Calumet 'K'. Webster Henry Kitchell

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СКАЧАТЬ it didn't take you long," said the magnate. "Find out what was the matter with 'em?"

      He enjoyed his well-earned reputation for choler, and as Bannon told him what he had discovered that morning, the old man paced the room in a regular beat, pausing every time he came to a certain tempting bit of blank wall to deal it a thump with his big fist. When the whole situation was made clear to him, he stopped walking and cursed the whole G. & M. system, from the ties up. "I'll make 'em smart for that," he said. "They haul those planks whether they want to or not. You hear me say it. There's a law that covers a case like that. I'll prosecute 'em. They'll see whether J. B. Sloan is a safe kind of man to monkey with. Why, man," he added, turning sharply to Bannon, "why don't you get mad? You don't seem to care – no more than the angel Gabriel."

      "I don't care a damn for the G. & M. I want the cribbing."

      "Don't you worry. I'll have the law on those fellows – "

      "And I'd get the stuff about five years from now, when I was likely enough dead."

      "What's the best way to get it, according to your idea?"

      "Take it over to Manistogee in wagons and then down by barges."

      Sloan snorted. "You'd stand a chance to get some of it by Fourth of July that way."

      "Do you want to bet on that proposition?"

      Sloan made no reply. He had allowed his wrath to boil for a few minutes merely as a luxury. Now he was thinking seriously of the scheme. "It sounds like moonshine," he said at last, "but I don't know as it is. How are you going to get your barges?"

      "I've got one already. It leaves Milwaukee to-night."

      Sloan looked him over. "I wish you were out of a job," he said. Then abruptly he went on: "Where are your wagons coming from? You haven't got them all lined up in the yard now, have you? It'll take a lot of them."

      "I know it. Well, we'll get all there are in Ledyard. There's a beginning. And the farmers round here ain't so very fond of the G. & M., are they? Don't they think the railroad discriminates against them – and ain't they right about it? I never saw a farmer yet that wouldn't grab a chance to get even with a railroad."

      "That's about right, in this part of the country, anyway."

      "You get up a regular circus poster saying what you think of the G. & M., and call on the farmers to hitch up and drive to your lumber yard. We'll stick that up at every crossroads between here and Manistogee."

      Sloan was scribbling on a memorandum pad before Bannon had finished speaking. He made a false start or two, but presently got something that seemed to please him. He rang for his office boy, and told him to take it to the Eagle office.

      "It's got to be done in an hour," said Bannon. "That's when the procession moves," he added; as Sloan looked at him questioningly.

      The other nodded. "In an hour," he said to the office boy. "What are you going to do in an hour?" he asked, as the boy went out.

      "Why, it'll be four o'clock then, and we ought to start for Manistogee as early as we can."

      "We! Well, I should think not!" said Sloan.

      "You're going to drive me over with that fast mare of yours, aren't you?"

      Sloan laughed. "Look at it rain out there."

      "Best thing in the world for a sand road," said Bannon. "And we'll wash, I guess. Both been wet before."

      "But it's twenty-five miles over there – twenty-five to thirty."

      Bannon looked at his watch. "We ought to get there by ten o'clock, I should think."

      "Ten o'clock! What do you think she is – a sawhorse! She never took more than two hours to Manistogee in her life."

      The corners of Bannon's mouth twitched expressively. Sloan laughed again. "I guess it's up to me this time," he said.

      Before they started Sloan telephoned to the Eagle office to tell them to print a full-sized reproduction of his poster on the front page of the Ledyard Evening Eagle.

      "Crowd their news a little, won't it?" Bannon asked.

      Sloan shook his head. "That helps 'em out in great shape."

      The Eagle did not keep them waiting. The moment Sloan pulled up his impatient mare before the office door, the editor ran out, bare-headed, in the rain, with the posters.

      "They're pretty wet yet," he said.

      "That's all right. I only want a handful. Send the others to my office. They know what to do with 'em."

      "I was glad to print them," the editor went on deferentially. "You have expressed our opinion of the G. & M. exactly."

      "Guess I did," said Sloan as they drove away. "The reorganized G. & M. decided they didn't want to carry him around the country on a pass."

      Bannon pulled out one of the sheets and opened it on his knee. He whistled as he read the first sentence, and swore appreciatively over the next. When he had finished, he buttoned the waterproof apron and rubbed his wet hands over his knees. "It's grand," he said. "I never saw anything like it."

      Sloan spoke to the mare. He had held her back as they jolted over the worn pavement of cedar blocks, but now they had reached the city limits and were starting out upon the rain-beaten sand. She was a tall, clean-limbed sorrel, a Kentucky-bred Morgan, and as she settled into her stride, Bannon watched her admiringly. Her wet flanks had the dull sheen of bronze.

      "Don't tell me," said Sloan, "that Michigan roads are no good for driving. You never had anything finer than this in your life." They sped along as on velvet, noiselessly save when their wheels sliced through standing pools of water. "She can keep this up till further notice, I suppose," said Bannon. Sloan nodded.

      Soon they reached the first crossroad. There was a general store at one corner, and, opposite, a blacksmith's shop. Sloan pulled up and Bannon sprang out with a hammer, a mouthful of tacks, and three or four of the posters. He put them up on the sheltered side of conspicuous trees, left one with the storekeeper, and another with the smith. Then they drove on.

      They made no pretence at conversation. Bannon seemed asleep save that he was always ready with his hammer and his posters whenever Sloan halted the mare. The west wind freshened as the evening came on and dashed fine, sleety rain into their faces. Bannon huddled his wet coat closer about him. Sloan put the reins between his knees and pulled on a pair of heavy gloves.

      It had been dark for half an hour – Bannon could hardly distinguish the moving figure of the mare – when Sloan spoke to her and drew her to a walk. Bannon reached for his hammer. "No crossroad here," said Sloan. "Bridge out of repair. We've got to fetch a circle here up to where she can wade it."

      "Hold on," said Bannon sharply. "Let me get out."

      "Don't be scared. We'll make it all right."

      "We! Yes, but will fifteen hundred feet of lumber make it? I want to take a look."

      He splashed forward in the dark, but soon returned. "It's nothing that can't be fixed in two hours. Where's the nearest farmhouse?"

      "Fifty rods up the road to your right."

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