THE MILLS
Dave obediently led the way out of the tally room to the great milling
floor, and at once they were in the heart of his world.
It was by no means new to Betty; she had seen it all before, but never
had the mills been driven at such a pressure as now, and the sensation
the knowledge gave her was one which demanded the satisfaction of
optical demonstration. She was thrilled with a sense of emergency. The
roar of the machinery carried with it a meaning it had never held
before. There was a current of excitement in the swift, skilful
movements of the sawyers as they handled the mighty logs.
To her stirred imagination there was a suggestion of superhuman agency,
of some nether world, in the yellow light of the flares which lit that
vast sea of moving rollers. As she gazed out across it at the dim,
distant corners she felt as though at any moment the machinery might
suddenly become manned by hundreds of hideous gnomes, such as she had
read of in the fairy tales. Yet it was all real, real and human, and
Dave was the man who controlled, whose brain and eyes watched over
every detail, whose wonderful skill and power were carrying that
colossal work to the goal of success. As she looked, she sighed. She
envied the man whose genius had made all this possible.
Above the roar Dave's voice reached her.
"This is only part of it," he said; "come below."
And she followed him to the spiral iron staircase which led to the
floor below. Her uncle brought up the rear.
At ordinary times the lower part of the mills was given over to the
shops for the manufacture of smaller lumber, building stuff, doors and
windows, flooring, and tongue and groove. Betty knew this. She knew
every shop by heart, just as she knew most of the workmen by sight. But
now it was all changed. The partitions had been torn down, and the
whole thrown into one floor. It was a replica of the milling floor
above.
Here again were the everlasting rollers; here again were the tremendous
logs traveling across and across the floor; here again were the roar
and shriek of the gleaming saws. The girl's enthusiasm rose. Her eyes
wandered from the fascinating spectacle to the giant at her side. She
felt a lump rise in her throat; she wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry;
but she did neither. Only her eyes shone as she gazed at him; and his
plainness seemed to fall from him. She saw the man standing at her
side, but the great ungainly Dave had gone, leaving in his place only
such a hero as her glowing heart could create.
They stood there watching, watching. None of the three spoke. None of
them had any words. Dave saw and thought. His great unimaginative head
had no care for the picture side of it. His eyes were on the sawyers,
most of them stripped to the waist in the heat of their labors in the
summer night. To him the interest of the scene lay in the precision and
regularity with which log followed log over the rollers, and the skill
with which they were cut.
Parson Tom, with a little more imagination, built up in his mind the
future prosperity of their beloved valley, and thanked the Almighty
Providence that It had sent them such a man as Dave. But Betty, in
spite of her practical brain, lost sight of all the practical side of
the work. As she watched she was living in such a dream as only comes
once in a lifetime to any woman. At that moment her crown of glory was
set upon Dave's rough head. All she had hoped for, striven for all her
life seemed so small at the thought of him. And the delight of those
moments became almost painful. She had always looked upon him as "her
Dave," her beloved "chum," her adviser, her prop to lean on at all
times. But no. No, no; he was well and truly named. He was no one's
Dave. He was just Dave of the Mills.
They moved on to a small doorway, and passing along a protected gallery
they worked their way toward the "boom." The place was a vast backwater
of the river, enlarged to accommodate millions of feet of logs. It was
packed with a mass of tumbled lumber, over which, in the dim light
thrown by waste fire, a hundred and more "jacks" could be seen,
clambering like a colony of monkeys, pushing, prizing, easing, pulling
with their peaveys to get the logs freed, so that the grappling tackle
could seize and haul them up out of the water to the milling floors
above.
Here again they paused and silently gazed at the stupendous work going
on. There was no more room for wonder either in the girl or her uncle.
The maximum had been reached. They could only silently stare.
Dave was the first to move. His keen eyes had closely watched the work.
He had seen log after log fly up in the grapple of the hydraulic
cranes, he had seen them shot into the gaping jaws of the building, he
had seen that not an idle hand was down there in the boom, and he was
satisfied. Now he wanted to go on.
"There's the 'waste,'" he said casually. "But I guess you've seen that
heaps, only it's a bit bigger now, and we've had to build two more
'feeders.'"
Betty answered him, and her tone was unusually subdued.
"Let's see it all, Dave," she said, almost humbly.
All her imperiousness had gone, and in its place was an ecstatic desire
to see all and anything that owed its existence to this man.
Dave strode on. He was quite unconscious of the change that had taken
place in Betty's thoughts of him. To him these things had become
every-day matters of his work. They meant no more to him than the
stepping-stones toward success which every one who makes for
achievement has to tread.
Their way took them up another iron staircase outside the main
building. At the top of it was an iron gallery, which passed round two
angles of the mill, and terminated at the three feeders, stretching out
from the mills to the great waste fire a hundred yards away. From this
gallery there was an inspiring view of the "everlasting" fire. It had
been lit when the mill first started its operations years ago, and had
been burning steadily ever since; and so it would go on burning as long
as the saws inside continued to rip the logs.
The feeders were three shafts, supported on iron trestle work, each
carrying an ever-moving, endless bed on which the waste trimmings of
the logs were thrown. These were borne upward and outward for a hundred
yards till the shafts hung high above the blazing mass. Here the
endless band doubled under, and its burden was precipitated below,
where it was promptly devoured by the insatiable flames.
For some moments they watched the great timber pass on its way to the
fire, and so appalling appeared the waste that Parson Tom protested.
"This seems to me positively wanton," he said. "Why, the stuff you're
sending on to that fire is perfect lumber. At the worst, what grand
fuel it would make for the villagers."
Dave nodded his great head. He often felt the same about it.
"Makes you sicken some to see it go, doesn't it?" he said regretfully.
"It does me. But say, we've got a waste yard full, and the folks in
Malkern are welcome to all they can haul away. Even Mary uses it in her
stoves, but they can't haul or use it fast enough. If it wasn't for
this fire there wouldn't be room for a rat in Malkern inside a year.
Guess it's got to be, more's the pity."
There was no more to be said, and the three watched the fire in silent
awe. It was a marvelous sight. The dull red-yellow light shone luridly
over everything. The mill on the one hand loomed majestically out of
the dark background of night. The fire, over forty feet in height, lit
the buildings in a curious, uncanny fashion, throwing grotesque and
lurid shadows in every direction. Then all around, on the farther
sides, spread the distant dark outline of ghostly pine woods, whose
native gloom resisted a light, which, by contrast, was so
insignificantly artificial. It gave a weird impression that had a
strong effect upon Betty's rapt imagination.
Dave again broke the spell. He could not spare too much time, and, as
they moved away, Betty sighed.
"It's all very, very wonderful," she said, moving along at his side.
"And to think even in winter, no matter what the snowfall, that fire
never goes out."
Dave laughed.
"If it rained like it's been raining to-day for six months," he said,
"I don't guess it could raise more than a splutter." Then he turned to
Tom Chepstow. "Is there anything else you'd like to see? You've got
three hours to midnight."
But the parson had seen enough; and as he had yet to overhaul the
supplies he was to take up to the hill camps, they made their way back
to the tally room. At the rollers on which Mansell was working Dave
paused with Betty, while her uncle went on.
They watched a great log appear at the opening over the boom. The
chains of the hydraulic crane creaked under their burden. Dave pointed
at it silhouetted against the light of the waste fire beyond.
"Watch him," he said. "That's Dick Mansell."
The pride in his tone was amply justified. Mansell was at the opening,
waiting, peavey in hand. They saw the log dripping and swaying as it
was hauled up until its lower end cleared the rollers. On the instant
the sawyer leant forward and plunged his hook into the soft pine bark.
Then he strained steadily and the log came slowly onward. A whistle,
and the crane was eased an inch at a time. The man held his strain, and
the end lowered ever further over the rollers until it touched. Two
more whistles, and the log was lowered faster until it lay exactly
horizontal, and then the rollers carried it in. Once its balance was
passed, the sawyer struck the grappling chains loose with his peavey,
and, with a rattle, they fell clear, while the prostrate giant lumbered
ponderously into the mill.
It was all done so swiftly.
Now Mansell sprang to the foremost end and chalked the log as it
traveled. Then, like a cat, he sprang to the rear of it and measured
with his eye. Dissatisfied, he ran to its side and prized it into a
fresh position, glancing down it, much as a rifleman might glance over
his sights. Satisfied at length, he ran on ahead of the moving log to
his saws. Throwing over a lever, he quickened the pace of the gleaming
blade. On came the log. The yielding wood met the merciless fangs of
the saw upon the chalk line, and passed hissing and shrieking on its
way as though it had met with no obstruction.
The girl took a deep breath.
"Splendid," she cried. Well as she knew this work, to-night it appealed
to her with a new force, a deeper and more personal interest.
"Easy as pie," Dave laughed. Then more seriously, "Yet it's dangerous
as--as hell."
Betty nodded. She knew.
"But you don't have many accidents, thank goodness."
Dave shrugged.
"Not many--considering. But you don't often see a sawyer with perfectly
sound hands. There's generally something missing."
"I know. Look at Mansell's arm there." Betty pointed at a deep furrow
on the man's forearm.
"Yes, Mansell's been through it. I remember when he got that. Like an
Indian holds his first scalp as a sign of his prowess, or the knights
of old wore golden spurs as an emblem of their knighthood, the sawyer
minus a finger or so has been literally 'through the mill,' and can
claim proficiency in his calling. But those are not the dangers I was
figgering on."
Betty waited for him to go on.
"Yes," he said solemnly. "It's the breaking saw. That's the terror of a
sawyer's life. And just now of mine. It's always in the back of my head
like a black shadow. One breaking saw would do more damage cutting up
this big stuff than it would take a fire to do in an hour. It would be
the next best thing to bursting a charge of dynamite. Take this saw of
Mansell's. A break, a bend out of the truth, the log slips while it's
being cut. Any of these things. You wouldn't think a 'ninety-footer'
could be thrown far. If any of those things happened, good-bye to
anything or anybody with whom it came into contact. But we needn't to
worry. Let's get in there to your uncle."