The Boss of Wind River/Chapter 10

HEN Mr. Ackerman, following the hint received from Garwood, called at the office of Clancy Brothers, his reception was nothing short of frosty.

John Clancy was alone, and he regarded his visitor from beneath a lowering brow.

“Now, here's what I want to know about,” said he. “How does it come that Kent gets them limits at Wind River? We tendered for them ourselves.”

“Likely his tender was higher,” said Mr. Ackerman with assumed carelessness.

“An' what's that got to do wid it?” demanded Clancy, who appeared to find this explanation inadequate. “Don't we give up strong to th' campaign fund? Neither young Kent nor his father ever gave a cent to it, and their politics is the other way. It's a raw deal we got, an' ye can say that we'll remember it. If them limits had gone to one of our own people we'd have said nawthin', for we could have fixed it wid him or he'd a had to fix it wid us. But th' way it is we're sore, an' we make no bones about sayin' so. Where's his pull, that's what we want to know? An' if it's come to this, that a young felly whose politics is agin ye an' who don't give up to th' fund can buy limits ahead of us, why, then, we're through an' be damned to ye! An' there's others who thinks the same way.”

This unusually long and evidently heartfelt speech of Clancy's indicated a dissatisfaction which Mr. Ackerman, who held confidential relations with certain members of a thoroughly rotten and graft-ridden administration, could not afford to ignore.

“Oh, that's nonsense, Clancy,” said Ackerman. “There was a reason why Kent got the limits and we'll see that you get something else.”

“We want what we go after, an' we don't have to take what's handed to us,” retorted Clancy unappeased. “See now, Ackerman, we know a thing or two. Here's Kent been makin' up to ould Garwood's girl. Garwood works his pull, an' th' limits goes to Kent. I have it from the inside that Garwood got them for him. Now, I'm not settin' our pull agin Garwood's—not by no manes—but we will not be used by you to double-cross him. We want no trouble wid Garwood.”

“What do you mean?” Ackerman queried.

“I mane this: You tip us off to make a new contract wid Kent bekase the railway will raise the rates on boards. Ye don't do that for love of us, nor yet for a rake-off, for ye asked for none. So ye do it to hit Kent. Then he tenders for timber limits, an' Garwood, bekase the young man is keepin' company wid his daughter, sees he gets them. You an' Garwood do be thick together, an' it's strange you're knockin' his son-in-law-to-be. Me an' Finn will have no more to do wid it.”

Mr. Ackerman chuckled at Clancy's very natural mistake. “If you think Garwood is a friend of Kent's you're wrong.”

“Show me,” said Clancy.

“There's nothing now between Garwood's daughter and Kent,” responded Ackerman. “If Garwood had cared to use his influence for him the Peninsular would not have raised the rate on lumber. That's obvious enough, I should think.”

“I'm talkin' about them limits,” said Clancy obstinately.

“Well, admitting that Garwood is responsible for that, he had his reasons other than the one you mentioned. Kent has sunk a lot of money in that timber. He may not get it out again.”

“Ye mane that the limits was onloaded onto him to tie up his cash resources?” said Clancy, comprehending.

“I didn't say so,” said Mr. Ackerman, smiling sweetly, “but his business is involved already, and if anything unforeseen should occur he might smash.”

“An' somebody might buy him in,” Clancy commented with an appreciative grin. “I wish ye luck, but what do we get in place of our tender that was turned down?”

“Let me know what you want and I'll do my best for you,” Ackerman promised. “Now, I understand you have some timber near Kent's Wind River limits?”

“Buttin' onto 'em at one line,” Clancy replied. “That's why we tendered—to round out our holdin'.”

“Are you cutting it this winter?”

“We are.”

“Yourselves?”

“We jobbed it out.”

“That's too bad,” said Mr. Ackerman in disappointment. “I suppose the jobber is a good man?”

“A good man!” echoed John Clancy. “Is Rough Shan McCane a good man? If there's a worse one anywheres I never seen him.”

“Then why did you give him the stuff to cut?”

“Bekase he'll put in the logs. He can drive a crew, drunk or sober.”

“I thought liquor wasn't allowed in the camps?”

“No more it is—in most.”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Ackerman casually, “that if whiskey got into Kent's camp his work would suffer?”

John Clancy eyed him keenly. “Two an' two makes four,” he said oracularly. “What are ye drivin' at? Put it in plain words.”

Mr. Ackerman put it as plainly as his bias in favour of indirect speech would permit. Clancy considered with pursed mouth.

“These things works both ways,” he said. “A loggin' war, wanst started bechune two camps, means hell an' docthers' bills to pay, to say nawthin' of lost time. What would we get out of it?”

Mr. Ackerman told him, prudently sinking his voice to little more than a whisper, and Clancy's eyes glistened.

“Them's good contracts,” he commented. “I'll speak to Finn. He has it in for Kent.”

This partial assurance seemed to satisfy Mr. Ackerman. “Is Kent still delivering lumber under your contract?” he asked.

“He is—as slow as he can. Ryan says we can't have the law on him for breach of contract yet. I had him write a letter makin' a bluff, an' Kent's lawyer wrote back callin' it. So there ye are.”

“Well, I suppose it can't be helped,” said Mr. Ackerman regretfully. But on the whole he was very well satisfied with the position of affairs, and left Clancy's office wearing the peculiarly bland, guileless smile which was his whenever he had succeeded in arranging a particularly unpleasant programme for some one else. The smile, however, lost something of its quality when, just outside the street door, he ran into Locke.

The lawyer glanced from him to Clancy Brothers' window lettering and back again, and smiled. His expression somehow reminded Mr. Ackerman of a dog that has found an exceedingly choice bone.

“Hallo, Ackerman!” said he. “What are you framing up now?”

“I don't think I understand you,” said Mr. Ackerman with dignity.

“Well, here's something I wanted to ask you,” Locke went on. “Is it a fact that the O. & N.—otherwise Garwood—has secured control of the Peninsular?”

The question was so entirely unexpected that Mr. Ackerman was almost caught off his guard, but he said:

“Control of the Peninsular? You must be joking.”

“It is not a fact, then?” asked Locke.

“He may have bought some shares. But control—oh, no! that would be most unlikely. Our shares are all too strongly held.”

“Not an impossibility, however?” Locke persisted.

“Humanly speaking, anything is possible,” smiled Mr. Ackerman, getting his second wind. “Rumours are most unreliable things.”

“Yes,” Locke assented. “When did you and Garwood go into the lumber business?”

Once more Mr. Ackerman was taken flat aback. Figuratively speaking, he even gathered sternway. He simply stared at Locke for a moment.

“The—lumber—business?” he exclaimed, recovering power of speech. “My dear sir, I am not in the lumber business, save for a few shares which I own here and there.”

“No?” Locke smiled unpleasant, open disbelief. “How about Garwood?”

“Why don't you ask him?” said Mr. Ackerman with unnecessary tartness.

“I will, one of these days,” said Locke. “By the way, I'm going to subpoena both of you in my application to the commission.”

“That will come on next year, I believe,” said Mr. Ackerman with something very like a sneer.

“Probably next month,” Locke retorted. “Good morning.”

Locke's words were by no means random shots. Once convinced that Ackerman represented some person or persons inimical to Kent and Crooks, he sought for a clue. One by one he went over Ackerman's business associates, including Garwood, and discarded them one by one. Then came the rumour of Garwood's acquisition of the Peninsular, an acquisition almost coincident with the rise in rates. Therefore, Locke argued, Garwood somehow benefited by it. But how? The railway man was not known to be interested in lumber. Still, as Locke saw it, he must be.

“Here,” said Locke to himself, “is this Central Lumber Company officered by dummies, capitalized for a mere trifle, and yet acquiring business after business. Why the secrecy? Who is behind it? Obviously some man or men who don't wish their identity known until they have accomplished a certain purpose. What is the purpose? So far it seems to be the buying out of existing lumber concerns. Ackerman approached Kent. For whom? Probably for this Central Lumber Company. Therefore Ackerman is one of those behind it. Ackerman's influence has been unfriendly to Kent in every way. Garwood no sooner acquired control of Peninsular stock than the rate on lumber was boosted. Ackerman is associated with him. Therefore it is not a wild hypothesis to say that Garwood is financing the Central Lumber Company.”

Thus Locke argued to himself, and he found fresh confirmation in the methods adopted toward Kent, which were typically those of Hugh Garwood. Then, too, Mr. Ackerman's evident discomposure when directly charged with association with him in a lumber business was suspicious.

He arrived at these conclusions quite independently and mentioned them to no one. His surprise, therefore, was great when Joe Kent, dropping in one morning, asked what he knew about Hugh Garwood.

“Did it ever strike you,” Joe asked, “that he may be the man behind?”

“It did,” Locke answered, “but tell me how it happened to strike you.”

“Well—it just occurred to me,” replied Joe, embarrassed.

“Give up, give up,” said the lawyer impatiently. “Don't hold out on your doctor, your banker, or your lawyer.”

Thereupon Joe, under pledge of secrecy, outlined the conjunction of events. It was a slight thing, but another corroboratory circumstance. Suppressing Joe's part, Locke mentioned his suspicions to Crooks.

“I'll bet a thousand you're right,” said the old lumberman thoughtfully. “Garwood, hey? He's the last man I'd have suspected. And usually the last man you suspect is the first man you ought to. It's just like him to cut a man's throat and then pick his pocket. Why, damn him”—Bill Crooks' voice rose in indignation—“his girl visited my girl for a month last summer. You know that, Joe; you used to trot around with her.”

Joe reddened. Crooks went on:

“Well, what can we do about it? This is up to you, Locke. Start your game and I'll back it. So will Joe.”

“I haven't got enough evidence to start anything,” said Locke. “I hope to prove Garwood's connection with the Peninsular when our application to the Transportation Commission comes up for hearing. Outside of that our best chance lies in investigating this Central Lumber Company. I'll see what I can find out about them and you'd better get busy along the same line and pump every lumberman and dealer you know.”

Kent's good spirits and increased cheerfulness were so noticeable that Jack Crooks, knowing of his recent flying trip, drew her own conclusions. Casually one evening she approached the subject.

“Of course you saw Edith?”

“Oh, yes, I saw her,” Joe replied.

“She must have been very glad to see you?”

Joe smiled enigmatically. “Well, Jack, she didn't exactly fall on my neck. I don't think I brightened up life for her to any extent.”

“Modest young man. Are you aware that you have worn a sunny smile ever since you returned? You can't bluff me, Joe. Why don't you own up?”

“Own up to what?” Joe's smile became a broad grin.

Jack thought he looked idiotically pleased. To her eyes his face expressed the good-natured fatuity of the recently engaged man who rather likes to be joked about it—a being whom she despised. She was disappointed in Joe.

“If you expect me to jolly you into admitting your engagement to her you're making a mistake,” she said coldly. “I can wait till you see fit to announce it.”

“Are you sure you can?” he teased.

“Very nicely. And I beg your pardon for what must have seemed an impertinent curiosity.” She regarded him with an icy dignity.

“Fine speech, that,” Joe commented genially. “It's from some third act, isn't it? And then I say: 'Ah, Beatrice, why that cold and haughty tone? Me life holds no secrets from you: me heart'”

“Joe Kent, I'll throw something at you!” she cried indignantly. Then she laughed. “Joe, I'll come down to the ploughed ground. You and Edith were very much taken with each other, and when you come back, wearing an idiotic grin, I'm entitled to suppose. I confess to curiosity. Come, now; give up, like a good boy!”

“There's nothing to give up,” said Joe frankly. “Not a thing.”

“I know better,” said Jack. “Edith was in a very confidential mood one night and she told me something. Afterward she regretted it and swore me to secrecy. Does that make any difference?”

“Not much,” said Joe. “But now I can tell you that I've been thrown down hard. What you spoke of is very much off.” He outlined what had occurred. She listened, indignant but puzzled.

“But—but you seem so cheerful about it. I don't understand. Weren't you fond of her? And if you weren't, why did you tell her you were? And if you were, why”

“Stop!” cried Joe. “Don't get me in so deep.” He became serious. “Jack, most people make mistakes at times. Edith and I made one together. I think we both saw it as soon as it was made, but it took all this time to straighten out. I'm sure she's relieved, and, though it doesn't seem a nice thing to say, I'm just tickled to death.”

“Well,” said Jack judicially, “I don't approve of flirting, and I never flirt myself. I think she was flirting straight through, and I don't know whether to blame you or not. But, anyway, I'm awfully glad it's all off.”

“It's great,” said Joe. “Now I can get down to work.”

There was, indeed, much to be done. Wright looked after the manufacturing and sales end of the business and looked after it well; McKenna was an excellent walking boss; MacNutt, Deever, and Tobin were good, practical foremen. But the concern lacked a strong, competent executive head who knew the logging business intimately, who could decide at once and finally the questions that must ever arise, and who could command the loyalty and unquestioning obedience of his men in the camps.

For there is a vast difference in the mind of a lumber jack between working for wages merely and working for an employer. For the one he will do a day's work; for the other he will do a day's work and a half, with the pay as an entirely secondary consideration. Just as great commanders have fired their troops with enthusiasm to the point of performing practical impossibilities through pride in them and in themselves and that magic, mystic thing called esprit du corps, so there have been employers who, in time of need, command the unswerving, uncomplaining loyalty of the shantyman. For such men he will work without grumbling in all kinds of weather; he will take all manner of chances on land or water; he will fight for them at the drop of a hat; and, finally, he will throw his loyalty into each lick of axe and pull of saw, so that at the end of the season it may be measured in saw logs.

Nor does this depend wholly or even materially upon the treatment accorded him by the “Old Man”—save that he must have a square deal. He may be driven like a mule, cursed in language for which he would kill any one else, fed poorly and housed worse; but if the essential thing is possessed by the boss the lumber jack will not grumble overmuch nor ask for his time.

And this essential is mysterious and hard to define. Much as the shantyman admires physical prowess, it is not a prime requisite. But courage is, and so is firmness in dealing with any situation. The boss must never recede from a position once taken. He may listen to advice, but he must decide for himself and by himself. He must never argue, he must never give reasons. He must hold himself aloof and above his men, and yet not overdo it. He must be approachable but dignified, friendly but not familiar. He must be boss, first, last, and all the time, and from his decisions, right or wrong, there must be no appeal and of them no slackness of enforcement.

William Kent had filled this bill. With his passing a place became vacant. Some of the old hands hired again into the Kent camps; more did not come back, but went to others of renown. New blood drifted in, and a generation arose which literally knew not Joseph—to whom the name of Kent meant nothing. The old hands would have fought at one word uttered against the “Old Man's” son, whom most of them had never seen, but they would have done so on general principles merely, and not because they cherished any particular feeling toward him. Neither walking boss nor foreman could take the place which William Kent had filled.

Thus the work of the camps was no better and no worse than the average. The foremen's capability ensured fair effort. But the something necessary to weld the crews into a supremely efficient machine was lacking.

The winter opened hard and dry, without snowfall. Day after day the wind wailed through the bare arms of the deciduous trees and moaned in the feathery tops of the pines. The ground was frozen to an iron hardness, and the little lakes, creeks, and rivers were bound in black ice, smooth and unbroken.

At the Wind River camp the logging roads—veins leading to main arteries which in turn led to the river and the banking grounds—were useless. By dint of effort and good luck logs could be got to the various skidways located at convenient places beside the roads, and piled there, but they could not be transported farther. The big sleighs with their nine-foot bunks, built to accommodate ten thousand feet and upward of logs at a load, lay idle. MacNutt prayed for snow, or, rather, cursed the lack of it.

When it came, with continued cold weather, it was hard, dry, and powdery. It had no bottom. It gritted like sand beneath the sleigh-shoes, and they went through it to the ground, even without a load. To obviate this and to get going in some way MacNutt put the sprinklers to work. These were huge tank affairs on runners, drawn by from four to six horses. At the top of the tank was a stout, wooden triangle with a block. A wire rope ran through the block. At one end of the rope was a barrel; at the other end was a horse. The horse walked away; the barrel, filled at a water-hole cut in the ice, ran up an inclined, rungless ladder to the top of the tank, where it dumped its contents automatically. The water found its exit from the tank through auger holes bored in the rear, controlled by a closely fitting trap door. Thus the roads were flooded, they froze, and the hauling began.

So far MacNutt had seen nothing of Rough Shan McCane. Occasionally on a Sunday, when work was suspended, one of the latter's men would drift over, but the gang kept very much to themselves. There was no indication of undue sociability. Still MacNutt, on the principle that storms always brew in fine weather, kept a very open pair of eyes and ears. Some of the men, he knew, could not resist liquor; given access to it they would become drunk as certainly as effect ever follows cause. Over these weak vessels, then, he kept watch.

It was shortly after the road went into operation that he found the first sign of trouble. A swamper, named Flett, was trimming the top of a fallen tree. MacNutt observed the listless rise and fall of the man's axe in high displeasure. It fell almost of its own weight; there was no power to the blow, and instead of being recovered and swung up again with vim for another stroke the blade lay for an appreciable instant in the gash.

“You, Flett,” rasped MacNutt, “I'll have no sojerin' on this job! Understand?”

The man turned, startled, exhibiting a pair of reddened, bloodshot eyes.

“Who's sojerin'?” he growled.

“Wake up an' work, ye damned lazy dog!” roared MacNutt. “Take a man's pay, eat a man's grub, an' then loaf on the job, would ye, ye slab-mouthed, slouchin' son of sin?” For the first time he noticed the man's eyes, and swore a great oath. “Ye've been drinkin'!”

“I ain't,” Flett denied sullenly.

“Ye lie!” barked MacNutt. “Where did ye get it?”

“Go to blazes!” said Flett.

MacNutt caught him by the throat, crooked a knee, and threw him back down across the log with a shock that almost broke his spine.

“Talk, ye dog, or I'll kill ye!” he gritted; and Flett, staring up helpless and half stunned into the savage face of the foreman, gave up.

“Regan and me got a bottle apiece from a man in McCane's camp.”

MacNutt jerked him to his feet and turned him loose. “Get yer time to-night and hike in the morning!” he ordered. “You're fired! Not because ye got drunk, but for bein' no use, drunk or sober.”

He sought Regan. Regan was doing a man's work, and doing it well.

“I've fired Flett,” said MacNutt without preliminary. “I'll have no booze in this camp, Regan.”

Regan, who was made of different stuff than his fellow-transgressor, spat on the dry snow and regarded the foreman with a level stare.

“Do I get my time?” he asked.

“Not unless you want it,” MacNutt replied. “I can do with ye or without ye. Suit yourself. But I'll have no more of it.”

“A drink now an' then hurts no man,” said Regan.

“It raises Cain with a camp, and you know it,” MacNutt retorted.

“That's true enough,” admitted Regan, who was not unreasonable, “but the boys over to McCane's camp shoved it at us. They've plenty there.”

MacNutt said no more. He could not forbid his men from strolling on Sunday, when there was nothing else to do, over the few miles which separated the two camps. But he could and did issue a warning that any man bringing liquor into the camp would get his time forthwith.

He saw no man drunk, but the little signs were unmistakable. The percentage of quarrels and fights became higher; the bunk-house at night, usually noisy, was now uproarious; some of the men obeyed with less alacrity and grumbled with a great deal more; and through the entire crew there spread a spirit of devil-may-care slackness very hard indeed upon a foreman.

One Sunday MacNutt shouldered an axe and took the well-marked trail which led through the forest to McCane's camp. Arrived at the compass line dividing the limits, he sat down and lit his pipe. For an hour he waited, smoking thoughtfully, watching the fluffy, impudent whiskey-jacks. At the end of that time three men appeared down the trail from McCane's. One carried a sack over his shoulder, and the sack bulged suggestively in the shape of a two-gallon jug. MacNutt tapped out his pipe and stepped into the trail.

“Where are you men headin' for?” he asked.

“None o' your business,” replied the man with the sack.

“What's in that sack?” MacNutt demanded.

“Cold tea,” answered the man, and the others laughed. MacNutt shut his lips grimly.

“Go back and take your booze with you,” he ordered; “and don't let me catch you this side of that line again.”

“Must think you own the woods,” said he of the jug, slipping the bag from his shoulder in readiness for trouble. “You go to hell!”

The axe resting on MacNutt's shoulder leaped forward and down in a sweeping stroke. There was a crash of crockery and a sudden strong odour of alcohol; following these a tremendous burst of profanity. The three men rushed at MacNutt.

The foreman was not foolish enough to meet three hardened “bully-boys” with his fists. His axe flashed up and just missed the head of the leader in its descent. There was such evident deadly sincerity in the blow that the men paused. MacNutt gave them no time. He charged them instantly, axe aloft, and, prudence getting the better of anger, they ran for their lives. MacNutt followed for a short distance, shouted a final warning, and returned to camp. He did not think that he had put a stop to the contraband traffic, but he had fired the first gun and made his attitude clear.

The following day, as he was overseeing the work, Rough Shan McCane came striding through the snow.

“What's this I hear about your chasing three of my men with an axe?” he demanded.

“Well, what about it?” asked MacNutt indifferently, and the men near at hand listened with all their ears.

“This much,” said Rough Shan truculently. “My men have a right in the woods, an' not you nor anny one else will stop them going where they like.”

“Well, I did stop them,” retorted MacNutt. “I smashed a jug of booze they were bringing to my camp, and I'd have split their heads if they hadn't run.”

This was news to the Kent men. MacNutt rose several notches in their estimation. Regan, who had expected to share the contents of the jug and had been disappointed by its non-arrival, whispered to Devlin:

“Ain't ould Mac th' bully-boy? I'd 'a' give a week's pay to 'a' seen it.”

“A jug of booze among fifty men!” sneered Rough Shan. “What's that? Can't ye let the boys have a drink if they want it? An' if it was a bar'l ain't ye man enough to be boss of yer own camp?”

“When I want your help to run it I'll send for you,” rasped MacNutt. “There's been booze comin' over from your camp, an' I'm goin' to stop it; an' the way I stop it is my business.”

“If you lay out a man of mine I'll take you to pieces,” threatened Rough Shan. “I done it once, an' I'll do it again.”

MacNutt's eyes blazed. He caught Regan's axe and tossed it on the snow before McCane. Himself he seized Devlin's.

“If you want a fight pick up that axe and go to it!” he cried.

McCane was rough and tough, but he had come to run a bluff rather than to look for serious trouble, and a fight with axes was too cold-blooded a proposition, even for him.

“I'll go ye with fists an' feet in a minute,” he offered.

“No,” MacNutt refused. “Take an axe. I want to kill ye!”

McCane was bluffed, to the huge delight of the Kent men.

“I'm no damn fool, if you are,” he said. “Leave my men alone, an' I'll leave you alone. But if you don't, I'll come over and take you apart.”

“Bring your own axe,” said MacNutt. “Now you get out o' here.”

This conversation, retailed at the camp by Devlin, Regan, and others, with such additions, mainly blasphemous, as the imagination of the individual narrator could suggest, sent MacNutt's stock booming. The lumber jack loves a fighter, and a man who could run three of McCane's crew out of the woods and bluff Rough Shan himself was one after their own hearts. Regan, himself a rough-and-tumble artist of considerable ability, voiced the sentiments of the better men.

“I like me drink as well as anny man; but ould Mac is boss, an' what he says goes wid me, after this. I'll save me thirst till the drive is down, an' then” An uplifting of the eyes and a licking of the lips expressed more than mere words.

But many of the men did not see it in that way. If they could get liquor they would drink it. Visitors from McCane's camp came empty-handed, and Kent's men seldom went there. And yet there was liquor in the camp!

MacNutt could not account for it. He pondered the problem over many pipes. “They get it somewhere,” he said to himself. “For a week not a man has gone to McCane's and not a man of his has been here. There's only one answer. They've got a cache.”

Having reached this conclusion by the Holmes process of elimination, he began a new line of investigation; and he was struck by the popularity of the tote road as a promenade. There was no reason why the men should not walk on it, and it bore directly away from McCane's camp, but in the light of his deduction the fact had to be explained.

MacNutt walked out the tote road. Over a mile from camp he saw a blazed tree. With this as a base he began a systematic search, and finally found beneath the butt of a windfall a small keg containing rye whiskey of peculiarly malignant quality. In the keg was a spigot, so that each visitor might fill a bottle for himself.

MacNutt did not demolish the keg. Instead he made a flying trip to camp. When he returned he carried one bottle of horse liniment, half a pound of cayenne pepper, a tin of mustard, two boxes of “Little Giant” pills, a cake of soap, and a huge plug of black chewing tobacco. All these he introduced to the keg's interior and replaced the spigot. This took time. Afterward he took fifteen minutes' violent exercise in shaking the keg.

Thus it was that Hicks, up-ending Chartrand's bottle with a grin of pure anticipation, suddenly choked and gagged, for he had taken two mighty swallows before the taste reached his toughened palate. Now two swallows may not make a summer, but they may make a very sick lumber jack. The winter forest echoed to the sounds of upheaval. Between paroxysms Hicks cursed Chartrand. The latter regarded him in amazement.

“W'at's de mattaire wit' you, hey?” he queried. “Mo' Gee! I t'ink you eat too moche grub dat you ain't chaw. S'pose you tak one leetle drink, encore, for help hold heem down.”

“I'll kill you, you blasted pea-soup!” howled Hicks. “I'll kick your backbone up through your hat; I'll” Here circumstances over which he had no control interrupted him.

“I' t'ink you go crazee, me,” said Chartrand. “You eat lak one dam beeg cochon—de pork, de bean, de bread an' molass'—tous les choses. All right. I tak heem one leetle drink, ''moi-meme. A votre sante, mon ami!"''

He grinned pleasantly at Hicks and tilted the bottle to his own mouth, rolling a beatific eye as the liquid gurgled down. Suddenly he choked as Hicks had done.

“Sacré nom du bon Dieu!” he shrieked, spitting like a cat. “What is it that it is? Ah, holy Sainte Agathe, I am poison' lak one wolf! Ah, bon Saint Jean Baptiste, venez mes secours, for I have been one sinful man! Sacré dam, I burn lak hell inside!”

Hicks, sitting weakly on a log, his hands clasped across his outraged epigastrium, watched Chartrand's gyrations with huge satisfaction, and roared vindictive sarcasm at the final catastrophe.

“Eat too much grub that I don't chaw, do I?” he mocked. “Make a pig of meself wid pork an' beans, hey? Take some yerself, me laddybuck. That's right—tie yerself in knots. How would ye like another little drink to help hold her down?”

In the end they sat together on the log, cursing in two languages, and regarding the fragments of the broken bottle balefully. Chartrand rose and picked up a heavy club.

“Bagosh, I bus' up dat keg for sure!” he announced. But Hicks, whose wisdom was of the serpentine variety, demurred.

“Let the boys find it out for themselves,” he counselled. “If we give ourselves away we get the dirty laugh.”

Therefore there descended upon the camp a sudden sickness amounting to an epidemic; for the effects of MacNutt's concoction, though violent and immediate, were also far-reaching and enduring. The foreman noted the victims of his strategy, issued them chlorodyne from the van, and kept his mouth shut. He had won the first round, but he knew very well it was only a preliminary. Rough Shan was still to be reckoned with.