THE SKANDINAVIA MOVES
Bat gazed up at the wooded ridge. They were standing in the marshy
bottom of a natural hollow amidst a sparse scattering of pine and
attenuated spruce. Beyond the ridge lay the waters of the cove. And to
the left the broad waters of the river mouth flowed by. It was a
desolate, damp spot, but its significance to the two men studying it was
profound.
Skert Lawton, the chief engineer of Sachigo, tall, loose-limbed,
raw-boned, watched his superior with somewhat mournful, unsmiling eyes.
There was something of deadly earnest in his regard, something anxious.
But that was always his way. Bat had once said of him: "Skert Lawton's
one hell of a good boy. But I won't get no comfort in the grave if I
ain't ever see him grin." There was not the smallest sign of a smile in
him now.
"It's one big notion," Bat said, at last. Then he added doubtfully. "It
comes mighty nigh being too big."
Lawton emitted a curious sound like a snort. It was mainly, however, an
ejaculation of violent impatience. Bat turned with a twinkling grin,
surveying the queer figure. His engineer was always a source of the
profoundest interest for him. Just now, in his hard, rough clothing, he
might have been a lumber-jack, or casual labourer. Anything, in fact,
rather than the college-bred, brilliant engineer he really was.
Bat's doubt had been carefully calculated. He knew his man. And just now
as he awaited the explosion he looked for, his thoughts went back to a
scene he had once had with a half drunken machine-minder whom he had had
to pay off. The man had epitomised the chief engineer's qualities and
character, as those who encountered his authority understood them, in a
few lurid, illuminating phrases. "You know," he had said, "that guy
ain't a man. No, sir. He's the mush-fed image of a penitentiary boss. I
guess he'd set the grease box of a driving shaft hot with a look. His
temper 'ud burn holes in sheet iron. As for work--work? Holy Mackinaw!
I've worked hired man to a French Canuk mossback which don't leave a
feller the playtime of a nigger slave, but that hell-hired Scotch
machine boss sets me yearnin' for that mossback's wage like a bull-pup
chasin' offal. I tell you right here if that guy don't quit his notions
there'll be murder done. Bloody murder! An' it's a God's sure thing when
that happens he'll freeze to death in hell. It don't rile me a thing to
be told the things he guesses my mother was. Maybe that's a matter of
opinion, and, anyway, she's mixin' with a crop of angels who don't
figger to have no truck with Scotch machine bosses. I guess a sight of
his flea-bitten features 'ud set 'em seein' things so they wouldn't
rec'nise their harps from frypans, and they'd moult feathers till you
wouldn't know it from a snowfall on Labrador. But when he mixes his
notions of my ma with 'lazy'! Lazy! Lazy! Gee! Why, if I signed in a
half hour late from that bum suttler's canteen, I guess it was only the
time it took me digestin' two quarts of the gut-wash they hand out there
in the hope you won't know it from beer. No, sir, 'lazy son-of-a-bitch'
from that guy is the talk no decent citizen with a bunch of guts is
goin' to stand for."
Skert Lawton was known for a red-hot "burner," a "nigger driver." No
doubt he was all this in addition to his brilliant attainments as an
engineer. But the methods he applied to others he applied to himself.
And the whole of him, brain and body, was for the enterprise they were
all engaged in. Bat had intended to goad the demon of obstinate energy
which possessed the man, and he succeeded.
Skert flung out his hand in a comprehensive gesture.
"Hell!" he cried. "That's no sort of talk anyway. I've been weeks on
this thing. And I've got it to the last fraction. Big notion? Of course
it is. Aren't we mostly concerned with big notions? Here, what are you
asking? An inland boom with capacity for anything over a million cords.
Well? It's damn ridiculous talking the size of the notion. This hollow
is fixed right. Its bed is ten feet below the bed of the river. It's
surrounded with a natural ridge on all sides a hundred and fifty feet
high. There's a quarter mile below the hollow and the river bank, and
the new mill extensions are just to the east of this ridge. It's
well-nigh child's play. Nature's fixed it that way. Two cuttings, and a
race-way on the river. We flood this. Feed it full of lumber in the
summer with surplus from the cut and you've got that reserve for winter,
so you can keep every darn machine grinding its guts out. What's the use
talking? Big notion? Of course it is. We're out for big notions all the
time. That's the whole proposition. Well?"
Bat grinned at the heated disgust in the man's tone.
"Sounds like eatin' pie," he retorted aggravatingly. "The cost? The
labour? Time? You got those things?"
"It's right up at your office now." Skert's eyes widened in surprise at
such a question. "It's not my way to play around."
"No." Bat's eyes refused seriousness.
"Oh, psha! This is no sort of time chewing these details. It's figgered
to the last second, the last man, the last cent. I brought you to see
things. Well, you've seen things. And if you're satisfied we'll quit
right away. I've no spare play time."
There was no pretence of patience in Skert Lawton. He had looked for
appreciation and only found doubt. He moved off.
Bat had done the thing intended. He had no intention of hurting the man.
He understood the driving power of the mood he had stirred.
They moved off together.
"That's all right, Skert," he said kindly. "You've done one big thing.
An' it's the thing Bull and I want--"
"Then why in hell didn't you say it instead of talking--notions?"
For all the sharpness of his retort, Skert was mollified. Bat shook his
head and a shrewd light twinkled in his eyes.
"You're a pretty bright boy, Skert," he said. "But you're brightest when
you're riled."
They had gained the river bank where booms lined the shore, and scores
of men were rafting. They had left the water-logged hollow behind them,
and debouched on the busy world of the mill. Ahead lay the new
extensions where the saws were shrieking the song of their labours upon
the feed for the rumbling grinders. It was a township of buildings of
all sizes crowding about the great central machine house.
They crossed the light footbridge over the "cut in" from the river, and
moved along down the main highway of the northern shore.
Both were pre-occupied. The engineer was listening to the note of his
beloved machinery. Bat was concerned with any and every movement going
on within the range of his vision. They walked briskly, the lean
engineer setting a pace that kept the other stumping hurriedly beside
him.
Abreast of the mill they approached a new-looking, long, low building.
It was single storied and lumber built, with a succession of many
windows down its length. The hour was noon. And men were hurrying
towards its entrance from every direction.
Bat watched interestedly.
"They seem mighty keen for their new playground," he said at last, with
a quick nod in the direction of the recreation house.
The engineer came out of his dream. His mournful eyes turned in the
direction indicated and devoured the scene. Then he glanced down at the
squat figure stumping beside him.
"Guess that's so. But not the way you figgered when you got that fool
notion of handing 'em a playhouse," he said roughly. "If you pass a hog
a feather bed, it's a sure thing he'll work out the best way to muss it
quick."
"How? I don't get you?"
There was no humour in Bat's eyes now.
"They call it a 'Chapel'," Skert said dryly. "They've surely got
preachers, but they don't talk religion. Maybe that's sort of new to
you, here. It isn't across the water where I come from. Guess you think
those boys are racing out to get a game of checkers, or billiards, or
cards, or some other fool play you reckoned to hand 'em to make 'em feel
good." He shook his head. "They're not. They've turned their 'Chapel'
into a sort of parliament. Every dinner hour there's a feller, different
fellers most all the time, gets up and hands 'em out an address. It's
short, but red hot. The afternoon shift in the mill is given up to
brightening up their fool brains on it. And when evening comes along,
and they've their bellies full of supper and beer, they get along to the
'Chapel' and they debate the address, handing out opinions and notions
just as bellies guide 'em."
"And the addresses. What are they mostly? On the work? The trade they're
working at?"
A world of pity looked out of Skert's eyes as he surveyed the man he
believed to be the greatest organiser the mill industry had ever seen.
He shook his head.
"Work? Not on your life! Socialism, Communism--Revolution!"
Bat spat out a stream of tobacco juice. He was startled.
"But I ain't heard tell of any sort of unrest gettin' busy. We're payin'
big money. It's bigger than the market. They got--"
"Best talk to Sternford when you get back up there to your office. He's
got the boys sized right up to the last hair of their stupid heads. But
I'll hand you something I've reckoned to hand you a while back, only I
wanted to be sure. There's nothing of this truck about the 'hands' of
the old mill. It's the new hands you've been collecting from the
forests. We've grown by two thousand hands in the past year or so. And
they're so darn mixed I wouldn't fancy trying to sort 'em. They come
from all parts. The world's been talking revolution since ever these
buzzy-headed Muscovites reckoned to start in grabbing the world's goods
for themselves. Well, it's a hell of a long piece here to Labrador, but
it's found its way, and the mutton-brained fools who're supposed to play
around that shanty you handed 'em are recreating themselves talking
about it in there. Here, come right over to that window. It's open."
Perhaps Skert was enjoying himself. Certainly his mournful eyes were
less mournful as he led his chief over to the open window. Bat had had
his innings with him. He was planning the game and hitting hard in his
turn.
"The enemy of the world, of more particularly the worker is
the--CAPITALIST!"
The words were hurled from the platform of the recreation room at the
heads of the listening throng below and reached the open window just as
Lawton and his chief came up to it. There was applause following this
profound announcement, and Skert turned on his companion.
"Well?" he demanded, in a tone of biting triumph.
They had reached the window at the psychological moment. Nothing could
have suited his purpose better.
Bat turned away abruptly. It was as if some fierce emotion made it
impossible for him to remain another second. His heavy brows depressed,
and his deep-set eyes narrowed to gimlet holes. Skert pursued him. Once
clear of the window, and beyond earshot, Bat flung his reply with all
the passionate force of his fighting nature.
"The lousy swine!" he cried. "I'll close that place sure as--hell."
Skert shook his head as they walked on.
"No, you won't," he said. "Guess you aren't crazy. You'll talk this over
with Sternford. And when you've talked it some, you'll keep that place
running, and let them talk. It's best that way. But I've got tab of most
of the speakers, and I've located where they come from. Most of them
have sometime worked for the Skandinavia. Maybe that's the reason of
their talk. Maybe even Skandinavia's glad they're talking that way here
on Labrador. I don't know. But--well, I'll have to quit you here.
They're setting up the two big new machines, and it don't do leaving
them long. So long. Anything else you need to know about that recreation
room, why, I guess I can hand it to you."
* * * * *
Bull Sternford laid the telegram aside while a shadowy smile hovered
about his firm lips. Then he settled himself back in his chair, and gave
himself up to the thoughtful contemplation of the brilliant sunlight,
and the perfect, steely azure of the sky beyond the window opposite him.
The change in the man was almost magical. The hot-headed, determined,
fighting lumber-jack whom Father Adam had rescued from furious homicide
had hidden himself under something deeper than the veneer which the
modest suit of conventional life provides. It was the subtle change that
comes from within which had transformed him. It was in his eyes. In the
set of his jaws. It was in the man's whole poise. His resources of
spiritual power; his mental force; his virility of personality. All
these things were concentrated. They were no longer sprawling, groping,
seeking the great purpose of his life as they had been in the lumber
camp of the Skandinavia.
A feeling akin to triumph filled the man's heart as he gazed out upon
the pleasant light of Labrador's late summer day. In something like
twelve months he had thrust leagues along the road he meant to travel.
And his progress had been of a whirlwind nature. It had been work,
desperate, strenuous work. It had been the double labour of intensive
study combined with the necessary progress in the schemes laid down for
the future of Sachigo. It had only been possible to a man of his amazing
faculties, combined with the fact that Bat Harker and the mournful Skert
Lawton had left him free from the clogging detail of the mill
organisation and routine.
In twelve months he had crystallised the dreams and projects of his
predecessor in the chair he was now occupying. In twelve months he had
built up the shell of the great combination of groundwood and paper
mills which was to have such far-reaching effect upon the paper trade
of the world. And now, ahead of him was spread out the sea of finance
upon which he must next embark. He felt that already giant's work had
been done. But his yearning could never be satisfied by a mere measure
of completion. He must embrace it all, complete it all.
Already he seemed to have lived with bankers and financial specialists,
but he felt it was only the beginning of that which he had yet to do. He
was unappalled. He was more than confident. He had discovered unguessed
faculties for finance in himself. He had surprised himself as well as
those others with whom he had come in contact. They had discovered in
him all that which Father Adam had been so prompt to realise. They had
found in him a young, untrained mind, untrained in their own calling,
whose natural aptitude was amazing, and whose courage and confidence
were beyond words. But greatest of all was the perception he displayed.
They realised he never required the telling of more than half the story.
Intuition and inspiration completed it for him without the labour of
their words. The result of those twelve months was there for all to see.
The lumberman had been translated into a hard, fighting, business man.
The train of the man's thought was broken by the unceremonious entry of
Bat Harker. Bull turned. One swift glance into the grizzled face warned
him his associate's mood was by no means easy. He, like everyone who
came into contact with Bat, had learned to appreciate the volcanic fires
burning under the lumberman's exterior.
Bull promptly fended any storm that might possibly be brewing. He held
up his telegram and his eyes were smiling.
"The Skandinavia's on the move," he cried. And Bat recognised the battle
note in the tone.
"How?"
Bull flung the message across the desk.
"The Skandinavia's representative is arriving on the _Myra_," he said.
Then he added, "Elas Peterman says so."
"What for?"
Bat had picked up the message and stood reading it.
The other searched amongst his papers.
"I kind of forgot putting you wise before," he said. "There were two
letters came along a week back. One was from Elas Peterman, of the
Skandinavia folk, and the other from Father Adam. That message was
'phoned on from the headland. The letters didn't just concern a deal, so
I set 'em aside. This message is different."
For the moment the affairs down at the recreation room were forgotten,
and Bat contented himself with the interest of the moment.
"How?" he demanded again in his sharp way.
Bull laughed.
"Here," he cried, holding out the letters he had found. "I best pass you
these. That's from Peterman. There's not much written, but a deal lies
under the writing. You'll see he asks permission for a representative of
the Skandinavia to wait on us. I wirelessed back, 'I'd just love to
death meeting him.' By the same mail came Father Adam's yarn. An' I
guess that's where the soup thickens. He says some woman's coming along
from the Skandinavia folk. He guesses they're going to put up some
proposition that looks like butting in on the plans laid out for
Sachigo. But that don't seem to worry him a thing. I guess his letter
wasn't written to hand us warning. He seems concerned for the woman.
You'll see. He asks me to treat her gently. Firmly, yes. But also,
'very, very gently.' He says, 'you see, she's a woman'."
Bull waited while the other perused both letters. Then, as Bat looked up
questioningly, he went on:
"That telegram got here half an hour back," he said. Then he shrugged.
"The woman's on the _Myra_, and the vessel's been sighted off the
headland. She'll be along in two hours."
"And what're you doin' about it?"
Bat's eyes were searching. Perhaps Father Adam's letter had told him
something it had failed to tell the other.
"I'll see her right away," Bull laughed. "If she feels like stopping
around and getting a sight of the things we're doin' she's welcome. She
can put up at the visitor's house. It 'ud do me good for her to pass the
news on to the folk she comes from."
But Bat's manner had none of the light confidence of the other. Bitter
hatred of the Skandinavia was deeply ingrained in him. He shook his
head.
"Keep 'em guessin'," he said. "It'll worry 'em--that way."
Then he passed the letters back, and dropped into the chair that was
always his.
"But this woman," he went on, in obvious puzzlement. "It's--it's kind of
new, I guess. Then there's Father Adam's message. That don't hand us
much."
Bull's lightness passed.
"No," he said, "that message is queer. He knows about it. Yet he hasn't
given her name or said a thing. Say--I like that phrase though. What is
it? He says, 'treat her very, very gently--you see, she's a woman.'
That's Father Adam right thro'--sure. But--well it's a pity he don't say
more."
Bat nodded.
"You'll go along down an' meet her?"
"No." Bull shook his head decidedly. "You will."
Bat's eyes twinkled with a better humour than they had hitherto
displayed.
"Why--me?"
"She comes from the Skandinavia. Guess Skandinavia would fancy me
meeting their representative at the quay--quite a lot."
The argument met with Bat's entire approval. He pulled out a silver
timepiece and consulted it.
"That's all right," he said, "I'll quit you in ha'f an hour. Say--I'm
kind of guessin' there's other representatives of the Skandinavia
around. I didn't guess ther' was much to Sachigo that I wasn't wise to.
But that boy, Skert Lawton, showed me a play I hadn't a notion about.
It's that darn play shanty I set up for the boys. I feel that mad about
it I got a notion closing it right down. It worried me startin' it. It
worries me more now. You see, I guess it's come of me lappin' up the
ha'f-baked notions you find wrote in the news-sheets. Folks seem to be
guessin' the worker needs somethin' more than his wage. They guess he's
gotten some sort of queer soul needin' things he can't pay for. I allow
I hadn't seen it that way myself. It mostly seemed to me a hell of a
good wage and a full belly was mostly the need of a lumber-jack, and a
dead sure thing all he deserved. But I fell for the news-sheet dope, an'
set up that cursed recreation shanty. Now we're goin' to git trouble."
"How?"
Bull's ejaculation was sharp.
"They hold meetings there. They dope out Capital and Labour stuff there,
instead of pushing games at each other. Guess they got the bug of
politics an' are scratching themselves bad. It ain't the old Labrador
guys, Skert says. It's mostly new hands passin' their stuff on. Skert
reckons we got a whole heap of the Skandinavia 'throw-outs,' around here
now. That don't say Skandinavia's workin' monkey tricks. Though they
might be. You see, this sort of dope's been talked most everywhere,
except on Labrador, years now. I guess we need to go through the bunch
with a louse comb. But maybe the mischief's done. I'm dead crazy to
shut that darn place down."
"Don't!" Bull was emphatic. "Shut it down and you'll make it a thousand
times worse. No, sir. Let 'em shout. Let 'em blow off any old steam they
need. Just sit tight. If it's the usual hot air there's nothing much
coming of it up here on Labrador. There's this to remember. We're a
thousand miles of hell's own winter, and a pretty tough sea, from the
politicians who spend their lives befooling a crowd of unthinking
muttons. Pay 'em well, and feed 'em well, and they've the horse sense to
know there ain't no electric stoves out in the Labrador forests in
winter. That way we don't need to worry. If it's the Skandinavia tricks
it's different. They'll play the game to the finish. It don't signify a
curse if you close down the recreation shanty or not. We've got to meet
it as a competition, and fight it the way we'd fight any other."
Bat's eyes snapped.
"That's the kind of dope Skert Lawton's handed me," he protested.
"And Skert's a wise guy," came the prompt retort.
Quite suddenly Bat flung out his gnarled hands.
"Hell!" he cried violently. "Have we got to sit around like mush-men,
while the rats are chawin' our vitals. Fifteen or sixteen year I've
handled this lay-out without a growl I couldn't kick plumb out o' the
feller who made it. Now--now, because of a fool play I made, I've got to
set the kid gloves on my hands, sayin' 'thank you,' while the boys git
up and plug me between the eyes. No, sir. It ain't my way. It's me for
the shot gun in the stern of the gopher all the time. It's me to mush up
the features of any hoboe who don't know better than to grin when I'm
throwin' the hot air. I can't stand for the politics of labour where I
hand out the wage. A man's a man to me, not one darn slobber of policy.
I'm goin' to jump in on that talk. And when I'm thro'--"
"You'll get all the trouble in the world plumb on your neck." Bull's
fine eyes were alight with humour. He revelled in the fighting spirit of
the older man. "Here, Bat," he cried, "I'm a fool kid beside you. I
don't begin to know my job when I think of you. But I'm up sides with
all the politics games. Politics are ideals, notions. They haven't real
horse sense within a mile. They're just the fool thoughts of folk who
haven't better to do than sit around and think, and talk, an' see how
they can make other folk conform to the things they think. That's all
right. It's human nature in its biggest conceit, or it's another way of
helping themselves without pushing a shovel. It don't matter which it
is. But what I want to impress on you is, it's the biggest thing in
life. It's the whole thing in life. Get a notion and think it hard
enough, and talk it hard enough, and you'll hypnotise a hundred brains
bigger than your own, and sweep the crowd with you. You'll even
hypnotise yourself into believing the truth of a thing your better sense
knows isn't true, never was true, an' couldn't be true anyway. And when
you're fixed that way you'll die for your notion. Oh, a politician ain't
yearning for any old grave. He wouldn't get an audience there.
Politicians 'ud hate to die worse than a condemned man. But that's the
queer of it; he'd die rather than give up a notion he's built up. He'd
hate to death to push a blue pencil through it and--try again. All of
which means, bar the doors of this recreation room parliament, and
you'll start up a hundred such parliaments, and worse, throughout your
enterprise here on Labrador, and you'll finish by wrecking the whole
blessed concern."
If Bull looked for yielding he was disappointed. But he appreciated the
twinkle that had crept into the lumberman's stern eyes. The answer he
received was a curiously expressive grunt as the man took out his
timepiece and consulted it. When he saw him rise abruptly from his
chair, Bull felt that if his talk had not had the effect he desired it
had not been wholly wasted.
"Guess I'll git goin'," Bat said shortly. Then he glanced out of the
window, where he could plainly see the stream of the _Myra's_ smoke as
she came down the cove. "I'll bring your lady friend right up. Maybe
she'll fancy the dope, which I 'low you can hand out good an' plenty."
With this parting shot he hurried from the room, and Bull fancied he
detected the sound of a chuckle as the man departed.