HEINIE METZGER
Saginaw Ed listened as Connie detailed at length all that Slue Foot had
told him. When the boy finished, the woodsman removed his pipe and
regarded him thoughtfully: "Takin' it off an' on, I've know'd some
consider'ble ornery folks in my time, but I never run acrost none that
was as plumb crooked as this here specimen. Why, along side of him a
corkscrew is straight as a stretched fiddle gut. He ain't square with no
one. But, a man like him can't only go so far--his rope is short, an'
when he comes to the end of it, they ain't a-goin' to be no knot fer to
hang holt of. A man that's double-crossed folks like he has ain't got no
right to expect to git away with it. If they don't no one else git him,
the law will."
"Yes," answered the boy, "and we've got enough on him so that when the
law gets through with him he's not going to have much time left for any
more crookedness."
"How d'you figger on workin' it?" asked Saginaw.
Connie laughed: "I haven't had time to dope it out yet, but there's no
use starting anything 'til just before the drive. Slue Foot's crowding
'em up there in Camp Two, putting every last log he can get onto the
landings--he said he'd have close to three million feet branded with his
own paint."
"Expects Hurley's goin' to let Long Leaf boss the drive agin, I s'pose
an' the Syndicate crew do the sortin'!"
"I guess that's what's he's counting on," answered the boy. "Hurley will
tend to that part. And now we know his scheme, the logs are safe--what
we want is evidence. When we get him we want to get him right."
Saginaw Ed rose to go. "It's up to you, son, to figger out the best way.
Whatever you say goes. Take yer time an' figger it out good--'cause you
want to remember that the Syndicate owes ye some thirty-odd thousand
dollars they stoled off ye last year, an'----"
"Thirty-odd thousand?"
"Sure--ye stood to clean up twenty thousan', didn't ye? Instead of which
ye lost fourteen thousan'--that's thirty-four thousan', ain't it? An'
here's somethin' fer to remember when yer dealin' with the Syndicate:
Never law 'em if you can git out of it. They've got the money--an' you
ain't got no square deal. Git the dope on 'em, an' then settle out o'
court, with old Heinie Metzger."
When Saginaw had gone, Connie sat for hours at his desk thinking up
plans of action, discarding them, revising them, covering whole sheets
of paper with pencilled figures.
When, at last, he answered the supper call and crossed the clearing to
the cook's camp, a peculiar smile twitched the corners of his lips.
"I've got to go up the road a piece an' figger on a couple of new
skidways," said Saginaw, when the four who bunked in the office arose
from the table. "It's good an' moonlight, an' I kin git the swampers
started on 'em first thing in the morning."
"I'll go with you," decided the boy, "I've been cooped up all the
afternoon, and I'll be glad of the chance to stretch my legs."
Leaving Hurley and Lon Camden, the two struck off up one of the broad,
iced log roads that reached into the timber like long fingers clutching
at the very heart of the forest. The task of locating the skidways was
soon finished and Saginaw seated himself on a log and produced pipe and
tobacco. "Well, son," he said, "what's the game? I watched ye whilst we
was eatin', an' I seen ye'd got it figgered out."
After a moment of silence, Connie asked abruptly: "How am I going to
manage to get away for a week or ten days?"
"Git away!" exclaimed Saginaw. "You mean leave camp?"
The boy nodded: "Yes, I've got to go." He seated himself astride the log
and talked for an hour, while Saginaw, his pipe forgotten, listened.
When the boy finished Saginaw sat in silence, the dead pipe clenched
between his teeth.
"Well, what do you think of it?"
The other removed the pipe, and spat deliberately into the snow. "Think
of it?" he replied, "I never was much hand fer thinkin'--an' them big
figgers you're into has got me woozy headed. Personal an' private, I'm
tellin' ye right out, I don't think it'll work. It sounds good the way
you spoke it, but--why, doggone it, that would be outfiggerin' the
_Syndicate!_ It would be lettin' 'em beat theirself at their own game!
It can't be did! They ain't no one kin do it. It ain't on."
"What's the matter with it?" asked the boy.
"Matter with it! I can't find nothin' the matter with it--That's why it
won't work!"
Connie laughed: "We'll make it work! All you've got to remember is that
if any stranger comes into the camp asking for Hurley, you steer him up
against Slue Foot. This von Kuhlmann himself will probably come, and if
he does it will be all right--he knows Slue Foot by sight. The only
thing that's bothering me is how am I going to ask Hurley for a week or
ten days off? Frenchy's going in tomorrow, and I've got to go with him."
Saginaw Ed slapped his mittened hand against his leg: "I've got it," he
exclaimed. "There was three new hands come in today--good whitewater men
fer the drive. One of 'em's Quick-water Quinn. I've worked with him off
an' on fer it's goin' on fifteen year. He'll do anything fer me, account
of a little deal onct, which he believed I saved his life. I'll slip
over to the men's camp an' write a letter to you. Then later, when we're
all in the office, Quick-water, he'll fetch it over an' ask if you're
here, an' give it to ye. Then ye read it, and take on like you've got to
go right away fer a week er so. You don't need to make any
explainin'--jest stick to it you've got to go. Hurley'll prob'ly rave
round an' tell ye ye can't, an' bawl ye out, an' raise a rookus
generally, but jest stick to it. If it gits to where ye have to, jest
tell him you quit. That'll bring him 'round. He sets a lot of store by
you, an' he'll let ye go if ye make him."
And so it happened that just as the four were turning in that night, a
lumberjack pushed open the door. "Is they any one here name o' C.
Morgan?" he asked.
Connie stepped forward, and the man thrust a letter into his hand:
"Brung it in with me from the postoffice. They told me over to the men's
camp you was in here."
Connie thanked the man, and carrying the letter to the light, tore it
open and read. At the end of five minutes he looked up: "I've got to go
out with Frenchy in the morning," he announced.
Hurley let a heavy boot fall with a thud, and stared at the boy as
though he had taken leave of his senses. "Go out!" he roared, "What'ye
mean, go out?"
"I've got to go for a week or ten days. It's absolutely necessary or I
wouldn't do it."
"A wake er tin days, sez he!" Hurley lapsed into brogue, as he always
did when aroused or excited. "An' fer a wake or tin days the books kin
run theirsilf! Well, ye can't go--an' that's all there is to ut!"
"I've got to go," repeated Connie stubbornly. "If I don't go out with
Frenchy, I'll walk out!"
The boss glared at him. "I know'd things wuz goin' too good to last. But
Oi didn't think th' trouble wuz a-comin' from ye. Ye can tell me, mebbe,
what, Oi'm a-goin' to do widout no clerk whoilst yer gaddin' round
havin' a good toime? Ye can't go!"
"Steve can run the wanagan, and Lon, and Saginaw, and Slue Foot can hold
their reports 'til I get back. I'll work night and day then 'til I catch
up."
"They ain't a-goin' to be no ketch up!" roared Hurley. "Here ye be, an'
here ye'll stay! Av ye go out ye'll stay out!"
Connie looked the big boss squarely in the eye: "I'm sorry, Hurley.
I've liked you, and I've liked my job. But I've got to go. You'll find
the books all up to the minute." Hurley turned away with a snort and
rolled into his bunk, and a few minutes later, Connie blew out the lamp
and crawled between his own warm blankets, where he lay smiling to
himself in the darkness.
By lamplight next morning the boy was astir. He placed his few
belongings in his turkey, and when the task was accomplished he noticed
that Hurley was watching him out of the corner of his eye. He tied the
sack as the others sat upon the edge of the bunks and drew on their
boots. And in silence they all crossed the dark clearing toward the
cook's camp.
With a great jangle of bells, Frenchy drew his tote-team up before the
door just as they finished breakfast. Connie tossed his turkey into the
sleigh and turned to Hurley who stood by with Lon Camden and Saginaw Ed.
"I'll take my time, now," said the boy, quietly. "And good luck to you
all!"
For answer the big boss reached over and, grabbing the turkey, sent it
spinning into the boy's bunk. "Ye don't git no toime!" he bellowed.
"Jump in wid Frenchy now, an' don't be shtandin' 'round doin' nawthin'.
Tin days ye'll be gone at the outsoide, an' av' ye ain't at yer disk
here be th' 'leventh day, Oi'll br-reak ye in two an' grease saws wid
the two halves av ye!" Reaching into his pocket, he drew forth a roll of
bills. "How much money d'ye nade? Come spake up! Ye kin have all, or
par-rt av ut--an' don't ye iver let me hear ye talk av quittin' agin, er
Oi'll woind a peavy around yer head."
Connie declined the money and jumped into the sleigh, and with a crack
of the whip, Frenchy sent the horses galloping down the tote road. When
they were well out of hearing the Frenchman laughed. "Dat Hurley she lak
for mak' de beeg bluff, w'at you call; she mak' you scairt lak she gon'
keel you, an' den she giv' you all de mon' she got."
"He's the best boss in the woods!" cried the boy.
"_Oui_ dat rat. Ba goss, we'n she roar an' bluff, dat ain' w'en you got
for look out! Me--A'm know 'bout dat. A'm seen heem lick 'bout fifty men
wan tam. Ovaire on----"
"Oh, come now, Frenchy--not fifty men."
"Well, was seex, anyhow. Ovaire on Leech Lak' an' _sacre!_ He ain' say
nuttin', dat tam--joos' mak' hees eyes leetle an' shine lak de _loup
cervier_--an' smash, smash, smash! An', by goss, 'bout twenty of dem
feller, git de busted head."
Connie laughed, and during all the long miles of the tote road
he listened to the exaggerated and garbled stories of the
Frenchman--stories of log drives, of fights, of bloody accidents, and of
"hants" and windagoes. At the railroad, the boy helped the teamster and
the storekeeper in the loading of the sleigh until a long-drawn whistle
announced the approach of his train. When it stopped at the tiny
station, he climbed aboard, and standing on the platform, waved his hand
until the two figures whisked from sight and the train plunged between
its flanking walls of pine.
In Minneapolis Connie hunted up the office of the Syndicate, which
occupied an entire floor, many stories above the sidewalk, of a tall
building. He was a very different looking Connie from the roughly clad
boy who had clambered onto the train at Dogfish. A visit to a big
department store had transformed him from a lumberjack into a youth
whose clothing differed in no marked particular from the clothing of
those he passed upon the street. But there was a difference that had
nothing whatever to do with clothing--a certain something in the easy
swing of his stride, the poise of his shoulders, the healthy bronzed
skin and the clear blue eyes, that caused more than one person to pause
upon the sidewalk for a backward glance at the boy.
Connie stepped from the elevator, hesitated for a second before a
heavily lettered opaque glass door, then turned the knob and entered, to
find himself in a sort of pen formed by a low railing in which was a
swinging gate. Before him, beyond the railing, dozens of girls sat at
desks their fingers fairly flying over the keys of their clicking
typewriters. Men with green shades over their eyes, and queer black
sleeves reaching from their wrists to their elbows, sat at other desks.
Along one side of the great room stood a row of box-like offices, each
with a name lettered upon its glass door. So engrossed was the boy in
noting these details that he started at the sound of a voice close
beside him. He looked down into the face of a girl who sat before a
complicated looking switchboard.
"Who do you wish to see?" she asked.
Connie flushed to the roots of his hair. It was almost the first time in
his life that any girl had spoken to him--and this one was smiling. Off
came his hat. "Is--is Heinie Metzger in?" he managed to ask. Connie's
was a voice tuned to the big open places, and here in the office of the
Syndicate it boomed loudly--so loudly that the girls at the nearer
typewriters looked up swiftly and then as swiftly stooped down to pick
up imaginary articles from the floor; the boy could see that they were
trying to suppress laughter. And the girl at the switchboard? He glanced
from the others to this one who was close beside him. Her face was red
as his own, and she was coughing violently into a tiny handkerchief.
"Caught cold?" he asked. "Get your feet dry, and take a dose of quinine,
and you'll be all right--if you don't get pneumonia and die. If Heinie
ain't in I can come again." Somehow the boy felt that he would like to
be out of this place. He felt stifled and very uncomfortable. He
wondered if girls always coughed into handkerchiefs or clawed around on
the floor to keep from laughing at nothing. He hoped she would say that
Heinie Metzger was not in.
"Have you a card?" the girl had recovered from her coughing fit, but her
face was very red.
"A what?" asked the boy.
"A card--your name."
"Oh, my name is Connie Morgan."
"And, your address?"
"Ma'am?"
"Where do you live?"
"Ten Bow."
"Where? Is it in Minnesota?"
"No, it's in Alaska--and I wish I was back there right now."
"And, your business?"
"I want to see Heinie Metzger about some logs."
A man passing the little gate in the railing whirled and glared at him.
He was a very disagreeable looking young man with a fat, heavy face,
pouchy eyes of faded blue, and stiff, close-cropped reddish hair that
stuck straight up on his head like pig's bristles. "Looks like he'd been
scrubbed," thought Connie as he returned glare for glare. The man
stepped through the gate and thrust his face close to the boy's.
"Vat you mean, eh?"
"Are you Heinie Metzger?"
"No, I am not _Herr_ Metzger. _Unt_ it pays you you shall be civil to
your betters. You shall say _Herr_ Metzger, _oder_ Mister Metzger. _Unt_
he has got not any time to be mit poys talking. Vat you vanted? If you
got pusiness, talk mit me. I am _Herr_ von Kuhlmann, confidential
secretary to _Herr_ Metzger."
"I thought you were the barber," apologized the boy. "But anyhow, you
won't do. I want to see Heinie Metzger, or 'hair' Metzger, or Mister
Metzger, whichever way you want it. I want to sell him some logs."
The other sneered: "Logs! He wants to sell it some logs! _Unt_ how much
logs you got--on de vagon a load, maybe? Ve dondt fool mit logs here,
exceptingly ve get anyhow a trainload--_unt_ _Herr_ Metzger dondt
mention efen, less dan half a million feets. Vere iss your logs?"
"I've got 'em in my pocket," answered the boy. "Come on, Dutchy, you're
wasting my time. Trot along, now; and tell this Metzger there's a fellow
out here that's got about eight or nine million feet of white pine to
sell----"
"Vite pine! Eight million feets! You krasy?" The man stooped and swung
open the little gate. "Come along _mit_ me, _unt_ if you trying some
foolishness _mit_ _Herr_ Metzger, you vish you vas some blace else to
have stayed avay." He paused before a closed door, and drawing himself
very erect, knocked gently. A full minute of silence, then from the
interior came a rasping voice:
"Who is it?"
"It is I, sir, von Kuhlmann, at your service, _unt_ I have _mit_ me one
small poy who say he has it some logs to sell."
Again the voice rasped from behind the partition--a thin voice, yet, in
it's thinness, somehow suggesting brutality: "Why should you come to me?
Why don't you buy his logs and send him about his business?"
Von Kuhlmann cleared his throat nervously: "He says it iss vite
pine--eight million feets."
"Show him in, you fool! What are you standing out there for?"
Von Kuhlmann opened the door and motioned Connie to enter:
"_Herr_ Morgan," he announced, bowing low.
"Connie Morgan," corrected the boy quickly, as he stepped toward the
desk and offered his hand to the small, grey-haired man, with the
enormous eyeglasses, and the fierce upturned mustache. "I suppose you
are Heinie Metzger," he announced.
The man glared at him, his thin nostrils a-quiver. Then, in a dry,
cackling voice, bade Connie be seated, giving the extended hand the
merest touch. Von Kuhlmann withdrew noiselessly, and closed the door.
Metzger opened a drawer and drew forth a box of cigars which he opened,
and extended toward the boy. Connie declined, and replacing the cigars,
the man drew from another drawer, a box of cigarettes, and when the boy
declined those he leaned back in his chair and stared at Connie through
his glasses, as one would examine a specimen at the zoo.
[Illustration: HE LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND STARED AT CONNIE THROUGH
HIS GLASSES, AS ONE WOULD EXAMINE A SPECIMEN AT THE ZOO.]
"Young man, how do I know you have any logs?" the question rasped
suddenly from between half-closed lips.
"You don't know it," answered the boy. "That's why I came here to tell
you."
"White pine, you said," snapped the man, after a pause. "Eight million
feet?"
"Yes, white pine--at least eight million, maybe nine, and possibly more,
if we continue to have good luck."
"Where are these logs?"
"On our landings on Dogfish River."
"Dogfish! You're the man from Alaska that bought the McClusky tract?"
"I'm his partner."
"Show a profit last year?"
"No. But we only had one camp then, and this year we have two and each
one has cut more than the one we had last year."
"Who did you sell to, last year?"
"Baker & Crosby."
"Satisfied with their boom scale?"
"Well, no, we weren't. That's why we thought we'd offer the cut to you
this year, if you want it."
"Want it! Of course we want it--that is, if the price is right."
"What will you pay?"
_Herr_ Heinrich Metzger removed his glasses and dangled them by their
wide black ribbon, as he glanced along his thin nose. "Sure you can
deliver eight million feet?" he asked.
"Yes, our foreman reports eight million already on the rollways, or in
the woods all ready for the rollways. Yes, I can be sure of eight
million."
"We have a big contract," said Metzger, "that is just about eight
million feet short of being filled. If we can be sure of getting the
entire eight million in one lump, we could afford to pay more--much
more, in fact, than we could if there was anything short of eight
million feet."
Connie nodded: "There will be eight million feet, at least," he
repeated. "What will you pay?"
For a long time the other was silent, then he spoke: "It is a large
deal," he said. "There are many things to consider. Lest we make haste
too quickly, I must have time to consider the transaction in all it's
phases. Meet me here one week from today, at eleven o'clock, and I will
give you a figure."
"A week is a long time," objected the boy, "And I am a long way from
home."
"Yes, yes, but there are others--associates of mine in the business with
whom I must consult." The boy had risen to go, when the man stayed him
with a motion. "Wait," he commanded. "Your name is----?"
"Morgan--Connie Morgan."
"To be sure--Connie Morgan." He picked the receiver from the hook of his
desk phone. "Get me the Laddison Hotel," he commanded, and hung up the
receiver. "The delay is of my own making, therefore I should pay for it.
You will move your luggage into the Laddison Hotel, which is the best in
the city, and shall remain there until our deal is closed, at the
expense of this company----"
"But," objected the boy, "suppose the deal don't go through?"
"The expense will be ours whether the deal goes through or not. You see,
I am confident that we can deal."
The telephone rang and Metzger made the arrangements, and again, turned
to the boy. "Each evening at dinner time, you are to ask at the desk for
an envelope. In the envelope you will receive a ticket to the theatre.
This, also, at our expense." He smiled broadly. "You see, we treat our
guests well. We do not wish them to become tired of our city, and we
wish those with whom we have dealings to think well of us."