MATTERS OF IMPORTANCE
Fifteen miles below Tunley was located a large saw- and shingle-mill,
where something like two hundred thousand shingles were cut and bundled
every working day in the year. The mill also turned out wheel spokes,
ax and pick handles, and various other things in wood, everything being
done by machinery which was of the most complicated kind.
Owen had been longing to visit this mill, and when he got the chance
to go down to Rice's, as it was called, he was delighted. He went on
horseback, carrying a band saw that Ulmer Balasco wanted exchanged for
another.
Between Tunley and Rice's mill there was a series of rapids in the
river, and at this point the young lumberman saw a truly interesting
sight. Half a dozen fishermen were out among the rocks in their
rubber boots, each with a long spear in his hands. They were watching
for salmon, and whenever a fish darted along, one or another would
make a quick lunge with his spear. The majority of the lunges were
unsuccessful, but occasionally a strike would prove true, and the
fisherman would hold the struggling fish aloft and march to the shore
in triumph with his prize.
"That's a sport I wouldn't mind trying myself," thought Owen. "It beats
watching a float all hollow."
Rice's mill was a long, narrow building built on spiling, and fronting
the river. To one side was a pond and yard for extra lumber, and to the
rear was a dry kiln. At the front were large, double doors, and from
these there was a runway or slide, reaching down into the water. Up
this slide were hauled the logs to be cut up for various purposes.
The noise around a mill was familiar to Owen's ears, yet the volume
here was greater than he had ever heard before. There was the hum
of the saws, the hiss of the planes, and the constant clank-clank
so inseparably connected with all mills of this nature. Inside, the
sawdust and small shavings were everywhere in evidence, and beams and
rafters were coated with a white dust as fine as flour. Patent pipes
and suction fans carried the large shavings to the furnaces, and scoops
took the sawdust to a pit near by. It was a hot place, and the majority
of the workmen wore nothing but their shirts, trousers, and shoes.
"Like to look through, eh?" said the proprietor, after Owen's business
was concluded. "All right, go ahead. Or, wait a few minutes and I'll go
with you. We've just been setting up a new shingle machine, and she's a
dandy," he added enthusiastically.
Accordingly Owen waited around the office while Mr. Rice attended to
several orders which a clerk had brought up for his inspection. The
majority seemed to be satisfactory, but one order was peremptorily
turned down.
"Write to Foxy Hildan and tell him flatly that we can't fill that order
unless we get a guarantee for the payment," Owen heard Philip Rice say.
"I trusted that man once and got stuck, and I shan't do it again."
"He was here day before yesterday and said it would be all right,"
answered the clerk, in a low voice.
"Here? I didn't see him."
"It was after you went away. I wanted him to come back and see
you about it, but he was in a hurry to get up to Tunley and see
Balasco--said it was something important."
"Is he coming back this way?"
"No, he said he was going on further after his stop at Tunley."
"Did you say anything about a guarantee?"
"No, sir. I didn't know you wanted it."
"Well, write to him and tell him what I said. If he doesn't want to toe
the mark we can get along without him. He may be foxy, but he can't
play his little game on me. He stuck the Everett people about three
thousand dollars, so Panglass said, and he always tells the truth."
"Couldn't they get the money at all?" asked the clerk.
"Not a dollar. You see, Hildan pretended to act only as an agent, and
in some way they couldn't hold him for it. Oh, he's as slick as grease.
If he wants my shingles he has got to pay cash or give me a cast-iron
guarantee," concluded Philip Rice.
Owen could not help but hear this conversation, and it interested him
greatly. He had learned that Foxy Hildan had visited Ulmer Balasco two
days before, and further, according to Mr. Rice and to a man named
Panglass, Hildan was not to be trusted in any business transaction,
and had already swindled some Everett timber or shingle dealers out of
three thousand dollars.
"I'll have to send Mr. Wilbur a letter as soon as I get back," he
thought. "We can now give him about all the information he asked for,
and the sooner he gets it the better I suppose it will be for him."
"Now I'll show you through," said Philip Rice, and led the way from the
office to the first of the big machines. This was a large band saw, of
improved pattern, and Owen was immediately interested in seeing this
machine cut into a log several feet in diameter and saw it from end to
end with scarcely an effort.
"We'd have little use in Maine for such a saw as that," he said. "It's
the heavy wood-working machinery out here that counts."
From the band saw they passed to a planing machine, and then to several
used for turning out moldings, and to a dozen or more lathes. At
one machine spokes for wagon wheels were dropping forth at the rate
of several a minute, and at another he saw hammer handles made by
the score. Then he came to the shingle machines, and was shown that
which the proprietor of the place thought so good. It certainly was a
beautiful machine, and the way it turned out the shingles was a sight
to witness.
"The other machines are good enough," said Philip Rice. "But the
shingles from them are more or less rough, and contractors are apt to
kick when they use them. These shingles, as you see, are as smooth as
can be and will be worth a little more money in consequence."
After going through the mill, Owen visited the dry kiln. This was an
exceedingly hot place, and he was glad to leave it and go into the
immense yard to get the fresh air.
"Next year I am going to build an addition to the mill, and manufacture
sashes and blinds, doors, and all kinds of trimmings," said Philip Rice.
"Can you get the trade for those things?"
"Indeed, I can. Why, I am now shipping goods to Denver and Omaha, as
well as to points in the South, and last week a Chicago lumber dealer
was here for shingles. Besides, we ship by water to half a dozen
different countries. I could send stuff right to New York City if I
wished."
"Where do you get your lumber?"
"All from up the river. Your people used to supply a good deal of it,
but after you made that contract with the railroad I had to reach out
further."
"I suppose Mr. Balasco made that contract, didn't he?"
"I think he did--he and a man named Hildan, who was in business with
Balasco years ago. Your Mr. Wilbur wanted to keep on with me, so I
understand."
This was said inquiringly, but Owen merely shrugged his shoulders.
"I can't say as to that, Mr. Rice. I'm a newcomer here. I came West
only a few weeks ago."
"I used to know Wilbur years ago, and he was a fine fellow. I wish he
was here now, instead of Ulmer Balasco."
"Do you? So do I," answered Owen, before he had stopped to think twice.
"Ah, then you know Jefferson Wilbur?"
"Yes, sir. He helped a friend and myself to get out here. We were out
of a job and he gave us a letter of recommendation to Mr. Balasco."
"I see. What is Mr. Wilbur doing now?"
"Attending to his lumber affairs in New York, I believe."
"Well, he ought to come out here--I think it would do him good."
There was a significant tone in Philip Rice's voice that did not escape
Owen's notice. He wondered if he had best ask this man some questions
concerning Ulmer Balasco and Foxy Hildan.
"Has Mr. Balasco been here long?" he questioned in an off-hand manner.
"About a year and a half. He used to have a claim up the river of
his own, but he joined forces with Wilbur, and they formed the
Wilbur-Balasco Company, and Balasco settled here and runs things to
suit himself."
"Doesn't Mr. Wilbur come out at all?"
"Not much. But if I was him I'd come."
"Why?"
"Oh!" Philip Rice drew a long breath. "I'd want to see just what was
doing, that's all."
While talking they were walking around the yard, and now came to a halt
in the shadow of a shed. As they did this, Owen happened to glance at
one of the men who were shifting boards from one pile to another.
"Hullo, where did he come from?" he cried, in astonishment.
"He?--who?" questioned Mr. Rice.
"That fellow over there," and Owen pointed with his finger.
"Do you mean Derande?"
"His name isn't Derande."
"That is what the fellow calls himself. He came here from Canada about
two weeks ago and asked for a job. Do you know him?"
"I do--if he is the fellow I take him to be. I'd like to get a better
look at him."
"Why not go up and talk to him?" asked Philip Rice, with interest.
"No; I want to look at him first. I may be mistaken. Wait a minute."
"But I don't understand."
"The fellow I take him to be is a thief from Maine. He stole a horse
once, and he tried to rob Mr. Wilbur's lodge. He was caught, but
escaped from jail while awaiting trial."
"Is it possible! And you think this is the fellow?"
"I do--but I had best make sure."
Watching his chance, Owen left the shed and slipped around the end of a
high pile of lumber. Then he made his way across a gangway and around
some heavy timbers. In the meantime the man he was watching delivered
some boards he was carrying and then came back for another supply.
His steps brought him close to where Owen was standing, and as he
passed, the young lumberman got a square look at his face. The man was
Baptiste Ducrot.