For many years there had been installed in Cardigan's mill a clock set
to United States observatory time and corrected hourly by the telegraph
company. It was the only clock of its kind in Sequoia; hence folk set
their watches by it, or rather by the whistle on Cardigan's mill. With
a due appreciation of the important function of this clock toward his
fellow-citizens, old Zeb Curry, the chief engineer and a stickler for
being on time, was most meticulous in his whistle-blowing. With a sage
and prophetic eye fixed upon the face of the clock, and a particularly
greasy hand grasping the whistle-cord, Zeb would wait until the clock
registered exactly six-fifty-nine and a half--whereupon the seven
o'clock whistle would commence blowing, to cease instantly upon the
stroke of the hour. It was old Zeb's pride and boast that with a single
exception, during the sixteen years the clock had been in service, no
man could say that Zeb had been more than a second late or early with
his whistle-blowing. That exception occurred when Bryce Cardigan,
invading the engine room while Zeb was at luncheon, looped the
whistle-cord until the end dangled seven feet above ground. As a
consequence Zeb, who was a short, fat little man, was forced to leap
at it several times before success crowned his efforts and the whistle
blew. Thereafter for the remainder of the day his reason tottered on its
throne, due to the fact that Bryce induced every mill employee to call
upon the engineer and remind him that he must be growing old, since he
was no longer dependable!
On the morning following Bryce Cardigan's return to Sequoia, Zeb Curry,
as per custom, started his engine at six-fifty-eight. That gave the huge
bandsaws two minutes in which to attain their proper speed and afforded
Dan Kenyon, the head sawyer, ample time to run his steam log-carriage
out to the end of the track; for Daniel, too, was a reliable man in the
matter of starting his daily uproar on time.
At precisely six fifty-nine and a half, therefore, the engineer's hand
closed over the handle of the whistle-cord, and Dan Kenyon, standing
on the steam-carriage with his hand on the lever, took a thirty-second
squint through a rather grimy window that gave upon the drying-yard and
the mill-office at the head of it.
The whistle ceased blowing, but still Dan Kenyon stood at his post,
oblivious of the hungry saws. Ten seconds passed; then Zeb Curry,
immeasurably scandalized at Daniel's tardiness, tooted the whistle
sharply twice; whereupon Dan woke up, threw over the lever, and walked
his log up to the saw.
For the next five hours Zeb Curry had no opportunity to discuss the
matter with the head sawyer. After blowing the twelve o'clock whistle,
however, he hurried over to the dining-hall, where the mill hands
already lined the benches, shovelling food into their mouths as only a
lumberman or a miner can. Dan Kenyon sat at the head of the table in
the place of honour sacred to the head sawyer, and when his mouth would
permit of some activity other than mastication, Zeb Curry caught his
eye.
“Hey, you, Dan Kenyon,” he shouted across the table, “what happened
to you this mornin'? It was sixteen seconds between the tail end o' my
whistle an' the front end o' your whinin'. First thing you know, you'll
be gettin' so slack an' careless-like some other man'll be ridin' that
log-carriage o' yourn.”
“I was struck dumb,” Dan Kenyon replied. “I just stood there like one
o' these here graven images. Last night on my way home from work I heerd
the young feller was back--he got in just as we was knockin' off for the
day; an' this mornin' just as you cut loose, Zeb, I'll be danged if he
didn't show up in front o' the office door, fumblin' for the keyhole.
Yes, sirree! That boy gets in at six o'clock last night an' turns to on
his paw's job when the whistle blows this mornin' at seven.”
“You mean young Bryce Cardigan?” Zeb queried incredulously.
“I shore do.”
“'Tain't possible,” Zeb declared. “You seen a new bookkeeper, mebbe, but
you didn't see Bryce. He aint no such hog for labour as his daddy before
him, I'm tellin' you. Not that there's a lazy bone in his body, for
there ain't, but because that there boy's got too much sense to come
bollin' down to work at seven o'clock the very first mornin' he's back
from Yurrup.”
“I'm layin' you ten to one I seen him,” Dan replied defiantly, “an'
what's more, I'll bet a good cigar--a ten-center straight--the boy don't
leave till six o'clock to-night.”
“You're on,” answered the chief engineer. “Them's lumberjack hours, man.
From seven till six means work--an' only fools an' hosses keeps them
hours.”
The head sawyer leaned across the table and pounded with the handle of
his knife until he had the attention of all present. “I'm a-goin' to
tell you young fellers somethin',” he announced. “Ever since the old
boss got so he couldn't look after his business with his own eyes,
things has been goin' to blazes round this sawmill, but they ain't
a-goin' no more. How do I know? Well, I'll tell you. All this forenoon I
kept my eye on the office door--I can see it through a mill winder; an'
I'm tellin' you the old boss didn't show up till ten o'clock, which the
old man ain't never been a ten o'clock business man at no time. Don't
that prove the boy's took his place?”
Confused murmurs of affirmation and negation ran up and down the long
table. Dan tapped with his knife again. “You hear me,” he warned.
“Thirty year I've been ridin' John Cardigan's log-carriages; thirty
year I've been gettin' everythin' out of a log it's possible to git out,
which is more'n you fellers at the trimmers can git out of a board after
I've sawed it off the cant. There's a lot o' you young fellers that've
been takin' John Cardigan's money under false pretenses, so if I was you
I'd keep both eyes on my job hereafter. For a year I've been claimin'
that good No. 2 stock has been chucked into the slab-fire as refuge
lumber.” (Dan meant refuse lumber.) “But it won't be done no more. The
raftsman tells me he seen Bryce down at the end o' the conveyin' belt
givin' that refuge the once-over--so step easy.”
“What does young Cardigan know about runnin' a sawmill?” a planer-man
demanded bluntly. “They tell me he's been away to college an' travellin'
the past six years.”
“Wa-ll,” drawled the head sawyer, “you git to talkin' with him some day
an' see how much he knows about runnin' a sawmill. What he knows will
surprise you. Yes, indeed, you'll find he knows considerable. He's
picked up loose shingles around the yard an' bundled 'em in vacation
times, an' I want to see the shingle-weaver that can teach him some
tricks. Also, I've had him come up on the steam carriage more'n once an'
saw up logs, while at times I've seen him put in a week or two on the
sortin' table. In a pinch, with a lot o' vessels loadin' here at the
dock an' the skippers raisin' Cain because they wasn't gettin' their
cargo fast enough, I've seen him work nights an' Sundays tallyin' with
the best o' them. Believe me that boy can grade lumber.”
“An' I'll tell you somethin' else,” Zeb Curry cut in. “If the new boss
ever tells you to do a thing his way, you do it an' don't argue none as
to whether he knows more about it than you do or not.”
“A whole lot o' dagos an' bohunks that's come into the woods since the
blue-noses an' canucks an' wild Irish went out had better keep your eyes
open,” Dan Kenyon warned sagely. “There ain't none o' you any better'n
you ought to be, an' things have been pretty durned slack around
Cardigan's mill since the old man went blind, but--you watch out.
There's a change due. Bryce Cardigan is his father's son. He'll do
things.”
“Which he's big enough to throw a bear uphill by the tail,” Zeb Curry
added, “an' you fellers all know how much tail a bear has.”
“Every mornin' for thirty years, 'ceptin' when we was shut down for
repairs,” Dan continued, “I've looked through that winder, when John
Cardigan wasn't away from Sequoia, to watch him git to his office on
time. He's there when the whistle blows, clear up to the time his eyes
go back on him, an' then he arrives late once or twice on account o'
havin' to go careful. This mornin', for the first time in fifty year,
he stays in bed; but--his son has the key in the office door when the
whistle blows, an'--”
Dan Kenyon paused abruptly; the hum of conversation ceased, and silence
fell upon the room as Bryce Cardigan strolled in the door, nodded to the
men, and slid in on the bench to a seat beside the head sawyer.
“Hello, Dan--hello, Zeb,” he said and shook hands with each. “I'm mighty
glad to see you both again. Hello, everybody. I'm the new boss, so I
suppose I'd better introduce myself--there are so many new faces here.
I'm Bryce Cardigan.”
“Yes,” Zeb Curry volunteered, “an' he's like his daddy. He ain't ashamed
to work with his men, an' he ain't ashamed to eat with his men, nuther.
Glad you're back with us again, boy--mighty glad. Dan, here, he's
gittin' slacker'n an old squaw with his work an' needs somebody to jerk
him up, while the rest o' these here--”
“I noticed that about Dan,” Bryce interrupted craftily. “He's slowing
up, Zeb. He must have been fifteen seconds late this morning--or
perhaps,” he added “you were fifteen seconds earlier than the clock.”
Dan grinned, and Bryce went on seriously: “I'm afraid you're getting too
old to ride the log-carriage, Dan. You've been at it a long time; so,
with the utmost good will in the world toward you, you're fired. I might
as well tell you now. You know me, Dan. I always did dislike beating
about the bush.”
“Fired!” Dan Kenyon's eyes popped with amazement and horror.
“Fired--after thirty years!” he croaked.
“Fired!” There was unmistakable finality in Bryce's tones. “You're hired
again, however, at a higher salary, as mill-superintendent. You can get
away with that job, can't you, Dan? In fact,” he added without waiting
for the overjoyed Dan to answer him, “you've got to get away with it,
because I discharged the mill-superintendent I found on the job when I
got down here this morning. He's been letting too many profits go into
the slab-fire. In fact, the entire plant has gone to glory. Fire-hose
old and rotten--couldn't stand a hundred-pound pressure; fire-buckets
and water-barrels empty, axes not in their proper places,
fire-extinguishers filled with stale chemical--why, the smallest kind
of a fire here would get beyond our control with that man on the job.
Besides, he's changed the grading-rules. I found the men putting clear
boards with hard-grained streaks in them in with the No. 1 clear. The
customer may not kick at a small percentage of No. 2 in his No. 1 but
it's only fair to give it to him at two dollars a thousand less.”
“Well,” purred Zeb Curry, “they don't grade lumber as strict nowadays as
they used to before you went away. Colonel Pennington says we're a lot
o' back numbers out this way an' too generous with our grades.
First thing he did was to call a meetin' of all the Humboldt lumber
manufacturers an' organize 'em into an association. Then he had the
gradin'-rules changed. The retailers hollered for a while, but bimeby
they got used to it.”
“Did my father join that association?” Bryce demanded quickly.
“Yes. He told Pennington he wasn't goin' to be no obstructionist in the
trade, but he did kick like a bay steer on them new gradin'-rules an'
refused to conform to 'em. Said he was too old an' had been too long in
business to start gougin' his customers at his time o' life. So he got
out o' the association.”
“Bully for John Cardigan!” Bryce declared. “I suppose we could make a
little more money by cheapening our grade, but the quality of our
lumber is so well known that it sells itself and saves us the expense of
maintaining a corps of salesmen.”
“From what I hear tell o' the Colonel,” Dan observed sagely, “the least
he ever wants is a hundred and fifty per cent. the best of it.”
“Yes,” old Zeb observed gravely, “an' so fur as I can see, he ain't none
too perticular how he gets it.” He helped himself to a toothpick, and
followed by the head sawyer, abruptly left the room--after the fashion
of sawmill men and woodsmen, who eat as much as they can as quickly as
they can and eventually die of old age rather than indigestion. Bryce
ate his noonday meal in more leisurely fashion and at its conclusion
stepped into the kitchen.
“Where do you live, cook?” he demanded of that functionary; and upon
being informed, he retired to the office and called up the Sequoia
meat-market.
“Bryce Cardigan speaking,” he informed the butcher. “Do you ever buy any
pigs from our mill cook?”
“Not any more,” the butcher answered. “He stung me once with a dozen
fine shoats. They looked great, but after I had slaughtered them and had
them dressed, they turned out to be swill-fed hogs--swill and alfalfa.”
“Thank you.” Bryce hung up. “I knew that cook was wasteful,” he
declared, turning to his father's old manager, one Thomas Sinclair.
“He wastes food in order to take the swill home to his hogs--and nobody
watches him. Things have certainly gone to the devil,” he continued.
“No fault of mine,” Sinclair protested. “I've never paid any attention
to matters outside the office. Your father looked after everything
else.”
Bryce looked at Sinclair. The latter was a thin, spare, nervous man
in the late fifties, and though generally credited with being John
Cardigan's manager, Bryce knew that Sinclair was in reality little more
than a glorified bookkeeper--and a very excellent bookkeeper indeed.
Bryce realized that in the colossal task that confronted him he could
expect no real help from Sinclair.
“Yes,” he replied, “my father looked after everything else--while he
could.”
“Oh, you'll soon get the business straightened out and running smoothly
again,” Sinclair declared confidently.
“Well, I'm glad I started on the job to-day, rather than next Monday, as
I planned to do last night.”
He stepped to the window and looked out. At the mill-dock a big steam
schooner and a wind-jammer lay; in the lee of the piles of lumber,
sailors and long-shoremen, tallymen and timekeeper lounged, enjoying the
brief period of the noon hour still theirs before the driving mates
of the lumber-vessels should turn them to on the job once more. To his
right and left stretched the drying yard, gangway on gangway formed by
the serried rows of lumber-piles, the hoop-horses placidly feeding from
their nosebags while the strong-armed fellows who piled the lumber sat
about in little groups conversing with the mill-hands.
As Bryce looked, a puff of white steam appeared over the roof of the
old sawmill, and the one o'clock whistle blew. Instantly that scene of
indolence and ease turned to one of activity. The mill-hands lounging in
the gangways scurried for their stations in the mill; men climbed to the
tops of the lumber-piles, while other men passed boards and scantlings
up to them; the donkey-engines aboard the vessels rattled; the
cargo-gaffs of the steam schooner swung outward, and a moment later two
great sling-loads of newly sawed lumber rose in the air, swung inward,
and descended to the steamer's decks.
All about Bryce were scenes of activity, of human endeavour; and to
him in that moment came the thought: “My father brought all this to
pass--and now the task of continuing it is mine! All those men who earn
a living in Cardigan's mill and on Cardigan's dock--those sailors who
sail the ships that carry Cardigan's lumber into the distant marts of
men--are dependent upon me; and my father used to tell me not to fail
them. Must my father have wrought all this in vain? And must I stand by
and see all this go to satisfy the overwhelming ambition of a stranger?”
His big hands clenched. “No!” he growled savagely.
“If I stick around this office a minute longer, I'll go crazy,” Bryce
snarled then. “Give me your last five annual statements, Mr. Sinclair,
please.”
The old servitor brought forth the documents in question. Bryce stuffed
them into his pocket and left the office. Three quarters of an hour
later he entered the little amphitheatre in the Valley of the Giants and
paused with an expression of dismay. One of the giants had fallen
and lay stretched across the little clearing. In its descent it had
demolished the little white stone over his mother's grave and had driven
the fragments of the stone deep into the earth.
The tremendous brown butt quite ruined the appearance of the
amphitheatre by reason of the fact that it constituted a barrier some
fifteen feet high and of equal thickness athwart the centre of the
clearing, with fully three quarters of the length of the tree lost to
sight where the fallen monarch had wedged between its more fortunate
fellows. The fact that the tree was down, however, was secondary to the
fact that neither wind nor lightning had brought it low, but rather the
impious hand of man; for the great jagged stump showed all too plainly
the marks of cross-cut saw and axe; a pile of chips four feet deep
littered the ground.
For fully a minute Bryce stood dumbly gazing upon the sacrilege before
his rage and horror found vent in words. “An enemy has done this thing,”
he cried aloud to the wood-goblins. “And over her grave!”
Presently, smothering his emotion, he walked the length of the dead
giant, and where the top tapered off to a size that would permit of his
stepping across it, he retraced his steps on the other side of the tree
until he had reached a point some fifty feet from the butt--when the
vandal's reason for felling the monster became apparent.
It was a burl tree. At the point where Bryce paused a malignant growth
had developed on the trunk of the tree, for all the world like a
tremendous wart. This was the burl, so prized for table-tops and
panelling because of the fact that the twisted, wavy, helter-skelter
grain lends to the wood an extraordinary beauty when polished. Bryee
noted that the work of removing this excrescence had been accomplished
very neatly. With a cross-cut saw the growth, perhaps ten feet in
diameter, had been neatly sliced off much as a housewife cuts slice
after slice from a loaf of bread. He guessed that these slices,
practically circular in shape, had been rolled out of the woods to some
conveyance waiting to receive them.
What Bryce could not understand, however, was the stupid brutality of
the raiders in felling the tree merely for that section of burl. By
permitting the tree to stand and merely building a staging up to the
burl, the latter could have been removed without vital injury to the
tree--whereas by destroying the tree the wretches had evidenced all too
clearly to Bryce a wanton desire to add insult to injury.
Bryce inspected the scars on the stump carefully. They were
weather-stained to such an extent that to his experienced eye it was
evident the outrage had been committed more than a year previously;
and the winter rains, not to mention the spring growth of grasses and
underbrush, had effectually destroyed all trace of the trail taken by
the vandals with their booty.
“Poor old Dad!” he murmured. “I'm glad now he has been unable to get up
here and see this. It would have broken his heart. I'll have this tree
made into fence-posts and the stump dynamited and removed this summer.
After he is operated on and gets back his sight, he will come up
here--and he must never know. Perhaps he will have forgotten how many
trees stood in this circle. And I'll fill in the hole left by the stump
and plant some manzanita there to hide the--”
He paused. Peeping out from under a chip among the litter at his feet
was the moldy corner of a white envelope. In an instant Bryce had it in
his hand. The envelope was dirty and weather-beaten, but to a certain
extent the redwood chips under which it had lain hidden had served to
protect it, and the writing on the face was still legible. The envelope
was empty and addressed to Jules Rondeau, care of the Laguna Grande
Lumber Company, Sequoia, California.
Bryce read and reread that address. “Rondeau!” he muttered. “Jules
Rondeau! I've heard that name before--ah, yes! Dad spoke of him last
night. He's Pennington's woods-boss--”
He paused. An enemy had done this thing--and in all the world John
Cardigan had but one enemy--Colonel Seth Pennington. Had Pennington sent
his woods-boss to do this dirty work out of sheer spite? Hardly. The
section of burl was gone, and this argued that the question of spite had
been purely a matter of secondary consideration.
Evidently, Bryce reasoned, someone had desired that burl redwood
greatly, and that someone had not been Jules Rondeau, since a woods-boss
would not be likely to spend five minutes of his leisure time in
consideration of the beauties of a burl table-top or panel. Hence, if
Rondeau had superintended the task of felling the tree, it must have
been at the behest of a superior; and since a woods-boss acknowledges no
superior save the creator of the pay-roll, the recipient of that stolen
burl must have been Colonel Pennington.
Suddenly he thrilled. If Jules Rondeau had stolen that burl to present
it to Colonel Pennington, his employer, then the finished article must
be in Pennington's home! And Bryce had been invited to that home for
dinner the following Thursday by the Colonel's niece.
“I'll go, after all,” he told himself. “I'll go--and I'll see what I
shall see.”
He was too wrought up now to sit calmly down in the peace and quietude
of the giants, and digest the annual reports Sinclair had given him. He
hastened back to the mill-office and sought Sinclair.
“At what hour does the logging-train leave the Laguna Grande Lumber
Company's yard for our log-landing in Township Nine?” he demanded.
“Eight a.m. and one p.m. daily, Bryce.”
“Have you any maps of the holdings of Pennington and ourselves in that
district?”
“Yes.”
“Let me have them, please. I know the topography of that district
perfectly, but I am not familiar with the holdings in and around ours.”
Sinclair gave him the maps, and Bryce retired to his father's private
office and gave himself up to a study of them.