DICK MANSELL'S NEWS
For Dave the next fortnight was fraught with a tremendous pressure of
work. But arduous and wearing as it was, to him there was that thrill
of conscious striving which is the very essence of life to the
ambition-inspired man. His goal loomed dimly upon his horizon, he could
see it in shadowy outline, and every step he took now, every effort he
put forth, he knew was carrying him on, drawing him nearer and nearer
to it. He worked with that steady enthusiasm which never rushes. He was
calm and purposeful. To hasten, to diverge from his deliberate course
in the heat of excitement, he knew would only weaken his effort.
Careful organization, perfect, machine-like, was what he needed, and
the work would do itself.
At the mills a large extension of the milling floors and an added
number of saws were needed. In its present state the milling floor
could hardly accommodate the ninety-foot logs demanded by the contract.
This was a structural alteration that must be carried out at express
speed, and had been prepared for, so that it was only a matter of
executing plans already drawn up. Joel Dawson, the foreman, one of the
best lumbermen in the country, was responsible for the alterations.
Simon Odd, the master sawyer, had the organizing of the skilled labor
staff inside the mill, a work of much responsibility and considerable
discrimination.
But with Dave rested the whole responsibility and chief organization.
It was necessary to secure labor for both the mill and the camps up in
the hills. And for this the district had to be scoured, while two
hundred lumber-jacks had to be brought up from the forests of the
Ottawa River.
Dave and his lieutenants worked all their daylight hours, and most of
the night was spent in harness. They ate to live only, and slept only
when their falling eyelids refused to keep open.
Only Dave and his two loyal supporters knew the work of that fortnight;
only they understood the anxiety and strain, but their efforts were
crowned with success, and at the end of that time the first of the
"ninety-footers" floated down the river to the mouth of the great boom
that lay directly under the cranes of the milling floor.
It was not until that moment that Dave felt free to look about him, to
turn his attention from the grindstone of his labors. It was midday
when word passed of the arrival of the first of the timber, and he went
at once to verify the matter for himself. It was a sight to do his
heart good. The boom, stretching right into the heart of the mills, was
a mass of rolling, piling logs, and a small army of men was at work
upon them piloting them so as to avoid a "crush." It was perilous,
skilful work, and the master of the mills watched with approval the
splendid efforts of these intrepid lumber-jacks. He only waited until
the rattling chains of the cranes were lowered and the first log was
grappled and lifted like a match out of the water, and hauled up to the
milling floor. Then, with a sigh as of a man relieved of a great
strain, he turned away and passed out of his yards.
It was the first day for a fortnight he had gone to his house for
dinner.
His home was a small house of weather-boarding with a veranda all
creeper-grown, as were most of the houses in the village. It had only
one story, and every window had a window-box full of simple flowers. It
stood in a patch of garden that was chiefly given up to vegetables,
with just a small lawn of mean-looking turf with a centre bed of
flowers. Along the top-railed fence which enclosed it were, set at
regular intervals, a number of small blue-gum and spruce trees. It was
just such an abode as one might expect Dave to possess: simple, useful,
unpretentious. It was the house of a man who cared nothing for luxury.
Utility was the key-note of his life. And the little trivial
decorations in the way of creepers, flowers, and such small luxuries
were due to the gentle, womanly thought of his old mother, with whom he
lived, and who permitted no one else to minister to his wants.
She was in the doorway when he came up, a small thin figure with
shriveled face and keen, questioning eyes. She was clad in black, and
wore a print overall. Her snow-white hair was parted in the middle and
smoothed down flat, in the method of a previous generation. She was an
alert little figure for all her sixty odd years.
The questioning eyes changed to a look of gladness as the burly figure
of her son turned in at the gate. There could be no doubt as to her
feelings. Dave was all the world to her. Her admiration for her son
amounted almost to idolatry.
"Dinner's ready," she said eagerly. "I thought I'd just see if you were
coming. I didn't expect you. Have you time for it, Dave?"
"Sure, ma," he responded, stooping and kissing her upturned face. "The
logs are down."
"Dear boy, I'm glad."
It was all she said, but her tone, and the look she gave him, said far
more than the mere words.
Dave placed one great arm gently about her narrow shoulders and led her
into the house.
"I'm going to take an hour for dinner to-day sure," he said, with
unusual gaiety. "Just to celebrate. After this," he went on, "for six
months I'm going to do work that'll astonish even you, ma."
"But you won't overdo it, Dave, will you? The money isn't worth it. It
isn't really. I've lived a happy life without much of it, boy, and I
don't want much now. I only want my boy."
There was a world of gentle solicitude in the old woman's tones. So
much that Dave smiled upon her as he took his place at the table.
"You'll have both, ma, just as sure as sure. I'm not only working for
the sake of the money. Sounds funny to say that when I'm working to
make myself a millionaire. But it's not the money. It's success first.
I don't like being beaten, and that's a fact. We Americans hate being
beaten. Then there's other things. Think of these people here. They'll
do well. Malkern'll be a city to be reckoned with, and a prosperous
one. Then the money's useful to do something with. We can help others.
You know, ma, how we've talked it all out."
The mother helped her son to food.
"Yes, I know. But your health, boy, you must think of that."
Dave laughed boisterously, an unusual thing with him. But his mood was
light. He felt that he wanted to laugh at anything. What did anything
matter? By this time a dozen or so of the "ninety-footers" were already
in the process of mutilation by his voracious saws.
"Health, ma?" he cried. "Look at me. I don't guess I'm pretty, but I
can do the work of any French-Canadian horse in my yards."
The old woman shook her silvery head doubtfully.
"Well, well, you know best," she said, "only I don't want you to get
ill."
Dave laughed again. Then happening to glance out of the window he saw
the figure of Joe Hardwig, the blacksmith, turning in at the gate.
"Another plate, ma," he said hastily. "There's Hardwig coming along."
His mother summoned her "hired" girl, and by the time Hardwig's knock
came at the door a place was set for him. Dave rose from the table.
"Come right in, Joe," he said cheerily. "We're just having grub. Ma's
got some bully stew. Sit down and join us."
But Joe Hardwig declined, with many protestations. He was a broad,
squat little man, whose trade was in his very manner, in the strength
of his face, and in the masses of muscle which his clothes could not
conceal.
"The missus is wantin' me," he said. "Thank you kindly all the same.
Your servant, mam," he added awkwardly, turning to Dave's mother. Then
to the lumberman, "I jest come along to hand you a bit of information I
guessed you'd be real glad of. Mansell--Dick Mansell's got back! I've
been yarnin' with him. Say, guess you'll likely need him. He's wantin'
a job too. He's a bully sawyer."
Dave had suddenly become serious.
"Dick Mansell!" he cried. Then, after a pause, "Has he brought word of
Jim Truscott?"
The mother's eyes were on her son, shrewdly speculating. She had seen
his sudden gravity. She knew full well that he cared less for Mansell's
powers as a sawyer than for Mansell as the companion and sharer of Jim
Truscott's exile. Now she waited for the blacksmith's answer.
Joe shifted uneasily. His great honest face looked troubled. He had not
come there to spill dirty water. He knew how much Dave wanted skilled
hands, and he knew that Dick needed work.
"Why, yes," he said at last. "At least--that is----"
"Out with it, man," cried Dave, with unusual impatience. "How is Jim,
and--how has he done?"
Just for an instant Joe let an appealing glance fall in the old woman's
direction, but he got no encouragement from her. She was steadily
proceeding with her dinner. Besides, she never interfered with her boy.
Whatever he did was always right to her.
"Well?" Dave urged the hesitating man.
"Oh, I guess he's all right. That is--he ain't hard up. Why yes, he was
speakin' of him," Joe stumbled on. "He guessed he was comin' along down
here later. That is, Jim is--you see----"
But Dave hated prevarication. He could see that Joe didn't want to tell
what he had heard. However he held him to it fast.
"Has Jim been running straight?" he demanded sharply.
"Oh, as to that--I guess so," said Joe awkwardly.
Dave came over to where Joe was still standing, and laid a hand on his
shoulder.
"See here, Joe, we all know you; you're a good sportsman, and you don't
go around giving folks away--and bully for you. But I'd rather you told
me what Mansell's told you than that he should tell me. See? It won't
be peaching. I've got to hear it."
Joe looked straight up into his face, and suddenly his eyes lit angrily
at his own thought. "Yes, you'd best have it," he exclaimed, all his
hesitation gone; "that dogone boy's been runnin' a wild racket. He's
laid hold of the booze and he's never done a straight day's work since
he hit the Yukon trail. He's comin' back to here with a gambler's wad
in his pocketbook, and--and--he's dead crooked. Leastways, that's how
Mansell says. It's bin roulette, poker an' faro. An' he's bin runnin'
the joint. Mansell says he ain't no sort o' use for him no ways, and
that he cut adrift from the boy directly he got crooked."
"Oh, he did, did he?" said Dave, after a thoughtful pause. "I don't
seem to remember that Dick Mansell was any saint. I'd have thought a
crooked life would have fallen in with his views, but he preferred to
turn the lad adrift when he most needed help. However, it don't
signify. So the lad's coming back a drunkard, a gambler and a crook? At
least Dick Mansell says so. Does he say why he's coming back?"
"Well, he s'poses it's the girl--Miss Betty."
"Ah!"
Joe shifted uneasily.
"It don't seem right--him a crook," he said, with some diffidence.
"No." Then Dave's thoughtful look suddenly changed to one of business
alertness, and his tone became crisp. "See here, Joe, what about that
new tackle for the mills? Those hooks and chains must be ready in a
week. Then there's those cant-hooks for the hill camps. The smiths up
there are hard at it, so I'm going to look to you for a lot. Then
there's another thing. Is your boy Alec fit to join the mills and take
his place with the other smiths? I want another hand."
"Sure, he's a right good lad--an' thankee. I'll send him along right
away." The blacksmith was delighted. He always wanted to get his boy
taken on at the mill. The work that came his way he could cope with
himself; besides, he had an assistant. He didn't want his boy working
under him; it was not his idea of things. It was far better that he
should get out and work under strangers.
"Well, that's settled."
Dave turned to his dinner and Joe Hardwig took his leave, and when
mother and son were left together again the old woman lost no time in
discussing Dick Mansell and his unpleasant news.
"I never could bear that Mansell," she said, with a severe shake of her
head.
"No, ma. But he's a good sawyer--and I need such men."
The old woman looked up quickly.
"I was thinking of Jim Truscott."
"That's how I guessed."
"Well? What do you think?"
Dave shook his head.
"I haven't seen Jim yet," he said. "Ma, we ain't Jim's judges."
"No."
"I'm going down to the depot," Dave said after a while. "Guess I've got
some messages to send. I'm getting anxious about that strike. They say
that neither side will give way. The railway is pretty arbitrary on
this point, and the plate-layers are a strong union. I've heard that
the brakesmen and engine-drivers are going to join them. If they do,
it's going to be bad for us. That is, in a way. Strikes are infectious,
and I don't want 'em around here just now. We've got to cut a hundred
thousand foot a day steady, and anything delaying us means--well, it's
no use thinking what it means. We've got to be at full work night and
day until we finish. I'll get going."
He pushed his plate away and rose from the table. He paused while he
filled and lit his pipe, then he left the house. Joe Hardwig's news had
disturbed him more than he cared to admit, and he did not want to
discuss it, even with his mother.