders. And to master these men's respect

there needed either superlative strength, superlative recklessness, or

superlative skill.

“Who's your boss?” asked Orde.

“The Rough Red,” growled one of the men without moving.

Orde had heard of this man, of his personality and his deeds. Like

Silver Jack of the Muskegon, his exploits had been celebrated in song. A

big, broad-faced man, with a red beard, they had told him, with little,

flickering eyes, a huge voice that bellowed through the woods in a

torrent of commands and imprecations, strong as a bull, and savage as

a wild beast. A hint of his quality will suffice from the many stories

circulated about him. It was said that while jobbing for Morrison and

Daly, in some of that firm's Saginaw Valley holdings, the Rough Red had

discovered that a horse had gone lame. He called the driver of that team

before him, seized an iron starting bar, and with it broke the man's

leg. “Try th' lameness yourself, Barney Mallan,” said he. To appeal to

the charity of such a man would be utterly useless. Orde saw this point.

He picked up his reins and spoke to his team.

But before the horses had taken three steps, a huge riverman had planted

himself squarely in the way. The others rising, slowly surrounded the

rig.

“I don't know what you're up here for,” growled the man at the horses'

heads, “but you wanted to see the boss, and I guess you'd better see

him.”

“I intend to see him,” said Orde sharply. “Get out of the way and let me

hitch my team.”

He drove deliberately ahead, forcing the man to step aside, and stopped

his horses by a stub. He tied them there and descended, to lean his back

also against the log walls of the little house.

After a few moments a huge form appeared above the river bank at some

forty rods' distance.

“Yonder he comes now,” vouchsafed the man nearest Orde.

Orde made out the great square figure of the boss, his soft hat, his

flaming red beard, his dingy mackinaw coat, his dingy black-and-white

checked flannel shirt, his dingy blue trousers tucked into high socks,

and, instead of driving boots, his ordinary lumberman's rubbers. As a

spot of colour, he wore a flaming red knit sash, with tassels. Before

he had approached near enough to be plainly distinguishable, he began

to bellow at the men, commanding them, with a mighty array of oaths,

to wake up and get the sluice-gate open. In a moment or so he had

disappeared behind some bushes that intervened in his approach to the

house. His course through them could be traced by the top of his cap,

which just showed above them. In a moment he thrust through the brush

and stood before Orde.

For a moment he stared at the young man, and then, with a wild Irish

yell, leaped upon him. Orde, caught unawares and in an awkward position,

was hardly able even to struggle against the gigantic riverman.

Indeed, before he had recovered his faculties to the point of offering

determined resistance, he was pinned back against the wall by his

shoulders, and the Rough Red's face was within two feet of his own.

“And how are ye, ye ould darlint?” shouted the latter, with a roll of

oaths.

“Why, Jimmy Bourke!” cried Orde, and burst into a laugh.

The Rough Red jerked him to his feet, delivered a bear hug that nearly

crushed his ribs, and pounded him mightily on the back.

“You ould snoozer!” he bellowed. “Where the blankety blank in blank did

you come from? Byes,” he shouted to the men, “it's me ould boss on th'

Au Sable six year back--that time, ye mind, whin we had th' ice jam!

Glory be! but I'm glad to see ye!”

Orde was still laughing.

“I didn't know you'd turned into the Rough Red, Jimmy,” said he. “I

don't believe we were either of us old enough for whiskers then, were

we?”

The Rough Red grinned.

“Thrue for ye!” said he. “And what have ye been doing all these years?”

“That's just it, Jimmy,” said Orde, drawing the giant one side, out of

ear-shot. “All my eggs are in one basket, and it's a mean trick of you

to hire out for filthy lucre to kick that basket.”

“What do ye mane?” asked the Rough Red, fixing his twinkling little eyes

on Orde.

“You don't mean to tell me,” countered Orde, glancing down at the

other's rubber-shod feet, “that this crew has been sent up here just to

break out those measly little rollways?”

“Thim?” said the Rough Red. “Thim? Hell, NO! Thim's my bodyguard. They

can lick their weight in wild cats, and I'd loike well to see the gang

of highbankers that infists this river thry to pry thim out. We weren't

sint here to wurrk; we were sint here to foight.”

“Fight? Why?” asked Orde.

“Oh, I dunno,” replied the Rough Red easily. “Me boss and the blank of a

blank blanked blank that's attimptin' to droive this river has some sort

of a row.”

“Jimmy,” said Orde, “didn't you know that I am the gentleman last

mentioned?”

“What!”

“I'm driving this river, and that's my dam-keeper you've got hid away

somewhere here, and that's my water you're planning to waste!”

“What?” repeated the Rough Red, but in a different tone of voice.

“That's right,” said Orde.

In a tone of vast astonishment, the Rough Red mentioned his probable

deserts in the future life.

“Luk here, Jack,” said he after a moment, “here's a crew of white-water

birlers that ye can't beat nowheres. What do you want us to do? We're

now gettin' four dollars a day AN' board from that murderin' ould

villain, Heinzman, SO WE CAN AFFORD TO WURRK FOR YOU CHEAP.”

Orde hesitated.

“Oh, please do now, darlint!” wheedled the Rough Red, his little eyes

agleam with mischief. “Sind us some oakum and pitch and we'll caulk yure

wanigan for ye. Or maybe some more peavies, and we'll hilp ye on yure

rollways. And till us, afore ye go, how ye want this dam, and that's the

way she'll be. Come, now, dear! and ain't ye short-handed now?”

Orde slapped his knee and laughed.

“This is sure one hell of a joke!” he cried.

“And ain't it now?” said the Rough Red, smiling with as much

ingratiation as he was able.

“I'll take you boys on,” said Orde at last, “at the usual wages--dollar

and a half for the jam, three for the rear. I doubt if you'll see much

of Heinzman's money when this leaks out.”

XXIV

Thus Orde, by the sheer good luck that sometimes favours men engaged in

large enterprises, not only frustrated a plan likely to bring failure to

his interests, but filled up his crews. It may be remarked here, as well

as later, that the “terrors of the Saginaw” stayed with the drive to

its finish, and proved reliable and tractable in every particular. Orde

scattered them judiciously, so there was no friction with the local men.

The Rough Red he retained on the rear.

Here the breaking of the rollways had reached a stage more exciting both

to onlooker and participant than the mere opening of the river channel.

Huge stacks of logs piled sidewise to the bank lined the stream for

miles. When the lowermost log on the river side was teased and pried

out, the upper tiers were apt to cascade down with a roar, a crash, and

a splash. The man who had done the prying had to be very quick-eyed,

very cool, and very agile to avoid being buried under the tons of timber

that rushed down on him. Only the most reliable men were permitted at

this initial breaking down. Afterwards the crew rolled in what logs

remained.

The Rough Red's enormous strength, dare-devil spirit, and nimbleness of

body made him invaluable at this dangerous work. Orde, too, often took a

hand in some of the more ticklish situations. In old days, before he

had attained the position of responsibility that raised the value of his

time beyond manual work, he had been one of the best men on the river at

breaking bank rollways. A slim, graceful, handsome boy of twenty, known

as “Rollway Charlie,” also distinguished himself by the quickness and

certainty of his work. Often the men standing near lost sight of him

entirely in the spray, the confusion, the blur of the breaking rollways,

until it seemed certain he must have perished. Nevertheless, always he

appeared at right or left, sometimes even on a log astream, nonchalant,

smiling, escaped easily from the destructive power he had loosed. Once

in the stream the logs ran their appointed course, watched by the men

who herded them on their way. And below, from the tributaries, from the

other rollways a never-ending procession of recruits joined this great

brown army on its way to the lake, until for miles and miles the river

was almost a solid mass of logs.

The crews on the various beats now had their hands full to keep the logs

running. The slightest check at any one point meant a jam, for there

was no way of stopping the unending procession. The logs behind

floated gently against the obstruction and came to rest. The brown mass

thickened. As far as the eye could reach the surface of the water was

concealed. And then, as the slow pressure developed from the three

or four miles of logs forced against each other by the pushing of the

current, the breast of the jam began to rise. Timbers up-ended, crossed,

interlocked, slid one over the other, mounted higher and higher in the

formidable game of jack-straws the loss of which spelled death to the

players.

Immediately, and with feverish activity, the men nearest at hand

attacked the work. Logs on top they tumbled and rolled into the current

below. Men beneath the breast tugged and pried in search of the key logs

causing all the trouble. Others “flattened out the wings,” hoping to get

a “draw” around the ends. As the stoppage of the drive indicated to

the men up and down stream that a jam had formed, they gathered at the

scene--those from above over the logs, those from below up the river

trail.

Rarely, unless in case of unusual complications, did it take more than

a few hours at most to break the jam. The breast of it went out with a

rush. More slowly the wings sucked in. Reluctantly the mass floating on

the surface for miles up stream stirred, silently moved forward. For a

few minutes it was necessary to watch carefully until the flow onward

steadied itself, until the congestion had spaced and ordered as before.

Then the men moved back to their posts; the drive was resumed. At night

the river was necessarily left to its own devices. Rivermen, with the

touch of superstition inseparably connected with such affairs, believe

implicitly that “logs run free at night.” Certainly, though it might

be expected that each morning would reveal a big jam to break, such was

rarely the case. The logs had usually stopped, to be sure, but generally

in so peaceful a situation as easily to be started on by a few minutes'

work. Probably this was because they tended to come to rest in the slow,

still reaches of the river, through which, in daytime, they would be

urged by the rivermen.

Jams on the river, contrary to general belief, are of very common

occurrence. Throughout the length of the drive there were probably

three or four hang-ups a day. Each of these had to be broken, and in the

breaking was danger. The smallest misstep, the least slowness in reading

the signs of the break, the slightest lack of promptness in acting on

the hint or of agility in leaping from one to the other of the plunging

timbers, the faintest flicker from rigid attention to the antagonist

crouching on the spring, would mean instant death to the delinquent.

Thus it was literally true that each one of these men was called upon

almost daily to wager his personal skill against his destruction.

In the meantime the rear was “sacking” its way as fast as possible,

moving camp with the wanigan whenever necessary, working very hard and

very cold and very long. In its work, however, beyond the breaking of

the rollways, was little of the spectacular.

Orde, after the rear was well started, patrolled the length of the

drive in his light buckboard. He had a first-class team of young

horses--high-spirited, somewhat fractious, but capable on a pinch

of their hundred miles in a day. He handled them well over the rough

corduroys and swamp roads. From jam to rear and back again he travelled,

pausing on the river banks to converse earnestly with one of the

foremen, surveying the situation with the bird's-eye view of the

general. At times he remained at one camp for several days watching the

trend of the work. The improvements made during the preceding summer

gave him the greatest satisfaction, especially the apron at the falls.

“We'd have had a dozen bad jams here before now with all these logs in

the river,” said he to Tim Nolan, who was in charge of that beat.

“And as it is,” said Tim, “we've had but the one little wing jam.”

The piers to define the channel along certain shallows also saved the

rear crew much labour in the matter of stranded logs. Everything was

very satisfactory. Even old man Reed held to his chastened attitude,

and made no trouble. In fact, he seemed glad to turn an honest penny by

boarding the small crew in charge of sluicing the logs.

No trouble was experienced until Heinzman's rollways were reached.

Here Orde had, as he had promised his partner, boomed a free channel to

prevent Heinzman from filling up the entire river-bed with his rollways.

When the jam of the drive had descended the river as far as this, Orde

found that Heinzman had not yet begun to break out. Hardly had Orde's

first crew passed, however, when Heinzman's men began to break down the

logs into the drive. Long before the rear had caught up, all Heinzman's

drive was in the water, inextricably mingled with the sixty or eighty

million feet Orde had in charge.

The situation was plain. All Heinzman now had to do was to retain a

small crew, which should follow after the rear in order to sack what

logs the latter should leave stranded. This amounted practically to

nothing. As it was impossible in so great a mass of timbers, and in the

haste of a pressing labour, to distinguish or discriminate against

any single brand, Heinzman was in a fair way to get his logs sent down

stream with practically no expense.

“Vell, my boy,” remarked the German quite frankly to Orde as they met on

the road one day, “looks like I got you dis time, eh?”

Orde laughed, also with entire good-humour.

“If you mean your logs are going down with ours, why I guess you have.

But you paste this in your hat: you're going to keep awful busy, and

it's going to cost you something yet to get 'em down.”

To Newmark, on one of his occasional visits to the camps, Orde detailed

the situation.

“It doesn't amount to much,” said he, “except that it complicates

matters. We'll make him scratch gravel, if we have to sit up nights and

work overtime to do it. We can't injure him or leave his logs, but we

can annoy him a lot.”

The state of affairs was perfectly well known to the men, and the entire

river entered into the spirit of the contest. The drivers kept a sharp

lookout for “H” logs, and whenever possible thrust them aside into

eddies and backwaters. This, of course, merely made work for the sackers

Heinzman had left above the rear. Soon they were in charge of a very

fair little drive of their own. Their lot was not enviable. Indeed, only

the pressure of work prevented some of the more aggressive of Orde's

rear--among whom could be numbered the Rough Red--from going back and

“cleaning out” this impertinent band of hangers-on. One day two of the

latter, conducting the jam of the miniature drive astern, came within

reach of the Rough Red. The latter had lingered in hopes of rescuing his

peavy, which had gone overboard. To lose one's peavy is, among rivermen,

the most mortifying disgrace. Consequently, the Rough Red was in a fit

mood for trouble. He attacked the two single-handed. A desperate battle

ensued, which lasted upward of an hour. The two rivermen punched,

kicked, and battered the Rough Red in a manner to tear his clothes,

deprive him to some extent of red whiskers, bloody his face, cut his

shoulder, and knock loose two teeth. The Rough Red, more than the equal

of either man singly, had reciprocated in kind. Orde, driving in toward

the rear from a detour to avoid a swamp, heard, and descended from his

buckboard. Tying his horses to trees, he made his way through the brush

to the scene of conflict. So winded and wearied were the belligerents

by now that he had no difficulty in separating them. He surveyed their

wrecks with a sardonic half smile.

“I call this a draw,” said he finally. His attitude became threatening

as the two up-river men, recovering somewhat, showed ugly symptoms.

“Git!” he commanded. “Scat! I guess you don't know me. I'm Jack Orde.

Jimmy and I together could do a dozen of you.” He menaced them until,

muttering, they had turned away.

“Well, Jimmy,” said he humorously, “you look as if you'd been run

through a thrashing machine.”

“Those fellers make me sick!” growled the Rough Red.

Orde looked him over again.

“You look sick,” said he.

When the buckboard drew into camp, Orde sent Bourke away to repair

damages while he called the cookee to help unpack several heavy boxes

of hardware. They proved to contain about thirty small hatchets, well

sharpened, and each with a leather guard. When the rear crew had come in

that night, Orde distributed the hatchets.

“Boys,” said he, “while you're on the work, I want you all to keep a

watch-out for these “H” logs, and whenever you strike one I want you to

blaze it plainly, so there won't be any mistake about it.”

“What for?” asked one of the Saginaw men as he received his hatchet.

But the riverman who squatted next nudged him with his elbow.

“The less questions you ask Jack, the more answers you'll get. Just do

what you're told to on this river and you'll see fun sure.”

Three days later the rear crew ran into the head of the pond above

Reed's dam. To every one's surprise, Orde called a halt on the work and

announced a holiday.

Now, holidays are unknown on drive. Barely is time allowed for eating

and sleeping. Nevertheless, all that day the men lay about in complete

idleness, smoking, talking, sleeping in the warm sun. The river,

silenced by the closed sluice-gates, slept also. The pond filled with

logs. From above, the current, aided by a fair wind, was driving down

still other logs--the forerunners of the little drive astern. At sight

of these, some of the men grumbled. “We're losin' what we made,” said

they. “We left them logs, and sorted 'em out once already.”

Orde sent a couple of axe-men to blaze the newcomers. A little before

sundown he ordered the sluice-gates of the dam opened.

“Night work,” said the men to one another. They knew, of course, that

in sluicing logs, the gate must be open a couple of hours before the

sluicing begins in order to fill the river-bed below. Logs run ahead

faster than the water spreads.

Sure enough, after supper Orde suddenly appeared among them, the

well-known devil of mischief dancing in his eyes and broadening his

good-natured face.

“Get organised, boys,” said he briskly. “We've got to get this pond all

sluiced before morning, and there's enough of us here to hustle it right

along.”

The men took their places. Orde moved here and there, giving his

directions.

“Sluice through everything but the “H” logs,” he commanded. “Work them

off to the left and leave them.”

Twilight, then dark, fell. After a few moments the moon, then just past

its full, rose behind the new-budding trees. The sluicing, under the

impetus of a big crew, went rapidly.

“I bet there's mighty near a million an hour going through there,”

speculated Orde, watching the smooth, swift, but burdened waters of the

chute.

And in this work the men distinguished easily the new white blaze-marks

on Heinzman's logs; so they were able without hesitation to shunt them

one side into the smoother water, as Orde had commanded.

About two o'clock the last log shot through.

“Now, boys,” said Orde, “tear out the booms.”

The chute to the dam was approached, as has been earlier explained, by

two rows of booms arranged in a V, or funnel, the apex of which emptied

into the sluice-way, and the wide, projecting arms of which embraced

the width of the stream. The logs, floating down the pond, were thus

concentrated toward the sluice. Also, the rivermen, walking back and

forth the length of the booms, were able easily to keep the drive

moving.

Now, however, Orde unchained these boom logs. The men pushed them

ashore. There as many as could find room on either side the boom-poles

clamped in their peavies, and, using these implements as handles,

carried the booms some distance back into the woods. Then everybody

tramped back and forth, round and about, to confuse the trail. Orde was

like a mischievous boy at a school prank. When the last timber had been

concealed, he lifted up his deep voice in a roar of joy, in which the

crew joined.

“Now let's turn in for a little sleep,” said be.

This situation, perhaps a little cloudy in the reader's mind, would

have cleared could he have looked out over the dam pond the following

morning. The blazed logs belonging to Heinzman, drifting slowly, had

sucked down into the corner toward the power canal where, caught against

the grating, they had jammed. These logs would have to be floated

singly, and pushed one by one against the current across the pond and

into the influence of the sluice-gate. Some of them would be hard to

come at.

“I guess that will keep them busy for a day or two,” commented Orde, as

he followed the rear down to where it was sacking below the dam.

This, as Orde had said, would be sufficiently annoying to Heinzman,

but would have little real effect on the main issue, which was that the

German was getting down his logs with a crew of less than a dozen men.

Nevertheless, Orde, in a vast spirit of fun, took delight in inventing

and executing practical jokes of the general sort just described. For

instance, at one spot where he had boomed the deeper channel from the

rocks on either side, he shunted as many of Heinzman's logs as came by

handily through an opening he had made in the booms. There they grounded

on the shallows--more work for the men following. Many of the logs in

charge of the latter, however, catching the free current, overtook the

rear, so that the number of the “H” logs in the drive was not materially

diminished.

At first, as has been hinted, these various tactics had little effect.

One day, however, the chore boy, who had been over to Spruce Rapids

after mail, reported that an additional crew of twenty had been sent in

to Heinzman's drive. This was gratifying.

“We're making him scratch gravel, boys, anyway,” said Orde.

The men entered into the spirit of the thing. In fact, their enthusiasm

was almost too exuberant. Orde had constantly to negative new and

ingenious schemes.

“No, boys,” said he, “I want to keep on the right side of the law. We

may need it later.”

Meanwhile the entire length of the river was busy and excited.

Heinzman's logs were all blazed inside a week. The men passed the

hatchets along the line, and slim chance did a marked log have of

rescue once the poor thing fell into difficulties. With the strange

and interesting tendency rivermen and woodsmen have of personifying the

elements of their daily work, the men addressed the helpless timbers in

tones of contempt.

“Thought you'd ride that rock, you ---- ---- ----,” said they, “and got

left, did you? Well, lie there and be ---- to you!”

And if chance offered, and time was not pressing, the riverman would

give his helpless victim a jerk or so into a more difficult position.

Times of rising water--when the sluice-gates above had been opened--were

the most prolific of opportunities. Logs rarely jam on rising water,

for the simple reason that constantly the surface area of the river

is increasing, thus tending to separate the logs. On the other hand,

falling water, tending to crowd the drive closer together, is especially

prolific of trouble. Therefore, on flood water the watchers scattered

along the stretches of the river had little to do--save strand

Heinzman's logs for him. And when flood water had passed, some of those

logs were certainly high and dry.

Up to a certain point this was all very well. Orde took pains not to

countenance it officially, and caused word to be passed about, that

while he did not expect his men to help drive Heinzman's logs, they must

not go out of their way to strand them.

“If things get too bad, he'll have spies down here to collect evidence

on us,” said Orde, “and he'll jug some of us for interference with his

property. We don't own the river.”

“How about them booms?” asked the Rough Red.

“I did own them,” explained Orde, “and I had a right to take them up

when I had finished with them.”

This hint was enough. The men did not cease from a labour that tickled

them mightily, but they adopted a code of signals. Strangers were not

uncommon. Spectators came out often from the little towns and from

the farms round-about. When one of these appeared the riverman nearest

raised a long falsetto cry. This was taken up by his next neighbour and

passed on. In a few minutes all that section of the drive knew that it

would be wise to “lie low.” And inside of two weeks Orde had the great

satisfaction of learning that Heinzman was working--and working hard--a

crew of fifty men.

“A pretty fair crew, even if he was taking out his whole drive,”

commented Orde.

The gods of luck seemed to be with the new enterprise. Although Orde

had, of course, taken the utmost pains to foresee every contingency

possible to guard against, nevertheless, as always when dealing with

Nature's larger forces, he anticipated some of those gigantic obstacles

which continually render uncertain wilderness work. Nothing of the kind

happened. There formed none of the tremendous white-water jams that pile

up several million feet of logs, tax every resource of men, horses, and

explosives, and require a week or so to break. No men were killed, and

only two injured. No unexpected floods swept away works on which the

drive depended. The water held out to carry the last stick of timber

over the shallowest rapids. Weather conditions were phenomenal--and

perfect. All up and down the river the work went with that vim and dash

that is in itself an assurance of success. The Heinzman affair, which

under auspices of evil augury might have become a serious menace to the

success of the young undertaking, now served merely to add a spice

of humour to the situation. Among the men gained currency a

half-affectionate belief in “Orde's luck.”

After this happy fashion the drive went, until at last it entered the

broad, deep, and navigable stretches of the river from Redding to the

lake. Here, barring the accident of an extraordinary flood, the troubles

were over. On the broad, placid bosom of the stream the logs would

float. A crew, following, would do the easy work of sacking what logs

would strand or eddy in the lazy current; would roll into the faster

waters the component parts of what were by courtesy called jams, but

which were in reality pile-ups of a few hundred logs on sand bars

mid-stream; and in the growing tepid warmth of summer would tramp

pleasantly along the river trail. Of course, a dry year would make

necessary a larger crew and more labour; of course, a big flood might

sweep the logs past all defences into the lake for an irretrievable

loss. But such floods come once in a century, and even the dryest of dry

years could not now hang the drive. As Orde sat in his buckboard, ready

to go into town for a first glimpse of Carroll in more than two months,

he gazed with an immense satisfaction over the broad river moving brown

and glacier-like as though the logs that covered it were viscid and

composed all its substance. The enterprise was practically assured of

success.

For a while now Orde was to have a breathing spell. A large number

of men were here laid off. The remainder, under the direction of Jim

Denning, would require little or no actual supervision. Until the jam

should have reached the distributing booms above Monrovia, the affair

was very simple. Before he left, however, he called Denning to him.

“Jim,” said he, “I'll be down to see you through the sluiceways at

Redding, of course. But now that you have a good, still stretch of

river, I want you to have the boys let up on sacking out those “H” logs.

And I want you to include in our drive all the Heinzman logs from above

you possibly can. If you can fix it, let their drive drift down into

ours.

“Then we'll have to drive their logs for them,” objected Denning.

“Sure,” rejoined Orde, “but it's easy driving; and if that crew of his

hasn't much to do, perhaps he'll lay most of them off here at Redding.”

Denning looked at his principal for a moment, then a slow grin

overspread his face. Without comment he turned back to camp, and Orde

took up his reins.

XXV

“Oh, I'm so GLAD to get you back!” cried Carroll over and over again,

as she clung to him. “I don't live while you're away. And every drop of

rain that patters on the roof chills my heart, because I think of it as

chilling you; and every creak of this old house at night brings me

up broad awake, because I hear in it the crash of those cruel great

timbers. Oh, oh, OH! I'm so glad to get you! You're the light of my

life; you're my whole life itself!”--she smiled at him from her perch on

his knee--“I'm silly, am I not?” she said. “Dear heart, don't leave me

again.”

“I've got to support an extravagant wife, you know,” Orde reminded her

gravely.

“I know, of course,” she breathed, bending lightly to him. “You have

your work in the world to do, and I would not have it otherwise. It is

great work--wonderful work--I've been asking questions.”

Orde laughed.

“It's work, just like any other. And it's hard work,” said he.

She shook her head at him slowly, a mysterious smile on her lips.

Without explaining her thought, she slipped from his knee and glided

across to the tall golden harp, which had been brought from Monrovia.

The light and diaphanous silk of her loose peignoir floated about her,

defining the maturing grace of her figure. Abruptly she struck a great

crashing chord.

Then, with an abandon of ecstasy she plunged into one of those wild and

sea-blown saga-like rhapsodies of the Hungarians, full of the wind in

rigging, the storm in the pines, of shrieking, vast forces hurtling

unchained through a resounding and infinite space, as though deep down

in primeval nature the powers of the world had been loosed. Back and

forth, here and there, erratic and swift and sudden as lightning the

theme played breathless. It fell.

“What is that?” gasped Orde, surprised to find himself tense, his blood

rioting, his soul stirred.

She ran to him to hide her face in his neck.

“Oh, it's you, you, you!” she cried.

He held her to him closely until her excitement had died.

“Do you think it is good to get quite so nervous, sweetheart?” he asked

gently, then. “Remember--”

“Oh, I do, I do!” she broke in earnestly. “Every moment of my waking and

sleeping hours I remember him. Always I keep his little soul before me

as a light on a shrine. But to-night--oh! to-night I could laugh and

shout aloud like the people in the Bible, with clapping of hands.” She

snuggled herself close to Orde with a little murmur of happiness. “I

think of all the beautiful things,” she whispered, “and of the noble

things, and of the great things. He is going to be sturdy, like his

father; a wonderful boy, a boy all of fire--”

“Like his mother,” said Orde.

She smiled up at him. “I want him just like you, dear,” she pleaded.

XXVI

Three days later the jam of the drive reached the dam at Redding.

Orde took Carroll downtown in the buckboard. There a seat by the

dam-watcher's little house was given her, back of the brick factory

buildings next the power canal, whence for hours she watched the slow

onward movement of the sullen brown timbers, the smooth, polished-steel

rush of the waters through the chute, the graceful certain movements of

the rivermen. Some of the latter were brought up by Orde and introduced.

They were very awkward, and somewhat embarrassed, but they all looked

her straight in the eye, and Carroll felt somehow that back of their

diffidence they were quite dispassionately appraising her. After a few

gracious speeches on her part and monosyllabic responses on theirs, they

blundered away. In spite of the scant communication, these interviews

left something of a friendly feeling on both sides.

“I like your Jim Denning,” she told Orde; “he's a nice, clean-cut

fellow. And Mr. Bourke,” she laughed. “Isn't he funny with his fierce

red beard and his little eyes? But he simply adores you.”

Orde laughed at the idea of the Rough Red's adoring anybody.

“It's so,” she insisted, “and I like him for it--only I wish he were a

little cleaner.”

She thought the feats of “log-riding” little less than wonderful,

and you may be sure the knowledge of her presence did not discourage

spectacular display. Finally, Johnny Challan, uttering a loud whoop,

leaped aboard a log and went through the chute standing bolt upright. By

a marvel of agility, he kept his balance through the white-water below,

and emerged finally into the lower waters still proudly upright, and dry

above the knees.

Carroll had arisen, the better to see.

“Why,” she cried aloud, “it's marvellous! Circus riding is nothing to

it!”

“No, ma'am,” replied a gigantic riverman who was working near at hand,

“that ain't nothin'. Ordinary, however, we travel that way on the river.

At night we have the cookee pass us out each a goose-ha'r piller, and

lay down for the night.”

Carroll looked at him in reproof. He grinned slowly.

“Don't git worried about me, ma'am,” said he, “I'm hopeless. For

twenty year now I been wearin' crape on my hat in memory of my departed

virtues.”

After the rear had dropped down river from Redding, Carroll and Orde

returned to their deserted little box of a house at Monrovia.

Orde breathed deep of a new satisfaction in walking again the streets of

this little sandy, sawdust-paved, shantyfied town, with its yellow hills

and its wide blue river and its glimpse of the lake far in the offing.

It had never meant anything to him before. Now he enjoyed every brick

and board of it; he trod the broken, aromatic shingles of the roadway

with pleasure; he tramped up the broad stairs and down the dark hall of

the block with anticipation; he breathed the compounded office odour

of ledgers, cocoa matting, and old cigar smoke in a long, reminiscent

whiff; he took his seat at his roll-top desk, enchanted to be again in

these homely though familiar surroundings.

“Hanged if I know what's struck me,” he mused. “Never experienced any

remarkable joy before in getting back to this sort of truck.”

Then, with a warm glow at the heart, the realisation was brought to him.

This was home, and over yonder, under the shadow of the heaven-pointing

spire, a slip of a girl was waiting for him.

He tried to tell her this when next he saw her.

“I felt that I ought to make you a little shrine, and burn candles to

you, the way the Catholics do--”

“To the Mater Dolorosa?” she mocked.

He looked at her dark eyes so full of the sweetness of content, at her

sensitive lips with the quaintly upturned corners, and he thought of

what her home life had been and of the real sorrow that even yet must

smoulder somewhere down in the deeps of her being.

“No,” said he slowly, “not that. I think my shrine will be dedicated to

Our Lady of the Joyous Soul.”

The rest of the week Orde was absent up the river, superintending in a

general way the latter progress of the drive, looking into the needs

of the crews, arranging for supplies. The mills were all working now,

busily cutting into the residue of last season's logs. Soon they would

need more.

At the booms everything was in readiness to receive the jam. The long

swing arm slanting across the river channel was attached to its winch

which would operate it. When shut it would close the main channel and

shunt into the booms the logs floating in the river. There, penned at

last by the piles driven in a row and held together at the top by bolted

timbers, they would lie quiet. Men armed with pike-poles would then take

up the work of distribution according to the brands stamped on the ends.