_TROUBLE FOR THE_ SPRAY
Early the next morning, when Pierre departed for work, Ramsay bade
farewell to Madame LeDou and left their house with his kind host. He did
so with a little reluctance, now that all his money was gone and the
future loomed more uncertainly than ever. At the same time there was
about him a rising eagerness and an unfulfilled expectation.
It seemed to him that, since swimming ashore from the sinking _Holter_,
he had ceased to be a boy and had become a man. And a man must know that
all desirable things had their undesirable aspects. This country was
wonderful. If, to stay in it, he must come to grips with other men--men
as strong and as cruel as Devil Chad--and with nature too, Ramsay felt
himself willing to do that.
As soon as the two were fifty yards from the LeDou home he purposely
dropped behind Pierre and leaned against a huge hemlock until the little
man was out of sight. Pierre had said nothing and Ramsay had not asked,
but the latter knew Devil Chad had told the Frenchman that, if he valued
his job in the tannery, he must no longer shelter Ramsay. The boy had
no wish to further embarrass his host or to jeopardize his job by being
seen with him. Therefore he leaned against the tree until Pierre had had
time to reach and enter the tannery.
Slowly Ramsay left his tree and walked down the same path that Pierre
had followed. Badly as he needed a job, it was useless to try to get one
in the tannery. He slowed his pace even more as he walked past the
building. He had been beaten by Devil Chad, and he might be beaten a
second time should they fight again; but he was not afraid to try. His
body had been hurt, but not his courage.
Almost insolently Ramsay stopped where he could be seen from the
tannery's open door, and waited there. He was aware of curious,
half-embarrassed glances from men hurrying into the place, and then they
avoided looking at him. Finally a man stopped. He spoke to a man who
halted beside him.
"All right, Jules. Get in an' start to work."
He was a straw boss or foreman, Ramsay decided, and his voice betrayed
his New England forebears. An older man, with hair completely gray, like
all the rest he was wrinkled and weathered. Physically he was lean and
tough, but he did not seem belligerent or even unkind. When the last
worker had entered the tannery, he turned to Ramsay.
"You needn't be afraid, son. Mr. Chadbourne went to Milwaukee last
night."
"I'm not afraid. I was just wondering if he wouldn't come out for a
second start."
"Look, son," the other's air was that of an older and wiser person
trying to reason with an impetuous boy, "you haven't got a chance. The
best thing you can do is get out of town before Mr. Chadbourne comes
back."
"Maybe I like this town."
"You can only cause trouble by staying here."
"I've been in trouble before, too."
The older man shrugged, as though he had discharged his full
responsibility in warning Ramsay, and said, "It's your funeral, my boy.
Stay away from the tannery."
"You needn't worry."
Ramsay strolled on down the dusty street, and in spite of himself he was
a little relieved. If Devil Chad had gone to Milwaukee, probably to
arrange for another shipload of hides, it was unlikely that he would be
back before night at the earliest. Ramsay would not have to fight again
today; presumably he was free to do as he pleased without any fear of
interruption. He thrust his hands into empty pockets and, to cheer
himself up, started to whistle.
A fat Indian, dressed in ragged trousers, which some white man had
thrown out, and an equally-tattered black coat which he could not button
across his immense, naked stomach, grinned at him. Ramsay grinned back
and winked. His friends in New York had been awe-stricken at the very
thought of venturing into the wild Midwest where, they thought, scalping
parties occurred every few hours and no white man was safe from the
savages. Ramsay had enjoyed himself by elaborating on the part he would
play when such a war party came along. But he had discovered for
himself, before he left Chicago, that the Indians in this section of
Wisconsin were harmless. When they could they sold bead work and
basketry to the settlers and they were not above stealing. But they were
not warlike.
Ramsay strode past another building, a big one with two separate floors
and an attic. Its chimney belched smoke, and from within came the whine
of saws and other machinery. In front of the building were stacked a
great number of barrels, made of white pine and with hoops formed from
the black ash tree. Ramsay hesitated a moment and entered.
Three Points was obviously a raw frontier town, but definitely it was
not as raw as Ramsay had expected it to be. Obviously there was at least
one industrial plant in addition to the tannery. It seemed to be a
cooper's shop, engaged in the production of barrels, and it might hold a
job for him. He stopped just inside the door, trying to adjust his ears
to the scream of a big circular saw that was powered by a steam engine.
Beyond were lathes and various other machines, and a great many wooden
pails were piled against the far wall. This factory, then, made both
barrels and pails.
Presently a middle-aged man, with the neatest clothing Ramsay had yet
seen in Three Points, came out of an office and walked toward him. He
shouted to make himself heard above the screaming saw, "Yes?"
"Are you the manager here?" Ramsay shouted back.
"Yes."
"Need any men?"
"What?"
Ramsay grinned faintly. The factory, if not bedlam, was close to it. It
was incredible that anyone at all could carry on an intelligent, or
even an intelligible, conversation inside it. Ramsay shouted, "Let's go
outside!"
The other followed him out, and far enough from the door so they could
hear each other. Ramsay turned to his companion, "My name's Ramsay
Cartou and I'm looking for a job. Do you have any to offer?"
The manager looked soberly at Ramsay's battered face, then with the toe
of his shoe he began tracing a circle in the dirt. He hesitated. Then,
"I'm afraid not."
Ramsay felt a stirring anger. Definitely there was more work in Three
Points than there were men to do it. The town had need of strong
workers. For a moment he looked steadily at the manager, who looked
away. Then he swallowed and tried a new tack, "What do you do with all
the barrels?"
"Most of them go to fishermen who use them to ship their catches to
Chicago. The pails are shipped by boat to wherever there is a market for
them."
"And you can't give me a job?"
"That's right."
"Why?" Ramsay challenged.
"We--we have a full crew."
"I see. Now will you answer one question?"
"Certainly."
"Does 'Mister' Chadbourne own this place too?"
"He has a financial interest ..." The other stopped short. "See here,
young man! I have told you that I cannot offer you a job and that should
be sufficient!"
"I just wanted to know why," Ramsay said.
He turned and walked away from the cooper's shop. His chin was high,
and anger seethed within him. Devil Chad, apparently, owned most of
Three Points and a lot of other things between that and Milwaukee. If
there was an opportunity to earn a dollar, honest or dishonest, Devil
Chad was seizing that opportunity. Obviously the manager of the cooper's
shop had heard of his fight with Ramsay--in a small community like this
everyone would have heard of it--and was afraid to give him a job.
Ramsay resumed his tuneless whistling.
Plainly he was going to get nowhere in Three Points. But definitely he
had no intention of running away with his tail between his legs, like a
whipped puppy. He liked this lakeshore country and he intended to stay
in it. If he had to fight to do that, then he would fight.
Between the rugged trunks of tall hemlock trees he caught a glimpse of
the lake, sparkling blue in the sunshine and gently ruffled by a soft
south wind. He turned his steps toward it, and now he walked eagerly.
The lake was magic, a world in itself which never had been tamed and
never would be tamed. He shivered ecstatically. This was what he had
come west to find. Devil Chad and his tannery, the town of Three Points,
and even Milwaukee paled into nothingness when compared to the lake. He
broke from the last trees and saw Lake Michigan clearly.
A heavy wooden pier extended out onto it, and a sailing vessel was tied
up at one side. Ramsay read her name. She was the _Brilliant_, from
Ludington, Michigan, and a line of men were toiling up a gangplank with
heavy bags which they were stacking on the pier. On the pier's other
side a steamer, a side-wheeler like the _Holter_, was loading leather
from Devil Chad's tannery. She was the _Jackson_, a freighter that
carried assorted cargoes between Three Points, Milwaukee and Chicago.
Ramsay strolled out on the pier and brightened when the cold lake air
struck his face. It was impossible to be on the lake, or near it, and
feel stolid or dull. It provided its own freshness, and Ramsay thought
it also furnished a constant inspiration. He watched the sweating men
continue to bring loaded bags up from the sailing vessel and approached
near enough to ask a burly deck hand, "What's this cargo?"