“THEM WAS ROARING DAYS!”
I
AS the tug swung out with a great churning astern, Hammond caught the eye
of the skipper looking out of the wheel-house above. Chuckling over the
antics of the chagrined camp preacher, he jerked his head for Hammond to
come up.
“Take a seat.” The genial-faced captain motioned Hammond to the
cushioned bench at the back of the tiny wheel-house. “The sky-pilot
seemed to be all fussed up about something, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” replied Hammond. “I’m at a loss to know what came over him all of
a sudden. As a rule he never appeared to notice I existed around the
camp.”
“Oh, I guess he’s harmless, from what I hear,” agreed the captain, “but
you can never tell just what’s what about some of these queer birds they
let hang around that camp. There’s that old Medicine Man, for instance,
I wouldn’t trust my back to him two minutes in the bush.”
“Ogima Bush? You think he’s dangerous?”
The skipper yanked at the lever of the steam steering-gear and swung the
tug due west outside the channel through the pulp booms. “There ain’t
any bully in the camp will take chances on crossing him,” he said
significantly.
“You’d think the superintendent would have him run off the limits.”
“He daren’t, even if he wanted to,” declared the captain. “It’s long
odds that old crock is cahoots with the Big Boss. At least everybody’s
got that notion.”
“Speak of the devil,” he exclaimed next minute, “there’s the Big Boss
heading for camp now.”
Hammond leaped to his feet and looked where the captain was pointing.
Sure enough he could discern the superintendent’s red racing motorboat
tearing over the water from a point the other side of Amethyst Island,
bow up in air with a crash of foam under its midships.
“Try the glasses,” suggested the captain. Hammond fitted them to his
eyes and adjusted the lenses. Acey Smith, at the wheel, was the only
occupant of the tiny cockpit.
“Smith talked of going over to Kam City this afternoon,” suggested
Hammond.
“Yes, he told me yesterday he was in a hurry to get things cleaned up so
he could get away in time,” replied the other. “He intended to catch the
night train for Montreal.
“Suppose you know there’s trouble on among the tug-men?” he queried
turning from the steering-lever a moment.
“Strike?”
“Yes, and if the tugmen go out it means the pole-cutters and the white
boom-tenders at the limits will down tools in sympathy tying everything
up as tight as a river-jam.”
“Likely Smith’s going to Montreal to talk it over with some of the heads
of the company, eh?” Hammond was sparring for more information.
“I dunno.” There came a faraway look in the captain’s blue eyes. “Hon.
J. J. Slack, of Kam City, is supposed to be top dog of this outfit, and
then again some think he’s only a straw boss. But if you asked a lot of
people they’d tell you the real head push of this outfit hangs out in a
place that’s a lot hotter than Montreal or Kam City.”
Hammond was scarcely paying any attention to the captain’s words. He had
the glasses trained on Amethyst Island which they were now passing. The
place had a deserted look. The doors of Josephine Stone’s cottage were
closed and there was not a sign of life on the island. That seemed
queer—very queer. Perhaps, he conjectured, she had gone over to their
meeting-place on the beach and was expecting him to happen along.
But he swept the beach with the glasses for a glimpse of her in vain.
Presently, two scarlet-coated policemen emerged from the bush on the
mainland and walked up the rise to a bell tent that was pitched on the
crown of the hill. There one apparently flung an order to his companion,
and the latter set off at a loping run in the direction of the pulp camp.
A depressing presentiment swept over Hammond. He would have liked to
have asked the captain to turn in and let him off at Amethyst Island, but
he didn’t quite dare do that.
II
It was the captain who interrupted his reverie. “We were talking just
now about that camp sky-pilot, the Rev. Nathan Stubbs,” he reminded
Hammond. “I was saying that Smith lets Ogima Bush the Medicine Man have
the run of the camps because he can use him for his own purposes. Now
it’s different with that preacher fellow; it’s always been known that the
Big Boss won’t order any kind of a Christian preacher out of camp so long
as the preacher sticks to the gospel and his own particular line of
trade.”
“Is that a fact?” This to Hammond was an entirely new side light on the
character of the pulp camp superintendent.
“True as your standing there,” emphasised the skipper. “Why, all of us
boat captains have standing orders that any of them chaps with their
collars buttoned behind is to travel free back and forth to the camps
whether they have a pass or not. It’s the same in the camp; they ain’t
charged anything for grub and bunk and everybody has orders to use them
polite and decent. At the same time, the Big Boss lets the preachers see
they’re to steer wide of him. He has a way of doing that, you know, and
the wise ones know enough not to try any of their holy groaning on a
hard-boiled egg like him.
“There’s been every known kind of soul-saving genius knocking around our
camps in my time; Catholic priests, highfaluting English churchers,
Methodist missionaries, Salvation Army drum-beaters and the like,”
continued the captain. “But I only know of one preacher who tried mixing
it with Acey Smith. He was a bush-camp evangelist they called Holy Henry
that used to rant to the lumber-jacks and lead them in psalm-singing all
the way from the Soo up to the Rainy and the Lake of the Woods. Holy
Henry was a wizened up bit of a man with big, thick glasses and
mild-looking blue eyes back of them. But, Lord, man, hadn’t he a temper
when he got blazing away at the devil and all his works! He’d chew up
half a dozen dictionaries getting high-brow words to lambast sin and
back-sliding, and he’d mix ’em up with camp slang in a way that would get
the boys whether they wanted to listen to him or not. He’d ’ve been a
popular guy, that preacher, if he hadn’t been so death on all the little
games of chance the lumber-jack has a weakness for. That kind of gave
him a black eye all over the North.
“We were taking out timber in the Dog Bay country when Holy Henry paid us
his visit. The North Star camps were wide open in them days; nothing was
barred but wild women and promiscuous booze-running. There was every
known manner of winning or losing a wad from big wheels-of-fortune,
chuck-a-luck, paddle-wheels and stud poker down to nigger craps. Nobody
ever interfered so long as the men were on their jobs on time and there
was no knife-sticking or gun-play. Why, the whole bunch used to gulp
dinner like a lot of brush-wolves just so they’d have the biggest part of
their noon-hour trying their chances for easy money. Some of the lucky
ones cleaned up a pile of money and some that weren’t got cleaned out
even to their whole season’s wages and their packsacks. Them was roaring
days!
“When this here Holy Henry hits the camps everybody got to speculating
just what end of the horn he’d come out at, and of course there were some
long stakes put up right on that there question, but all the big odds was
on Holy Henry breaking down on the job for quits inside of two weeks. I
was in charge of a river gang in them days, and I remember having a nifty
side-bet that he’d get so sick of trying to break up things he’d just
slip away faking a bad cold or something of that sort.
“But what happened wasn’t what any of us had figured on. The first thing
that fool preacher did was to go to the super’s. office and appeal to him
to put the lid on. Acey Smith looks down at the little fellow with the
thick glasses and the weak eyes with that sort of good-natured curiosity
you see on a big St. Bernard dog when a poodle gets in his way. ‘This
ain’t any Sunday school we’re running out here, Holy Henry,’ he says,
‘and saving souls isn’t exactly in my line; but if you can throw a scare
of hell-fire into this outfit of blacklegs so that they’ll thumb
hymn-books instead of poker decks, go to it. That’s your particular
business and I won’t put any sticks in your way.’ Then he turns away
with that little demon-grin of his and goes back to his work.
“Some of us that had big bets on the preacher quitting early thought to
hurry him up by getting him peeved. So when he came out all sort of
wilted-like we says to him to get his goat: ‘What you going to do about
it now, Holy Henry?’
“‘I am going to pray for Brother Smith,’ he surprises us by replying. ‘I
know he’s going to be on the side of the Lord.’
“That made us roar so that half of the camp heard us. ‘Brother Smith,’
mind you, he called him. We never quite got over that, but none dared to
twit the super. about it. He’s mighty touchy on some things, is Acey
Smith.
“All went along pretty much as per usual till Sunday came. Sunday was
the red-letter gambling day at the North Star camps because the boys had
full time at it with no other worries. Some of ’em used to piece the
bull cooks to bring their meals to them so they wouldn’t miss a deal.
“Holy Henry had announced a morning service in a shack that had been
turned over to him for that purpose, but not a man-jack turned up to it
but an old Injun halfwit who’d been roped in by the Salvation Army and a
one-eyed Hunkie who’d got religion at one of the weekday meetings. Holy
Henry kneels down with his two-men congregation and prays silently for a
few minutes. Then he went forth ‘clothed in the wrath of the Lord’ as he
called it.
“And believe me, boy, _that_ was some wrath. Somewhere outside he
gathered up a piece of a broken handspike, and brandishing it around his
head, he lands into first one camp shack and then another. He couldn’t
make any mistake picking them random that way; they were all going full
tilt. He’d burst through a door and land in like a little package of
greased hurricane. Out would go his foot and over would go a table,
chips, cards, money and all. Then he’d swing his club within an inch of
the faces of the crowd. ‘Out of here, you bleary-eyed, low-lived,
pigeon-toed, white-livered disciples of Baal!’ he’d yell. ‘Out, you
sin-corroded, knock-kneed, flannel-mouthed desecrators of the Lord’s Day!
Out, I say, for the wrath of God Almighty is upon you!’
“Say, you’d be surprised to see how quick he cleaned up the whole works.
In about two minutes he’d smashed up about a thousand dollars’ worth of
slot-machines and fortune-wheels with that hand-spike club of his. The
crowd at first just stood around sort of paralysed and didn’t lift a
finger to stop him. There was low growls, lots of curses, and threats of
ganging him, but being that he was a preacher nobody seemed ready to
start things.
“Some of the lads with level heads decided to go down and get the super.
to interfere and decide what was to be done with the wild-eyed preacher.
Smith was reading one of them high-brow books in his office when the
delegation bursts in. He didn’t say a word, just got up, slips on his
mackinaw and goes out to locate the cause of the disturbance.
“Holy Henry was smashing things about in the sixth shack on his list when
the Big Boss poked his head in the door with the gang crowding up at his
rear.
“‘What in hell does this mean?’ the super. raps out, spearing the
preacher with them wicked, snapping black eyes of his. His face was like
chalk from the cold anger he was holding back.
“Holy Henry was in the act of dumping a lot of poker chips and cards into
the stove. The sweat was running down his face in little creeks and his
thick glasses had got all steamed up, which didn’t matter because he was
seeing all red up to that time. But the Big Boss’s words hit him like
cold chunks of ice that had been shot into his system and the pep seemed
to go out of him all at once. I’d seen bigger and stronger men than Holy
Henry break down like that in front of Acey Smith, and I almost began to
feel sorry for this trembling little bit of whiff of a fellow with that
black devil of a man towering over him.
“‘It’s the Lord’s Day,’ he stammers. ‘I was just cleaning up these—these
hell parlours.’
“‘Hell parlours—hell parlours,’ echoes the super. ‘Who in blue blazes
gave you a license to wreck the camp? Tell me that!’
“The little fellow looked more sorrowful than ever and he says sort of
quietlike: ‘I thought you were on our side, Brother Smith; I was doing
this in the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ.’
“If you ever saw a change come over the face of a man it was that that
came over the super’s. He drew back like as if something had hit him,
and the palms of his hands went up to his face as though he was choking.
Maybe you’ve seen him do that sometimes? It’s like as if a devil inside
him was trying to jump out and was strangling him.
“But next minute he walks over to the preacher and takes him by the arm.
‘Finish your job, Holy Henry,’ he says, ‘and if any one so much as lifts
a finger at you, well—’
“He didn’t finish, but turns and glowers at the gawping crowd like a
lion. ‘Men,’ he orders, ‘the lid’s down tight on Sunday gambling in
these camps. You get that straight!’
“He said it, and that meant it was law. And it’s been law in the North
Star camps ever since.
“What became of Holy Henry? Now, I don’t know. Anyway, he was only a
few days in the camp after that incident. At one of his meetings he made
some fool remark about the Big Boss seeing a great light suddenly like
the Bible says St. Paul did. That settled him for keeps.
“The next morning Acey Smith meets the preacher and stops him. ‘Holy
Henry,’ he says, ‘you’ve shot your bolt—you’re through here.’
“‘But, Brother Smith,’ expostulates the little fellow, ‘I’ve just barely
started my work in the Lord’s vineyard.’
“‘You beat it out on the next tug to some other vineyard—and don’t come
back!’ cuts in the Big Boss, cold as ice. ‘And listen: I’m not brother
to you nor to any other man. Furthermore, I ain’t any St. Paul seeing
lights; I’m just a fighting he-man who doesn’t pray to God nor the Devil
either. All I ask both of them to do is to give me a sporting chance to
make good at my job.
“‘You’ve got me wrong about stopping that Sunday gambling stunt,’ he
continues. ‘I did that partly because I can’t help being on the side of
the man who’s got the guts to back up his convictions when the whole
crowd is against him. But I put the lid down mostly because it struck me
it would be good policy for the North Star to make its men take a rest on
Sunday. You go and pack your turkey—the next tug leaves at noon.’”
The skipper paused when he had concluded his story. After a silent
moment he turned to Hammond. “Now what do you think of that for a
hard-hearted speech?” he asked.
“Just sounds like Acey Smith,” responded Hammond, “and I take it that
what he told Holy Henry was just about the truth about himself.”
“Probably—probably,” reiterated the captain in an absent sort of a way as
he fixed his gaze on the city wharves they were nearing. “But at the
same time, I dunno. There’s a strange streak in that same Acey Smith.
There’s things he’s done and does, on the quiet, that makes us older
heads with the company admire him in spite of ourselves. But you can
never get to know the Big Boss, no matter how long you’re around where he
is. Just when you think you know him is the time he’s liable to do or
say something so sudden and unexpected it will make your blood run cold.
It strikes me while he’s talking to you with his tongue his mind is
always busy thinking and plotting something else—thinking up plans maybe
a year ahead.”
“This coming strike will likely give him lots of scope for thinking,”
observed Hammond dryly.
“Oh, he won’t have so much to do with settling or breaking the strike,”
declared the captain. “Them orders will come to Slack and him from their
higher-ups.”
The skipper pressed a signal to the engine-room to slow down. They were
swinging in to the city wharf.
III
Hammond alighted on the docks of Kam City and walked the streets
expecting at any moment a blue-coated policeman or a plain-clothes
detective would step forward and take him into custody in connection with
the Gildersleeve disappearance. But no such thing happened. The very
boldness of his entry must have set the sleuths of the law off guard, for
at no time did he even find himself under suspicious scrutiny.
One thing at first absorbed his thoughts to the exclusion of everything
else. That was the uncertainty of what might have happened to Josephine
Stone. Where could she have gone from the island? The appearance of
Acey Smith in the vicinity of the island alone in his motorboat made him
the more uneasy. It all brought home to him a dark thought that he had
all along been trying to fight off—that Josephine Stone some way or
another must be entangled in the baffling mystery of the Nannabijou
Limits. But, in spite of constantly rising perplexities, he refused to
think of her in bitterness or that she had in any sense been consciously
deceiving him. He would not believe that a woman such as she would give
her lips to a man, as she had to him, either in spirit of coquetry or to
further dark intrigue.
It was possible she had merely gone away in her motorboat for a trip
along the lakeshore, or she might have come over to the city for the day.
But there had been a deserted look about her cottage on the island that
weighed in upon Hammond—made him feel that something else had happened.
Anyway, he must hustle with the affairs he had come to the city to attend
to, so that he could get back to the limits and find out for certain
where she had gone.
Gold lettering on a window in the second storey of a business block
across the street reminded him that he had mapped out a definite program
for the day and that right here was where he must make his start. The
sign marked the quarters of the American consul. There he would find the
little grey man, Eulas Daly, the first on his mental list of interviews.
He crossed the street and sought out the consul’s office.
A tall, slim, alert-looking young man rose from his desk and genially
inquired of what service he could be.
Hammond passed him his card. “Might I see Mr. Daly?”
“Mr. Daly?” repeated the other with a puzzled air.
“Yes—Mr. Eulas Daly, American consul.”
“A mere error in names, Mr. Hammond. I am the American consul in charge
here, but my name is Frank W. Freeman.”
“Oh, I see,” surmised Hammond. “There has been a change—Mr. Daly has
been recently transferred to another post?”
“Quite a year ago, my friend,” replied Mr. Freeman definitely. “Mr. Daly
was transferred to the Buenos Aires office in October of last year and I
have been in charge here since then. Perhaps there’s something I could
do for you?”
“At that rate, no. Thank you,” acknowledged Hammond concealing as best
he could his amazement and chagrin. “It was a personal matter between
myself and Mr. Daly. I have been misinformed as to his location.”
Hoaxed!
Inured as Hammond was becoming to trickery and mystification, this latest
revelation brought about a poignant disappointment. It seemed the more
he probed the incidents following his contract with Norman T.
Gildersleeve to go to the Nannabijou Limits the more complicated things
became. Every attempt he had made to get at the bottom of things had
resulted in fresh bewilderment until everything appeared like a
bedevilled dream. But it was no dream. Cold conviction was upon him
that it was quite the contrary—that it was a series of baffling incidents
promoted for a dark purpose by a sinister agency behind the scenes
somewhere.
According to this latest piece of information, the man giving his name as
Eulas Daly, United States consul at Kam City, and who had brought about
his meeting with Norman T. Gildersleeve, was travelling under false
colours. If he were really a friend of Norman T. Gildersleeve there
should have been no necessity for that. The obvious conclusion then was
that he was a confederate of those who had lured Gildersleeve off the
train. No doubt it was he who framed up the mysterious message that led
the millionaire to leave the coach at Moose Horn Station, for Hammond now
felt certain that the note delivered while he was in consultation with
the president of the International Investment Corporation was a forgery,
and that Gildersleeve had either been kidnapped or had met with foul
play.
Responsibility to the man who had employed him for some secret purpose
that was not yet obvious demanded immediate action on his part. It would
be foolhardy, he conceded, to longer attempt to fathom the mystery alone
or to conceal what he knew in connection with the affair. Before he
reported to the police authorities, he felt it would be wisdom to consult
the principals of the Kam City Pulp and Paper Mills, who, if anybody,
should be closest in touch with any new developments in the Gildersleeve
mystery.
He dropped into a hotel whence he telephoned the city offices of the
paper company. He was told that Artemus Duff, president and general
manager, was out at the works and might not be back all afternoon.
Hammond decided to go out to the works, and, as they were located at the
extreme easterly limits of the city, he walked down to Front Street,
which ran along the harbour, to catch a street car. He was standing at a
car stop when the face of a man at the wheel of a motor car that whizzed
by seemed to him to be startlingly familiar.
The motor car stopped a block up at the corner above the short street
leading from the city docks. A man got out, paused a second on the walk
looking down the street, then disappeared into the building on the
corner.
Hammond’s first breathless impression was confirmed. The little grey man
who got out of the car was the man who had introduced himself on the
train as Eulas Daly, American consul.
The young man lost no time in reaching the spot. The man who had got out
of the car was not in the drug store on the corner, so he must have
passed in the double doors just next it and gone up the stairs. Hammond
took the steps three at a bound. The first floor up was entirely
occupied by law offices. On the double glass doors he read the
gilt-lettered legend:—
WINCH, STANTON & REID
Barristers, Solicitors,
Etc.
He decided to make a try for his man in there. At the rail just beyond
the doors he was met by a young woman.
“It is very important that I meet the gentleman who just came in,” he
announced to her.
“Mr. Winch?”
“Yes—Mr. Winch.”
She took his card, passed into one of the glass-partitioned private
offices and returned after what to Hammond seemed an unjustifiable delay.
“Mr. Winch will see you in ten minutes,” she said. “Just take a seat,
please.”
Hammond was forced to cool his heels till the girl, after responding to
an office ’phone call, indicated that Mr. Winch was ready to receive him.
Hammond at last had struck the right trail. The little grey man gazing
up at him from across the desk in the private office was none other than
the bogus Eulas Daly. But Winch did not look the least flustered; in
fact, there was the barest trace of the geniality he had worn in the role
of the American consul.
“Mr. Hammond,” he opened quietly, “I have a shrewd notion what questions
you have in mind to demand of me. But, before we proceed with that, will
you kindly tell me why you have violated your contract with Mr.
Gildersleeve by leaving the Nannabijou Limits without notification?”
“Because I’m tired up with the whole business,” exploded the young man.
“Because I’m not quite ass enough to stick out there on an assignment
from a man who’s dropped out of sight. And, in the next instance, I want
to know from you why you—”
“Just a moment, just a moment,” insisted Mr. Winch. “We’ll come to that
presently. Did you know that your leaving the limits at this particular
time may seriously jeopardise the plans Mr. Gildersleeve had in mind?”
“Mr. Gildersleeve has disappeared.”
“Even so. That, however, does not prevent his associates carrying on,
does it? As I understood it, you agreed with Mr. Gildersleeve to remain
at the limits in the capacity he sent you until you received word to
return, and he emphasised the injunction that you were to remain no
matter what apparently unusual things happened. Is that not a fact, Mr.
Hammond?”
It was a fact—Hammond felt the full force of it now. For the moment he
was not prepared with a reply. He was in grips with one of the most
brilliant cross-examiners in the north country.
“But we will let that pass for the moment,” the lawyer proceeded. “You
haven’t consulted any one else in the city about this matter?”
“No, but I was on my way to look up President Duff of Kam City Pulp and
Paper Mills when I dropped in here.”
“You acted very wisely in coming here first,” commended Mr. Winch. “I
would urge you not to consult Mr. Duff or any others about it, and, I
might add, it is of as deep concern to you as it is to us that Mr.
Gildersleeve’s intimate affairs in this matter should not become public
under any consideration.”
“But you haven’t told me why, when you accosted me on the train, you
found it necessary to impersonate an American consul who has long since
left the city,” insisted the impetuous Hammond.
A wry smile broke faintly over the lawyer’s face. “Gildersleeve was to
blame for that,” he replied. “He insisted, for some reason that was
never quite clear to me, that I should not disclose my real identity to
you. It may have been that, in case you did not feel inclined to
consider the suggestion to meet him, he did not wish you to know his
legal advisor was acting as go-between. The use of Eulas Daly’s name was
almost accidental. An old card of his must have by some chance got into
my case. It appealed to me that for the interim the role of Eulas Daly
would do as well as any other. I did not expect to see you again until
this business was over with.”
This explanation did not impress Hammond favourably, but it was evident,
from the matter-of-fact manner in which he related the deception, that
Winch cared little how he took it.
So Hammond feigned as great an indifference as he asked: “Then you really
did the preliminary work at Mr. Gildersleeve’s instance?”
Winch plainly did not relish being kept in the position of the
cross-examined. “Yes,” he replied with a shrug. “Gildersleeve had
selected you as a likely man for the job during the day while you were
sitting talking to a companion next table to him in the dining car. He
asked me to feel you out about it, and, at the moment you dropped into
the smoker that evening, I was just about to set out in search for you.”
“One more question, Mr. Winch,” pursued Hammond. “You spoke a few
moments ago about his associates ‘carrying on’ while Mr. Gildersleeve is
absent. Am I to take it from that he _is_ still alive?”
“We are certain of nothing,” answered the other, “but we have hopes for
the best. It is not a point over which you need waste worry; the plans
for his enterprises will be carried on as before.”
“Then there is nothing I could do that would assist in clearing up the
mystery of Mr. Gildersleeve’s disappearance?” insisted Hammond.
“No—not a thing. Your plan is to return to the Nannabijou Limits this
afternoon as quietly as possible,” suggested the legal man. “There you
had best resume your former rôle until such time as you are communicated
with.”
“That sounds very well,” impatiently commented Hammond, “but, in the
event of Mr. Gildersleeve having disappeared permanently, I might remain
there for a very long time without any particular purpose being served.”
“In such a case I will personally take the responsibility of instructing
you when to return,” assured Winch. “Furthermore, I will take it upon
myself to guarantee that you are paid for your services according to the
verbal contract between yourself and Mr. Gildersleeve.”
Hammond hesitated a moment. He was thinking about Josephine Stone and
the possibilities of being near her again; otherwise he would not have
entertained any proposal to return to the limits under the circumstances.
Before he could reply, however, there came sounds of a loud commotion
from somewhere on the streets outside; jeers, the shrill cries of young
boys and the rush of many feet.
IV
Winch rose from his desk and hurried to the window. As he looked out his
face went grey with alarm and his lips moved in a single gasp:—
“Hell!”
Hammond was at his side in a trice. The window overlooked the short
street leading up from the city dock, where, in a surging crowd of men
and street urchins, two red-coated policemen of the Canadian mounted
force were escorting up the street a tall, black-whiskered man in dark
baggy clothes.
“_Some one has made a tremendous blunder_!”
Winch thus spoke his thoughts with a solemnity that betrayed his inward
agitation. At that instant the man between the two mounties looked up
toward Winch’s window and gave utterance to a loud fierce yell.
Hammond gave a gasp of surprise.
The prisoner was the Rev. Nathan Stubbs, camp preacher at Nannabijou
Limits.