"No, nor any man, and be continuously to the point; and if you get a
bit shaky and converted just think of dividends on seven millions.
That's what we came here for. I don't care how much bluffing it costs
or how many days it takes. We're here now and the only thing to do is
to wait till Clark's well runs dry and then give our ultimatum. But up
to that time we must do whatever he wants us to do. It's going to hurt
him--that's unavoidable--it will hurt us a lot more if we don't carry
our job through." All of which was a long speech for Stoughton, so he
sat down and was looking defiantly truculent when Clark came in smiling.
"You fellows have had enough for to-day so I've arranged a fishing trip
for this afternoon. It's a good river, only six miles out, and I own
it. It's an easy drive. You leave right after lunch and won't see me
again till to-morrow. Rods and things are ready, and there's a French
halfbreed at the camp to cook for you. What do you say?"
The suggestion came like sudden balm in Gilead. Stoughton's face
cleared. "What's your biggest fish--trout, aren't they?"
"Well," said Clark slowly, "I've never had time to fish myself, but
people who come to see me like a day off. Four pounds and a half is
the record so far."
It was a magic touch. Riggs and Wimperley were, like Stoughton, keen
fishermen, and while Birch fished for only one prize, all felt alike
that here was a surcease after a trying morning. They could pull
themselves together.
With this reflection moving in his brain, Stoughton felt a stab of
compunction.
"I wish you could come, old man," he jerked out to Clark.
"Thanks," said Clark with a curious light in his gray eyes, "but I
think I'd better not."
Five hours later Wimperley sat under a spruce tree and gloated over his
catch. Close by were the rest, each arranging a row of speckled
beauties on the cool green moss. They had caught some forty trout, the
biggest being a trifle over the record, and this was Wimperley's fish.
He leaned back, feeling a long forgotten youth trickle into his veins.
In front of him the stream dodged round great boulders and vanished
into the woods, flecked with foam from the falls whose wash came
tremulously through the wilderness. The sky overhead was translucent
with the half light of sunset and he felt a delicious languor stealing
over him. For three hours Stoughton, Riggs and he had fished to their
hearts' content, while Birch climbed a ridge and speculated what such a
forbidding country might reasonably be expected to bring forth. Close
by the stream, Fisette bent beside a small fire from which came odors
of fried bacon and fish that aroused in the Philadelphians a fierce and
gnawing hunger. Presently they sat on a mattress of cedar and ate one
of those suppers the memory of which passes not with the years. It was
Riggs who spoke first, lying back on the boughs, his head on his arm, a
new glow in his pale cheeks. He looked younger and rounder than he did
six hours previously, and, stretching luxuriously, he experienced the
sympathetic impulses that detach themselves from a full stomach.
"I suppose there's no way out of it?"
"None whatever," grunted Stoughton, who was lining his basket with moss
and objected to being thus recalled. "What the devil has this to do
with dividends?"
"Nothing, I admit, but why in thunder did we start this game anyway?
Why couldn't we just take things easy and go fishing. We've all got
enough."
Wimperley stretched his arms above his head in delicious fatigue.
"Keep away from second causes; this is no place for them. Four years
ago you were meant to go fishing to-day in this very stream. Why worry
about it?"
"I'm thinking about one R.F.C.," came back Riggs reflectively, "just
like the rest of you."
"Well," sounded the dry voice of Birch, "so am I. And all this is very
apropos. It illustrates the general condition of affairs, especially
that mess of trout you had on the moss a while ago. We're all trout,
we and the shareholders. You, Wimperley, are that five pounder. We
all rose to the fly of one R.F.C., and we were all landed in the back
woods. There are more trout in that stream, and, if we stand for it,
the fishing is still good, but I've got the sting of the fly still in
my gills. Also I'm thinking about one Henry Marsham."
Stoughton nodded sagely. "That's right, but if you liked fishing,
Birch, you wouldn't drag in shareholders in that churlish fashion.
What about blast furnaces, Riggs? We haven't heard a whisper yet.
Wonder what Clark is thinking of?"
"Oh Lord!" murmured the little man, "if we only had iron!"
Fisette, who was dipping his dishes in a pot of hot water, turned his
head ever so slightly. The others had either forgotten about him or
concluded that their conversation was beyond a half-breed. But not a
word had escaped the sharp ears of the man who moved so silently beside
the fire. 'Iron!' They had iron, but apparently did not know it.
Fisette felt in his pocket for the small angular fragment he always
carried, and was about to hand it to Wimperley, when again he
remembered Clark's command. He was to say nothing to any one. So the
half-breed, with wonder in his soul, laid more wood on the fire and,
squatting in the shadow of a rock, stared at the stream now shrouded in
the gloom, and waited for what might come.
"But there's none in this damned country," blurted Stoughton, "so get
back to Birch's picture of the shareholders on the moss."
"Trouble is I can't get away from it." Riggs' small voice was so
plaintive that the others laughed, then dropped into a reverie while
there came the murmur of the hidden stream and the small unceasing
voices of the dusk that blend into the note which men call silence.
Very softly and out of the south drifted a melodious sound.
"Six o'clock at the works," drawled Birch, snapping his watch. "Does
that suggest anything?"
An hour later two buckboards drew up in front of the hotel and the four
stepped down, a little stiff, but utterly content. As Riggs took his
basket from Fisette, he coughed a little awkwardly.
"Look here, you fellows, I'm going to send my fish to R.F.C. with our
compliments. It's only decent."
"Well," remarked Birch reflectively, "you might as well. It's the only
compliment we're paying this trip."
A profound sleep strengthened their resolution, and when next morning
Clark announced that he had arranged a trip up the lake, they acceded
at once. In half an hour the company's big tug steamed out into Lake
Superior, and the four, wrapped in big coats, for the water was like
ice and the air chill, waited for the hour when Clark should run dry.
"You're going back this evening?" he said as the vessel rounded the
long pine covered point that screened the rapids from the open lake.
Birch nodded.
"We'll get through by this afternoon. There isn't any more to show
you." Clark spoke with a certain quick incisiveness and his eyes
seemed unusually keen and bright.
"We've seen all we want to see."
The other man glanced at him sharply and said nothing. Then, as the
big tug plowed on, the great expanse of Superior opened before them, a
gigantic sheet of burnished glass edged with shadowy shores, and a long
island whose soft outline seemed to float indistinctly on the unruffled
water. As they steamed, Clark told them of the giant bark canoes that
once came down from the lake heavy with fur, to unload at the Hudson
Bay store at St. Marys, and disappear as silently as they came laden
with colored cotton and Crimea muskets and lead and powder. He told of
lonely voyageurs and the Jesuit priests who, traveling utterly alone,
penetrated these wilds with sacrificial courage, carrying the blessed
Sacrament to the scattered lodges of Sioux and Huron. Then, shifting
abruptly, he talked of his own coming to St. Marys and the chance talk
on a train that turned his attention to that Arcadia till, as the
moments passed, he himself began to take on romantic proportions and
appear in the imagination of his hearers as a sort of modern voyageur,
who had discovered a new commercial kingdom.
"These logs," he said abruptly, "are from our limits."
The others glanced over the tug's high bows and saw nearing them a
great brown raft towed by a small puffing vessel.
"Pulp wood,--ten thousand cords there. It doesn't take long to chew it
up at the rate we're going. I want to speak to Baudette."
He motioned to the bridge and the big tug drew in slowly beside its
smaller brother, while he talked to a brown-faced man who leaned over
the rail and answered in monosyllables, his sharp eyes taking in the
group behind the general manager. The tug sheered off and put on
speed, while Wimperley and the rest held their breath as they skirted
the straining boom that inclosed the raft. Presently the high, sharp
bow turned shoreward, steam was cut off and the tug made fast to the
sheer side of a little bluff that rose steeply out of deep water.
Clark stepped out on a narrow gang plank that just reached the land.
"You fellows haven't seen this north country yet, and I'd like you to
get something of it on foot. This is part of our concession secured
from the provincial government and I want you to walk over just a
little of it. As directors you ought to."
"Come on," said Wimperley under his breath. "It's the last chapter,
he's nearly dry."
The trail was narrow and newly cut. Treading at first on smooth rock,
the Philadelphians took it briskly, jumping over stones and logs and
pausing now and then at vistas of the lake. They were a little short
of breath when the path dipped to low ground and struck straight across
a tangled ravine. Here the bush was thicker, and the air warm and
moist. Gradually the four coats came off.
"Hold on a minute, Clark," panted Stoughton who was beginning to sweat.
"It's better over here, come along."
But if it was better they did not notice it. Wimperley stumbled over a
root and plunged one hand up to the wrist in slimy mud. Riggs was
breathing hard and his nostrils dilated, but he plugged doggedly on.
Birch, now very red in the face, stepped close behind Stoughton, his
cheeks stinging from the swish of branches released by the man just
ahead. Stoughton, his heart pumping, was in the lead, and desperately
trying to catch the steadily progressing figure of Clark. He felt
almost like murder. Ten minutes more and the Philadelphians had lost
all traces of refinement. Wimperley's trousers were torn at the knee
and his white, scratched skin showed through. Riggs had dropped coat
and waistcoat beside the trail, his collar was off, his small body
tired and twisted, and from his lips streamed language to which he had
long been a stranger. Birch had lagged far behind but plowed on with a
cold determination. He was breathing audibly through his nose, his
watch chain was dangling on a cedar branch a quarter of a mile back, a
sharp pain throbbed in a barked shin and his boots were full of water.
Still in the lead was Stoughton, who, regardless of all else, had put
down his head and was crashing heavily through the underbrush like a
young bull moose answering the call of his distant and amorous mate.
Clark was quite invisible. Presently the four halted. Humanity had
gone its limit. Birch dragged himself up and they stared at each other
with furious eyes.
"Lend me a handkerchief," panted Riggs.
Stoughton felt in his pocket, pulling one out with a cascade of pine
needles, when from three hundred feet ahead came a voice:
"I'm where we stop, you fellows, come on up."
"That's just where he is." Birch's difficult speech had something in
it that was almost deadly. "He's asked for it and he's going to get it
right here. Come on."
They trailed slowly up, a small, bedraggled, indecent procession, lost
to everything except utter weariness and a spirit of cold revenge. In
Stoughton's heavy heart was the thought that Clark had unexpectedly
made their job vastly easier than they anticipated. The latter was on
a little knoll that rose roundly from the encircling bush. He seemed
cool and comfortable, and this stirred them to deeper anger. His
features were expressionless, save that his lips twitched ever so
slightly. The Philadelphians dropped and lay limply, and there was
silence for perhaps five minutes when Birch lifted a haggard face and
spoke.
"Look here, Clark, I don't know the reason for this fool expedition,
none of us do, but it serves well enough to lead up to the point of
other fool expeditions on a larger scale."
"Yes?" said Clark with a lift in his voice.
"It does. Now I'd like to go back about four years when you said that
three millions would do you. In between now and then is a long story
and I haven't got breath to tell it, but to-day you've had seven and
we're deeper in the woods than ever we were."
"Go ahead, I'm following you."
"The long and the short of it is that we've had enough."
"Of me?" The voice was very quiet.
"Yes, damn it, of you; that is, in your present position of general
manager. You can have one or two of the subsidiary companies but not
the whole darn thing, and--"
"The point is," cut in Wimperley, "that we're afraid of you. We've not
paid a dividend and, as things go, there's not any likelihood that we
ever will. It's not easy to talk like this, and don't think we
under-estimate what you've done. No other man I know of could have
done it, but there's a limit to the money available in the State of
Pennsylvania for this business--and we've reached it--that's all."
"And if you want to know what's upset the apple-cart," chirped Riggs
with a little shiver--for they were all taking turns by now--"it's that
fool proposal to build a railway through this ungodly wilderness." The
little man glanced about him with visible abhorrence.
"And a blast furnace without any ore," concluded Stoughton heavily.
Clark's eyes wandered round the group while through his whole body ran
a divine thrill. He had very swiftly interpreted the purpose of this
official visit. The directors wanted to get rid of him but funked the
job, and now he experienced a certain contempt for their helplessness.
He had a vivid sense of the dramatic and this tramp had been carefully
thought out. The opportunity was made and it was for them to use it.
He drew a long breath, conscious that here was the moment which comes
but seldom in the lives of men. It was only five years ago that,
practically penniless, he had overheard a conversation in a train.
"Ore?" he said coolly without changing a muscle. "Why, you're sitting
on five million tons of the best ore I ever saw."
A blue jay lit on a branch over his head and looked impudently down.
No one spoke. Presently Wimperley scratched at the moss with his heel,
bared a strip of rock and stared at it as though he had hurt it.
Stoughton rolled over and shot side glances at Clark, whose eyes were
fixed on the jagged horizon.
"What?" whispered Riggs.
"The discovery was made some days ago by one of our own prospectors,
but I could not speak definitely until the various analyses were
completed. It is excellent ore and will smelt well. There is
limestone within two miles of the works. The coke, of course, will
have to be brought up.'"
"I'll be damned!" murmured Stoughton in a voice husky with reverence.
The others spoke not at all, but peered blinkingly at Clark as though
his recumbent body were hiding more wonders from them. Presently
Wimperley, who knew something of ore, bent stiffly forward, picked up a
fragment of rock and, after a long scrutiny, nodded slowly.
"This exposure is about half a mile long," said the quiet voice. "It
crops out there and there," he pointed to neighboring ridges, "and
there's more beyond that, if you'd care to walk over."
But no one cared. The Philadelphians were too lost in fatigue and
astonishment. After a little Riggs commandeered the rest and the four
began to roll back great blankets of moss, just as Fisette had done the
week before, and everywhere beneath lay iron ore. Clark watched them
with a suggestive smile till, after a little, Birch sat down panting,
his hands stained with soil.
"Well?" he demanded, "how about it?"
"It was something more than three years ago that the first prospector
went in," commenced Clark thoughtfully, "and I reported at the time
that it was definitely stated by those who ought to know that there was
no iron in the country. Geological maps showed the same thing, but it
struck me there was too much guess work about them, so we began to make
maps of our own. A month ago we got into iron formation and soon after
came the discovery. I felt all along that the stuff was there, but
could not say anything officially till the analyses were completed. We
can lay this ore down at the workers for two dollars a ton. And now,"
he added in a voice that suddenly changed into sharp and rising tones,
"do I get my blast furnace?"
The effect on the group was extraordinary. They had sat motionless,
oblivious to fatigue and mosquitoes, while Clark spoke. Their brains
were flooded with the knowledge that this meant ultimate permanence to
the works. It meant rails and plates and all iron and steel products,
and these were made doubly possible by the enormous reserve of power
still available in the rapids at St. Marys. They glanced into the
woods as though there were still mysterious treasures waiting to be
revealed at a wave of the hand of this magician.
Presently Wimperley straightened up. He had been going through a
strange searching of soul while his gaze wandered from the glistening
rock at his feet to Clark's keen face. He began to perceive clearly
for the first time the prodigious potentiality of this man who was
equally masterful in Philadelphia and the back woods. He saw to what
wide scope this enterprise could expand if only this restless and
prophetic spirit might be wisely steered by men of colder brains and
more deliberate resolution. But Clark, after all, was the creator.
"Yes," he said half aloud, "you get your blast furnace."
The Philadelphians took to the homeward trail with backward glances and
something of regret lest the archaean foundations of that mountain of
ore might shift over night. There was no sense of fatigue now. Birch
skipped over logs in wayward abandon and laughed like a schoolboy when
Clark picked a heavy gold watch chain that dangled from an overhanging
bush. Riggs' thin legs were being scratched by the sharp samples with
which he had stuffed his trouser pockets, but he felt them not, and
Stoughton's choler had given way to a profound contemplation out of
which he periodically breathed the conviction that he would be damned.
Wimperley was already organizing a new company--an iron
corporation--and hazarding shrewd guesses as to the effect this
discovery would have on the outstanding stock. The result, he
concluded, would be most inspiring.
They lunched on the tug, an admirable meal, while the vessel vibrated
gently and through the open portholes came the swish of bubbling water
and a flood of sunlight. Then Riggs made a little speech and they all
drank Clark's health, promising him continued support and such money as
he needed to make steel rails. The threatening specter of Marsham had
vanished utterly.
The answer was characteristic. There was no mention of anything the
speaker had contributed, but just the voicing of his unalterable faith
in a country which so far had never failed to produce whatever the
industry required. It was a pleasure for him to work for directors and
shareholders who had so practically demonstrated their confidence. He
said this with a smile which was absolutely undecipherable, then drank
their health in water which was his only drink---declined one of
Wimperley's cigars, for he did not smoke--and inquired quietly if he
was to get his railway as well. Whereupon he was immediately assured
that he would get anything he asked for.
That evening the Philadelphians left in the private car. They were
rather quiet, being caught up in contemplation of a new vision. As the
train pulled out Clark waved a hand to the group on the rear platform
and returned thoughtfully to the blockhouse where he began to write.
The letter was to his mother. He told her that he had been too busy
for correspondence of late, and had just concluded a very satisfactory
and official visit from his directors. In consequence, he would now be
busier than ever. He stared at his own signature for a moment, then
opened a window and stood peering out toward the river. The moon was
up, and he caught the snowy gleam of foam at the foot of the rapids.
Their voice seemed very clear and very triumphant that night. They
sang of providence--or was it destiny?
His mind turned reflectively to Elsie Worden, experiencing as yet no
thrill but just a growing and satisfying attraction. All things seemed
possible tonight. He had never given much thought to women, being
impatient with what seemed to him their artifice and slight power of
insight. So often the women who were esteemed most praiseworthy, were
also the least intelligent, and lacked that spark which to him
signified vision. In past years he had had a rooted belief that the
standard wife was a burden who not only robbed one of mobility, but
also demanded her portion of all moments, however individual, absorbed
or tense they might be. In such circumstances there was nothing around
which he could build a mental fence and call it his own.
It is possible that in such periods as these, when Clark gave himself
up to taking soundings, as it were, in the sea of his destiny, he
distinguished in his own nature that curious duality of sex which makes
it possible for certain rare individuals to self satisfy their
emotional appetites, and that it was this which had kept him single and
unfettered. If he had a craving he could forthwith produce that which
appeased it. He luxuriated in the revelations of his own perception.
To him the inarticulate thing became vocal with possibilities. He was
conscious of no unsatisfied need. And yet, for all of this, the vision
of the girl, Elsie, began to blend with his thoughts.