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*Admire Your Handiwork!” She Told Him. “You are Rapidly
Bringing Me to ‘Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil.”


T H E R IV E R M A N
BY
STEwART EDWARD WHITE

º :
O
%
ILLUSTRATIONS BY N. C. WYETH AND
CLARENCE F, UNDERWOOD
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.
MCMIX
Copyright, 1908, by The McClure Company
Copyright, 1907, 1908, by Stewart Edward White
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“Admire Your Handiwork!” She Told Him. “You are
Rapidly Bringing Me to ‘Tell the Truth and Shame
the Devil.’” Frontispiece
Several Bad Jams Relieved the Monotony. º:
The Doctor. 4 56
“I Say, Orde, I Want to Apologize to You.” 68
“I’d Like to See You Get Any Three Men to Agree to
Anything on This River.” 76
She Came to Him and for a Moment Hid Her Face
Against His Breast. I84
And Looked Out Beyond the Tumbled Shore Ice to the
Steel-Gray Angry Waters. I92
Leaned Against Their Peavies and Were Swept Away
by the Swift Current. I98
“And How Are Ye, Ye Ould Darlint?” 206
Quite Oblivious to the Keen Wind. 298
He Fell Upon the Woods Work with Unparalleled
Ferocity. 3O2
V
vi LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
After Them Wafted the Rather Disorganised Strains of
“Whoa, Emmal” . 316
His Eyes Burned Bright as Though from Some Internal
Fire 348
“I’m Going to Give You About the Worst Licking You
Ever Heard Tell Of '' 364
THE RIVERMAN
I
Tº: time was the year 1872, and the place a bend
in the river above a long pond terminating in a
dam. Beyond this dam, and on a flat lower than
it, stood a two-story mill structure. Save for a small, stump-
dotted clearing, and the road that led from it, all else was
forest. Here in the bottom-lands, following the course of
the stream, the hardwoods grew dense, their uppermost
branches just beginning to spray out in the first green of
spring. Farther back, where the higher lands arose from
the swamp, could be discerned the graceful frond of white
pines and hemlock, and the sturdy tops of Norways and
spruce.
A strong wind blew up the length of the pond. It ruf-
fled the surface of the water, swooping down in fan-shaped,
scurrying cat's-paws, turning the dark-blue surface as one
turns the nap of velvet. At the upper end of the pond it
even succeeded in raising quite respectable wavelets, which
lap lap lapped eagerly against a barrier of floating logs
that filled completely the mouth of the inlet river. And
behind this barrier were other logs, and yet others, as far
as the eye could see, so that the entire surface of the stream
was carpeted by the brown timbers. A man could have
walked down the middle of that river as down a highway.
On the bank, and in a small woods-opening, burned two
fires, their smoke ducking and twisting under the buffeting
of the wind. The first of these fires occupied a shallow
trench dug for its accommodation, and was overarched by
a rustic framework from which hung several pails, kettles,
3
4. THE RIVERMAN
and pots. An injured-looking, chubby man in a battered
brown derby hat moved here and there. He divided his
time between the utensils and an indifferent youth—his
“cookee.” The other, and larger, fire centred a rectangle
composed of tall racks, built of saplings and intended for the
drying of clothes. Two large tents gleamed white among the
treeS.
About the drying-fire were gathered thirty-odd men.
Some were half-reclining before the blaze; others sat in
rows on logs drawn close for the purpose; still others
squatted like Indians on their heels, their hands thrown
forward to keep the balance. Nearly all were smoking
pipes.
Every age was represented in this group, but young men
predominated. All wore woollen trousers stuffed into leather
boots reaching just to the knee. These boots were armed
on the soles with rows of formidable sharp spikes or caulks,
a half and sometimes even three quarters of an inch in
length. The tight driver's shoe and “stagged ” trousers
had not then come into use. From the waist down these
men wore all alike, as though in a uniform, the outward
symbol of their calling. From the waist up was more lati-
tude of personal taste. One young fellow sported a bright-
coloured Mackinaw blanket jacket; another wore a red knit
sash, with tasselled ends; a third’s fancy ran to a bright
bandana about his neck. Head-gear, too, covered wide vari-
ations of broader or narrower brim, of higher or lower
crown; and the faces beneath those hats differed as every-
where the human countenance differs. Only when the in-
spection, passing the gradations of broad or narrow, thick
or thin, bony or rounded, rested finally on the eyes, would
the observer have caught again the caste-mark which
stamped these men as belonging to a distinct order, and
separated them essentially from other men in other occu-
pations. Blue and brown and black and gray these eyes
THE RIVERMAN 5
were, but all steady and clear with the steadiness and clar-
ity that comes to those whose daily work compels them
under penalty to pay close and undeviating attention to
their surroundings. This is true of sailors, hunters, plains-
men, cowboys, and tugboat captains. It was especially true
of the old-fashioned river-driver, for a misstep, a miscalcu-
lation, a moment's forgetfulness of the sullen forces shifting
and changing about him could mean for him maiming or
destruction. So, finally, to one of an imaginative bent, these
eyes, like the “cork boots,” grew to seem part of the uni-
form, one of the marks of their caste, the outward symbol
of their calling.
“Blow, you son of a gun l’’ cried disgustedly one young
fellow with a red bandana, apostrophising the wind. “I
wonder if there's any side of this fire that ain’t smoky!”
“Keep your hair on, bub,” advised a calm and grizzled
old-timer. “There’s never no smoke on the other side of
the fire—whichever that happens to be. And as for wind
—she just makes holiday for the river-hogs.”
“Holiday, hell!” snorted the younger man. “We ought
to be down to Bull's Dam before now 5 y
“And Bull's Dam is half-way to Redding,” mocked a
reptilian and red-headed giant on the log, “ and Redding
is the happy childhood home of 33
The young man leaped to his feet and seized from a
pile of tools a peavy—a dangerous weapon, like a heavy
cant-hook, but armed at the end with a sharp steel shoe.
“That’s about enough l’ he warned, raising his weapon,
his face suffused and angry. The red-headed man, quite
unafraid, rose slowly from the log and advanced, bare-
handed, his small eyes narrowed and watchful.
But immediately a dozen men interfered.
“Dry up!” advised the grizzled old-timer—Tom North
by name. “You, Purdy, set down; and you, young squirt,
subside | If you’re going to have ructions, why, have 'em,
6 THE RIVERMAN
but not on drive. If you don’t look out, I’ll set you both
to rustling wood for the doctor.”
At this threat the belligerents dropped muttering to their
places. The wind continued to blow, the fire continued to
flare up and down, the men continued to smoke, exchang-
ing from time to time desultory and aimless remarks. Only
Tom North carried on a consecutive, low-voiced conver-
sation with another of about his own age.
“Just the same, Jim,” he was saying, “it is a little
tough on the boys—this new sluice-gate business. They’ve
been sort of expectin’ a chance for a day or two at Red-
ding, and now, if this son of a gun of a wind hangs out,
I don’t know when we'll make her. The shallows at Bull's
was always bad enough, but this is worse.”
“Yes, I expected to pick you up 'way below,” admitted
Jim, whose “turkey,” or clothes-bag, at his side proclaimed
him a newcomer. “Had quite a tramp to find you.”
“This stretch of slack water was always a terror,” went
on North, “and we had fairly to pike-pole every stick
through when the wind blew ; but now that dam's backed
the water up until there reely ain't no current at all. And
this breeze has just stopped the drive dead as a smelt.”
“Don’t opening the sluice-gates give her a draw P” in-
quired the newcomer.
“Not against this wind—and not much of a draw, any-
way, I should guess.”
“How long you been hung?”
“Just to-day. I expect Jack will be down from the rear
shortly. Ought to see something's wrong when he runs
against the tail of this jam of ours.”
At this moment the lugubrious, round-faced man in the
derby hat stepped aside from the row of steaming utensils
he had been arranging.
“Grub pile,” he remarked in a conversational tone of
VO1CC.
THE RIVERMAN 7
The group arose as one man and moved upon the heap
of cutlery and of tin plates and cups. From the open fifty-
pound lard pails and kettles they helped themselves liber-
ally; then retired to squat in little groups here and there
near the sources of supply. Mere conversation yielded to
an industrious silence. Sadly the cook surveyed the scene,
his arms folded across the dirty white apron, an immense
mental reservation accenting the melancholy of his coun-
tenance. After some moments of contemplation he mixed
a fizzling concoction of vinegar and soda, which he drank.
His rotundity to the contrary notwithstanding, he was
ravaged by a gnawing dyspepsia, and the sight of six eggs
eaten as a side dish to substantials carried consternation
to his interior.
So busily engaged was each after his own fashion that
nobody observed the approach of a solitary figure down
the highway of the river. The man appeared tiny around
the upper bend, momently growing larger as he approached.
His progress was jerky and on an uneven zigzag, accord-
ing as the logs lay, by leaps, short runs, brief pauses, as a
riverman goes. Finally he stepped ashore just below the
camp, stamped his feet vigorously free of water, and ap-
proached the group around the cooking-fire.
No one saw him save the cook, who vouchsafed him a
stately and lugubrious inclination of the head.
The newcomer was a man somewhere about thirty years
of age, squarely built, big of bone, compact in bulk. His
face was burly, jolly, and reddened rather than tanned by
long exposure. A pair of twinkling blue eyes and a humor-
ously quirked mouth redeemed his countenance from com-
monplaceness.
He spread his feet apart and surveyed the scene.
“Well, boys,” he remarked at last in a rollicking big
voice, “I’m glad to see the situation hasn’t spoiled your
appetites.”
8 THE RIVERMAN
At this they looked up with a spontaneous answering
grin. Tom North laid aside his plate and started to arise.
“Sit still, Tom,” interposed the newcomer. “Eat hearty.
I’m going to feed yet myself. Then we'll see what's to be
done. I think first thing you’d better see to having this
wind turned off.”
After the meal was finished, North and his principal
sauntered to the water's edge, where they stood for a
minute looking at the logs and the ruffled expanse of water
below.
“Might as well have sails on them and be done with it,”
remarked Jack Orde reflectively. “Couldn't hold 'em any
tighter. It's a pity that old mossback had to put in a mill.
The water was slack enough before, but now there seems
to be no current at all.” -
“Case of wait for the wind,” agreed Tom North. “Old
Daly will be red-headed. He must be about out of logs
at the mill. The flood-water's going down every minute,
and it'll make the riffles above Redding a holy fright. And
I expect Johnson's drive will be down on our rear most any
time.”
“It’s there already. Let's go take a look,” suggested
Orde.
They picked their way around the edge of the pond to
the site of the new mill.
“Sluice open all right,” commented Orde. “Thought she
might be closed.”
“I saw to that,” rejoined North in an injured tone.
“’Course,” agreed Orde, “but he might have dropped
her shut on you between times, when you weren't looking.”
He walked out on the structure and looked down on the
smooth water rushing through.
“Ought to make a draw,” he reflected. Then he laughed.
“Tom, look here,” he called. “Climb down and take a
squint at this.”
THE RIVERMAN 9
North clambered to a position below.
“The son of a gun l’’ he exclaimed. -
The sluice, instead of bedding at the natural channel of
the river, had been built a good six feet above that level;
so that, even with the gates wide open, a “head " of six
feet was retained in the slack water of the pond.
“No wonder we couldn’t get a draw,” said Orde. “Let’s
hunt up old What's-his-name and have a pow-wow.”
“His name is plain Reed,” explained North. “There he
comes now.”
“Sainted cats!” cried Orde, with one of his big, rollick-
ing chuckles. “Where did you catch it?”
The owner of the dam flapped into view as a lank and
lengthy individual dressed in loose, long clothes and wear-
ing a-top a battered old “plug" hat, the nap of which
seemed all to have been rubbed off the wrong way.
As he bore down on the intruders with tremendous,
nervous strides, they perceived him to be an old man,
white of hair, cadaverous of countenance, with thin, straight
lips, and burning, fanatic eyes beneath stiff and bushy brows.
“Good-morning, Mr. Reed,” shouted Orde above the
noise of the water.
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” replied the apparition.
“Nice dam you got here,” went on Orde.
Reed nodded, his fiery eyes fixed unblinking on the
riverman. -
“But you haven't been quite square to us,” said Orde.
“You aren’t giving us much show to get our logs out.”
“How so?” snapped the owner, his thin lips tightening.
“Oh, I guess you know, all right,” laughed Orde, clam-
bering leisurely back to the top of the dam. “That sluice
is a good six foot too high.”
“Is that sol” cried the old man, plunging suddenly into
a craze of excitement. “Well, let me tell you this, Mr.
Man, I’m giving you all the law gives you, and that's the
1 O THE RIVERMAN
natural flow of the river, and not a thing more will you
get ! You that comes to waste and destroy, to arrogate
unto yourselves the kingdoms of the yearth and all the
fruits thereof, let me tell you you can't override Simeon
Reed' I'm engaged here in a peaceful and fittin' operation,
which is to feed the hungry by means of this grist-mill,
not to rampage and bring destruction to the noble forests
God has planted ! I’ve give you what the law gives you,
and nothin’ more | * -
Somewhat astonished at this outbreak, the two rivermen
stood for a moment staring at the old man. Then a steely
glint crept into Orde's frank blue eye and the corners of
his mouth tightened.
“We want no trouble with you, Mr. Reed,” said he,
“and I’m no lawyer to know what the law requires you
to do and what it requires you not to do. But I do know
that this is the only dam on the river with sluices built up
that way, and I do know that we’ll never get those logs
out if we don’t get more draw on the water. Good-day.”
Followed by the reluctant North he walked away, leaving
the gaunt figure of the dam owner gazing after them, his
black garments flapping about him, his hands clasped be-
hind his back, his ruffled plug hat thrust from his fore-
head.
“Well!” burst out North, when they were out of hear-
1ng.
“Well!” mimicked Orde with a laugh.
“Are you going to let that old high-banker walk all
over you?”
“What are you going to do about it, Tom ? It's his
dam.”
“I don't know. But you ain't going to let him hang
us up here all summer 5 y
“Sure not. But the wind's shifting. Let's see what the
weather's like to-morrow. To-day’s pretty late.”
II
HE next morning dawned clear and breathless. Be-
| fore daylight the pessimistic cook was out, his fire
winking bravely against the darkness. His only sat-
isfaction of the long day came when he aroused the men
from the heavy sleep into which daily toil plunged them.
With the first light the entire crew were at the banks of the
T1Wer.
As soon as the wind died the logs had begun to drift
slowly out into the open water. The surface of the pond
was covered with the scattered timbers floating idly. After
a few moments the clank of the bars and ratchet was heard
as two of the men raised the heavy sluice-gate on the dam.
A roar of water, momently increasing, marked the slow
rise of the barrier. A very imaginative man might then
have made out a tendency forward on the part of those
timbers floating nearest the centre of the pond. It was a
very sluggish tendency, however, and the men watching
critically shook their heads.
Four more had by this time joined the two men who had
raised the gate, and all together, armed with long pike
poles, walked out on the funnel-shaped booms that should
concentrate the logs into the chute. Here they prodded
forward the few timbers within reach, and waited for
11101 e.
These were a long time coming. Members of the driving
crew leaped shouting from one log to another. Sometimes,
when the space across was too wide to jump, they pro-
pelled a log over either by rolling it, paddling it, or project-
M.
* ~
I 2 THE RIVERMAN
ing it by the shock of a leap on one end. In accomplishing
these feats of tight-rope balance, they stood upright and
graceful, quite unconscious of themselves, their bodies ac-
customed by long habit to nice and instant obedience to
the almost unconscious impulses of the brain. Only their
eyes, intent, preoccupied, blazed out by sheer will-power
the unstable path their owners should follow. Once at the
forefront of the drive, the men began vigorously to urge
the logs forward. This they accomplished almost entire-
ly by main strength, for the sluggish current gave them
little aid. Under the pressure of their feet as they pushed
against their implements, the logs dipped, rolled, and
plunged. Nevertheless, they worked as surely from the
decks of these unstable craft as from the solid earth
itself.
In this manner the logs in the centre of the pond were
urged forward until, above the chute, they caught the
slightly accelerated current which should bring them down
to the pike-pole men at the dam. Immediately, when this
stronger influence was felt, the drivers zigzagged back up
stream to start a fresh batch. In the meantime a great many
logs drifted away to right and left into stagnant water,
where they lay absolutely motionless. The moving of them
was deferred for the “sacking crew,” which would bring
up the rear.
Jack Orde wandered back and forth over the work, his
hands clasped behind his back, a short pipe clenched be-
tween his teeth. To the edge of the drive he rode the
logs, then took to the bank and strolled down to the dam.
There he stood for a moment gazing aimlessly at the
water making over the apron, after which he returned to
the work. No cloud obscured the serene good-nature of
his face. Meeting Tom North’s troubled glance, he grinned
broadly.
“Told you we’d have Johnson on our necks,” he re-
r
THE RIVERMAN I3
marked, jerking his thumb up river toward a rapidly ap-
proaching figure.
This soon defined itself as a tall, sun-reddened, very
blond individual with a choleric blue eye.
“What in hell's the matter here?” he yelled, as soon
as he came within hearing distance.
Orde made no reply, but stood contemplating the new-
comer with a flicker of amusement.
“What in hell's the matter?” repeated the latter vio-
lently.
“Better go there and inquire,” rejoined Orde drolly.
“What ails you, Johnson P”
“We’re right at your rear,” cried the other, “and you
ain't even made a start gettin' through this dam | We'll
lose the water next | Why in hell ain't you through and
gone?” .
“Keep your shirt on,” advised Orde. “We’re getting
through as fast as we can. If you want these logs pushed
any faster, come down and do it yourself.”
Johnson vouchsafed no reply, but splashed away over the
logs, examining in detail the progress of the work. After
a little he returned within hailing distance.
“If you can’t get out logs, why do you take the job?”
he roared, with a string of oaths. “If you hang my drive,
damn you, you’ll catch it for damages | It's gettin' to a
purty pass when any old highbanker from anywheres can
get out and play jackstraws holdin' up every drive in the
river! I tell you our mills need logs, and what's more
they’re agoin’ to git them l’”
He departed in a rumble of vituperation.
Orde laughed humorously at his foreman.
“Johnson gets so mad sometimes, his skin cracks,” he
remarked. “However,” he went on more seriously, “there's
a heap in what he means, if there ain't so much in what
he says. I’ll go labour with our old friend below.”
&
14. THE RIVERMAN
He regained the bank, stopped to light his pipe, and
sauntered, with every appearance of leisure, down the bank,
past the dam, to the mill structure below.
Here he found the owner occupying a chair tilted back
against the wall of the building. His ruffled plug hat was
thrust, as usual, well away from his high and narrow
forehead; the long broadcloth coat fell back to reveal an
unbuttoned waistcoat; the flapping black trousers were
hitched up far enough to display woollen socks wrinkled
about bony shanks. He was whittling a pine stick, which
he held pointing down between his spread knees, and con-
versing animatedly with a young fellow occupying another
chair at his side. -
“And there comes one of 'em now,” declaimed the old
man dramatically. -
Orde nodded briefly to the stranger, and came at once
to business.
“I want to talk this matter over with you,” he be-
gan. “We aren’t making much progress. We can't
afford to hang up the drive, and the water is going
down every day. We’ve got to have more water. I’ll tell
you what we'll do: If you'll let us cut down the new sill,
we'll replace it in good shape when we get all our logs
through.”
“No, sir!” promptly vetoed the old man.
“Well, we'll give you something for the privilege. What
do you think is fair?”
“I tell ye I’ll give you your legal rights, and not a
cent more,” replied the old man, still quietly, but with
quivering nostrils.
“What is your name?” asked Orde.
“My name is Reed, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Reed, stop and think what this means. It's
a more serious matter than you think. In a little while the
water will be so low in the river that it will be impossible
THE RIVERMAN 15
to take out the logs this year. That means a large loss, of
course, as you know.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about the pesky business, and I
don’t wan to,” snorted Reed.
“Well, there's borers, for one thing, to spoil a good
many of the logs. And think what it will mean to the
mills. No logs means no lumber. That is bankruptcy for
a good lany who have contracts to fulfil. And no logs
means the mills must close. Thousands of men will be
thrown out of their jobs, and a good many of them will
go hungry. And with the stream full of the old cutting,
that means less to do next winter in the woods—more men
throw 1 out. Getting out a season's cut with the flood-water
is a pretty serious matter to a great many people, and if
you insist on holding us up here in this slack water the
situation will soon become alarming.”
“Ye finished P” demanded Reed grimly.
“Yes,” replied Orde. -
The old man cast from him his half-whittled piece of
pine. He closed his jack-knife with a snap and thrust it
in his pocket. He brought to earth the front legs of his
chair with a thump, and jammed his ruffled plug hat to
*ts proper place.
“And if the whole kit and kaboodle of ye starved out-
right,” said he, “it would but be the fulfillin' of the word
of the prophet who says, “So will I send upon you famine
and evil beasts, and they shall bereave thee, and pestilence
and blood shall pass through thee; and I will bring the
sword upon thee. I the Lord have spoken it!’”
“That’s your last word?” inquired Orde.
“That's my last word, and my first. Ye that make of
God’s smilin’ land waste places and a wilderness, by your
own folly shall ye perish.”
“Good-day,” said Orde, whirling on his heel without
further argument.
16 THE RIVERMAN
The young man, who had during this colloquy sat an
interested and silent spectator, arose and joined him. Orde
looked at his new companion a little curiously. He was a
very slender young man, taut-muscled, taut-nerved, but
impassive in demeanour. He possessed a shrewd, thin face,
steel-gray, inscrutable eyes behind glasses. His costume was
quite simply an old gray suit of business clothes and a gray
felt hat. At the moment he held in his mouth an unlighted
and badly chewed cigar.
“Nice, amiable old party,” volunteered Orde with a
chuckle.
“Seems to be,” agreed the young man drily. .
“Well, I reckon we'll just have to worry along without
him,” remarked Orde, striking his steel caulks into the first
log and preparing to cross out into the river where the
work was going on.
“Wait a minute,” said the young fellow. “Have you
any objections to my hanging around a little to watch the
work? My name is Newmark—Joseph Newmark. I'm out
in this country a good deal for my health. This thing
interests me.”
“Sure,” replied Orde, puzzled. “Look all you want to.
The scenery's free.”
“Yes. But can you put me up? Can I get a chance to
stay with you a little while?” -
“Oh, as far as I’m concerned,” agreed Orde heartily.
“But,” he supplemented with one of his contagious
chuckles, “I’m only river-boss. You’ll have to fix it up
with the doctor—the cook, I mean,” he explained, as New-
mark look puzzled. “You’ll find him at camp up behind
that brush. He’s a slim, handsome fellow, with a jolly
expression of countenance.”
He leaped lightly out over the bobbing timbers, leaving
Newmark to find his way. -
In the centre of the stream the work had been gradually
y
THE RIVERMAN 17
slowing down to a standstill with the subsidence of the
first rush of water after the sluice-gate was opened. Tom
North, leaning gracefully against the shaft of a peavy,
looked up eagerly as his principal approached.
“Well, Jack,” he inquired, “is it to be peace or war?”
“War,” replied Orde briefly. -
III
T this moment the cook stepped into view, and,
A. making a trumpet of his two hands, sent across
the water a long, weird, and not unmusical cry.
The men at once began slowly to drift in the direction of
the camp. There, when the tin plates had all been filled,
and each had found a place to his liking, Orde addressed
them. His manner was casual and conversational.
“Boys,” said he, “the old mossback who owns that
dam has come up here loaded to scatter. He's built up
the sill of that gate until we can’t get a draw on the water,
and he refuses to give, lend, or sell us the right to cut her
out. I’ve made him every reasonable proposition, but all
I get back is quotations from the prophets. Now, we've
got to get those logs out—that's what we’re here for. A
fine bunch of whitewater birlers we'd look if we got hung
up by an old mossback in a plug hat. Johnny Sims, what's
the answer?”
“Cut her out,” grinned Johnny Sims briefly.
“Correct!” replied Orde with a chuckle. “Cut her out.
But, my son, it’s against the law to interfere with another
man's property.”
This was so obviously humourous in intent that its only
reception consisted of more grins from everybody.
“But,” went on Orde more seriously, “it’s quite a job.
We can’t work more than six or eight men at it at a time.
We got to work as fast as we can before the old man can
interfere.”
“The nearest sheriff's at Spruce Rapids,” commented
some one philosophically.
18
THE RIVERMAN I9
“We have sixty men, all told,” said Orde. “We ought
to be able to carry it through.”
He filled his plate and walked across to a vacant place.
Here he found himself next to Newmark.
“Hello!” he greeted that young man, “fixed it with the
doctor all right?”
“Yes,” replied Newmark, in his brief, dry manner,
“thanks! I think I ought to tell you that the sheriff is
not at Spruce Rapids, but at the village—expecting trouble.”
Orde whistled, then broke into a roar of delight.
“Boys,” he called, “old Plug Hat's got the sheriff right
handy. I guess he sort of expected we’d be thinking of
cutting through that dam. How’d you like to go to jail?”
“I’d like to see any sheriff take us to jail, unless he had
an army with him,” growled one of the river-jacks.
“Has he a posse?” inquired Orde of Newmark.
“I didn’t see any; but I understood in the village that
the governor had been advised to hold State troops in
readiness for trouble.”
Orde fell into a brown study, eating mechanically. The
men began an eager and somewhat truculent discussion full
of lawless and bloodthirsty suggestion. Some suggested the
kidnapping and sequestration of Reed until the affair should
be finished.
“How'd he get hold of his old sheriff, then?” they in-
quired with some pertinence.
Orde, however, paid no attention to all this talk, but
continued to frown into space. At last his face cleared,
and he slapped down his tin plate so violently that the
knife and fork jumped off into the dirt. +.
“I have it!” he cried aloud.
But he would not tell what he had. After the noon hour
he instructed a half-dozen men to provide themselves with
saws, axes, picks, and shovels, and all marched in the
direction of the mill.
2O THE RIVERMAN
When within a hundred yards or so of that structure
the advancing riverman saw the lank, black figure of the
mill owner flap into sight, astride a bony old horse, and
clatter away, coat-tails flying, up the road and into the
waiting forest.
“Now, boys!” cried Orde crisply. “He’ll be back in an
hour with the sheriff. Lively l’” He rapidly designated ten
men of his crew. “You boys get to work and make things
hum. Get as much done as you can before the sheriff
comes.” *
“He’ll have to bring all of Spruce County to get me,”
commented one of those chosen, spitting on his hands.
“Me, too ! ” said others.
“Now, listen,” said Orde, holding them with an im-
pressive gesture. “When that sheriff comes, with or with-
out a posse, I want you to go peaceably. Understand?”
“Cave in? Not much l’’ cried Purdy.
“See here,” and Orde drew them aside to an earnest,
low-voiced conversation that lasted several minutes. When
he had finished he clapped each of them on the back, and
all moved off, laughing, to the dam. -
“Now, boys,” he commanded the others, “no row with-
out orders. Understand? If there's going to be a fight, I’ll
give you the word when.”
The chopping crew descended to the bottom of the sluice,
the gate of which had been shut, and began immediately
to chop away at the apron. As the water in the pond
above had been drawn low by the morning's work, none
overflowed the gate, so the men were enabled to work
dry. Below the apron, of course, had been filled in with
earth and stones. As soon as the axe-men had effected an
entry to this deposit, other men with shovels and picks
began to remove the filling. .
The work had continued nearly an hour when Orde
commanded the fifty or more idlers back to camp.
THE RIVERMAN 21
“Get out, boys,” he ordered. “The sheriff will be here
pretty quick now, and I don't want any row. Get out of
sight.”
“And leave them to fight her out alone? Guess not!”
grumbled a tall, burly individual with a red face.
Orde immediately walked directly to this man.
“Am I bossing this drive, or am I not?” he demanded.
The riverman growled something.
Smack 1 Smack 1 sounded Orde's fists. The man, taken
by surprise, went down in a heap, but immediately re-
bounded to his feet as though made of rubber. But Orde
had seized a peavy, and stood over against his antagonist,
the murderous weapon upraised.
“Lie down, you hound, or I’ll brain you!” he roared at
the top strength of his great voice. “Want fight, do you?
Well, you won't have to wait till the sheriff gets here!
You make a move l’’
For a full half minute the man crouched breathless,
and Orde, his ruddy face congested, held his threaten-
ing attitude. Then he dropped his peavy and stepped
aside. -
“March 1” he commanded. “Get your turkey and hit
the hay trail. You'll get your time at Redding.”
The man sullenly arose and slouched away, grumbling
under his breath. Orde watched him from sight, then turned
to the silent group, a new crispness in his manner.
“Well?” he demanded.
Hesitating, they turned to the river trail, leaving the ten
still working at the sluice. When well within the fringe
of the brush, Orde called a halt. His customary good-
humour seemed quite restored.
“Now, boys,” he commanded, “squat down and lay low.
You give me an ache! Don't you suppose I got this thing
all figured out? If fight would do any good, you know
mighty well I’d fight. And the boys won't be in jail any
22 THE RIVERMAN
longer than it takes to get a wire to Daly to bail them out.
Smoke up, and don't bother.”
They filled their pipes and settled down to an enjoyment
of the situation. Ordinarily from very early in the morning
until very late at night the riverman is busy every instant
at his dangerous and absorbing work. Those affairs which
do not immediately concern his task—as the swiftness of
rapids, the state of flood, the curves of streams, the height
of water, the obstructions of channels, the quantities of
logs—pass by the outer fringe of his consciousness, if in-
deed they reach him at all. Thus, often he works all day
up to his waist in a current bearing the rotten ice of the
first break-up, or endures the drenching of an early spring
rain, or battles the rigours of a belated snow with apparent
indifference. You or I would be exceedingly uncomfortable;
would require an effort of fortitude to make the plunge.
Yet these men, absorbed in the mighty problems of their
task, have little attention to spare to such things. The cold,
the wet, the discomfort, the hunger, the weariness, all pass
as shadows on the background. In like manner the softer
moods of the spring rarely penetrate through the concen-
tration of faculties on the work. The warm sun shines;
the birds by thousands flutter and twitter and sing their
way north; the delicate green of spring, showered from the
hand of the passing Sower, sprinkles the tops of the trees,
and gradually sifts down through the branches; the great,
beautiful silver clouds sail down the horizon like ships of
a statelier age, as totally without actual existence to these
men. The logs, the river—those are enough to strain all
the faculties a man possesses, and more.
So when, as now, a chance combination of circumstances
brings them leisure to look about them, the forest and the
world of out-of-doors comes to them with a freshness im-
possible for the city dweller to realise. The surroundings
are accustomed, but they bring new messages. To most of
THE RIVERMAN 23
them, these impressions never reach the point of coherency.
They brood, and muse, and expand in the actual and fig-
urative warmth, and proffer the general opinion that it is
a damn fine day !
Another full half hour elapsed before the situation de-
veloped further. Then Tom North's friend Jim, who had
gathered his long figure on the top of a stump, unclasped
his knees and remarked that old Plug Hat was back.
The men arose to their feet and peered cautiously through
the brush. They saw Reed, accompanied by a thick-set man
whom some recognised as the sheriff of the county, ap-
proach the edge of the dam. A moment later the working
crew mounted to the top, stacked their tools neatly, resumed
their coats and jackets, and departed up the road in convoy
of the sheriff.
A gasp of astonishment broke from the concealed river-
111611.
“Well, I’ll be damned l’’ ejaculated one. “What are we
comin’ to ? That’s the first time I ever see one lonesome
sheriff gather in ten river-hogs without the aid of a gatlin'
or an ambulancel What's the matter with that chicken-
livered bunch, anyway?”
Orde watched them, his eyes expressionless, until they
had disappeared in the fringe of the forest. Then he turned
to the astonished group.
“Jim,” said he, “and you, Ellis, and you, and you, and
you, and you, get to work on that dam. And remember this,
if you are arrested, go peaceably. Any resistance will spoil
the whole game.”
The men broke into mingled cheers and laughter as the
full significance of Orde's plan reached them. They
streamed back to the dam, where they perched proffering
advice and encouragement to those about to descend.
Immediately, however, Reed was out, his eyes blazing
either side his hawk nose.
24 THE RIVERMAN
“Here!” he cried, “quit that! I'll have ye arrested!”
“Arrest ahead,” replied Orde coldly.
Reed stormed back and forth for a moment, then de-
parted at full speed up the road.
“Now, boys, get as much done as possible,” urged Orde.
“We better get back in the brush, or he may try to take
in the whole b'iling of us on some sort of a blanket war-
rant.”
“How about the other boys?” inquired North.
“I gave one of them a telegram to send to Daly,” re-
plied Orde. “Daly will be up to bail them out.”
Once more they hid in the woods; and again, after a
longer interval, the mill owner and the sheriff reappeared.
Reed appeared to be expostulating violently, and a number
of times pointed up river; but the sheriff went ahead stol-
idly to the dam, summoned those working below, and de-
parted up the road as before. Reed stood uncertain until
he saw the rivermen beginning to re-emerge from the brush,
then followed the officer at top speed.
Without the necessity of command, a half-dozen men
leaped down on the apron. The previous crews had made
considerable progress in weakening the heavy supports.
As soon as these should be cut out and the backing re-
moved, the mere sawing through of the massive sill should
carry away the whole obstruction.
“Next time will decide it,” remarked Orde. “If the
sheriff brings a posse and sits down to lay for us, of
course we won’t be able to get near to finish the job.”
“I didn't think that of George Morris,” commented Sims
in an aggrieved way. “He was a riverman himself once
before he was sheriff.”
“He’s got to obey orders, and serve a warrant when
it's issued, of course,” replied Orde to this. “What did
you expect?” -
At the end of another hour, which brought the time to
THE RIVERMAN 25
four o'clock, the sheriff made his third appearance—this
time in a side-bar buggy.
“I wish I dared join that confab,” said Orde, “and
hear what's going on, but I'm afraid he'd jug me sure.”
“He wouldn't jug me,” spoke up Newmark. “I’ll go
down.”
“Bully for you!” agreed Orde.
The young man departed in his precise, methodical man- ;
ner, picking his way rather mincingly among the inequali-
ties of the trail. In spite of the worn and wrinkled condi-
tion of his garments, they retained something of a city
hang and smartness that sharply differentiated their wearer
from even the well-dressed citizens of a smaller town.
They seemed to match the refined, shrewd, but cold intel-
ligence of his lean and nervous face.
About sunset he returned from a scene which the distant
spectators had watched with breathless interest. It was in
essence only a repetition of the two that had preceded it,
but Reed had evidently gone almost to the point of vio-
lence in his insistence, and the sheriff had shaken him off
rudely. Finally, Morris and his six prisoners had trailed
away. The sheriff and North's friend occupied the seat
of the buggy, while the other five trudged peaceably along-
side. Once again Reed clattered away on his bony steed,
but this time ahead of the official party.
With a whoop the river crew, now reduced to a scant
dozen, rushed down to meet the too deliberate Newmark.
“Well?” they demanded, crowding about him.
“Reed wanted the sheriff to stay and protect the dam,”
reported Newmark in his brief, dry manner. “Sheriff re-
fused. Said his duty was simply to arrest on warrant, and
as often as Reed got out warrants, he'd serve them. Reed
said, then, he should get a posse and hunt up Orde and
the rest of them. Sheriff replied that as far as he could
see, the terms of his warrant were covered by the men
26 THE RIVERMAN
he found working on the dam. Reed demanded protection,
Sheriff said for him to get an injunction, and it would
be enforced.”
“Well, that's all right,” interjected Orde with satisfac-
tion. “We’ll have her cut through before he gets that
injunction, and I guess I’ve got men enough here and
down river to get through before we’re all arrested.”
“Yes,” said Newmark, “that's all very well. But now
he’s gone to telegraph the governor to send the troops.”
Orde whistled a jig tune.
“Kind of expected that, boys,” said he. “Let’s see. The
next train out from Redding— They’ll be here by five in
the morning at soonest. Hope it'll be later.”
“What will you do?” asked Newmark.
“Take chances,” replied Orde. “All you boys get to
work. Zeke,” he commanded one of the cookees, “go up
road, and report if Morris comes back. I reckon this time
we’ll have to scatter if he comes after us. I hope we won’t
have to, though. Like to keep everything square on account
of this State troop business.”
The sun had dropped below the fringe of trees, which
immediately etched their delicate outlines against a pale,
translucent green sky. Two straight, thin columns of smoke
rose from the neglected camp-fires. Orde, glancing around
him, noticed these.
“Doctor,” he commanded sharply, “get at your grub
Make some coffee right off, and bring it down. Get the
lanterns from the wanigan, and bring them to the dam.
Come on, boys l’” r
Over a score of men attacked the sluice-way, for by now
part of the rear crew had come down river. The pond
above had recovered its volume. Water was beginning to
trickle over the top of the gate. In a short time progress
became difficult, almost impossible. The men worked up
to their knees in swift water. They could not see, and the
THE RIVERMAN 27
strokes of axe or pick lost much of their force against
the liquid. Dusk fell. The fringe of the forest became
mysterious in its velvet dark. Silver streaks, of a supernal
calm, suggested the reaches of the pond. Above, the sky’s
day surface unfolded and receded and dissolved and melted
away until, through the pale afterglow, one saw beyond
into the infinities. Down by the sluice a dozen lanterns
flickered and blinked yellow against the blue-blackness of
the night.
After some time Orde called his crew off and opened
the sluice-gates. The water had become too deep for effect-
ive work, and a half hour's flow would reduce the pressure.
The time was occupied in eating and in drying off about
the huge fire the second cookee had built close at hand.
“Water cold, boys?” asked Orde.
“Some,” was his reply.
“Want to quit?” he inquired, with mock solicitude.
“Nary quit.”
Orde's shout of laughter broke the night silence of the
whispering breeze and the rushing water.
“We'll stick to 'em like death to a dead nigger,” was his
COmment.
Newmark, having extracted a kind of cardigan jacket
from the bag he had brought with him as far as the mill,
looked at the smooth, iron-black water and shivered.
When the meal was finished, the men lit their pipes and
went back to work philosophically. With entire absorption
in the task, they dug, chopped, and picked. The dull sound
of blows, the gurgle and trickle of the water, the occa-
sional grunt or brief comment of a riverman alone broke
the calm of evening. Now that the sluice-gate was down
and the water had ceased temporarily to flow over it, the
work went faster. Orde, watching with the eye of an ex-
pert, vouchsafed to the taciturn Newmark that he thought
they’d make it.
28 THE RIVERMAN
Near midnight, however, a swaying lantern was seen
approaching. Orde, leaping to his feet with a curse at the
boy on watch, heard the sound of wheels. A moment later,
Daly's bulky form stepped into the illumination of the fire.
Orde wandered over to where his principal stood peering
about him.
“ Hullo | * said he.
“Oh, there you are l’’ cried Daly angrily. “What in hell
you up to here?”
“Running logs,” replied Orde coolly. .
“Running logs l’ shouted Daly, tugging at his overcoat
pocket, and finally producing a much-folded newspaper.
“How about this?”
Orde unfolded the paper and lowered it to the camp-
fire. It was an extra, screaming with wood type. He read
it deliberately over.
y
WAR
the headline ran.
RIOTING AND BLOODSHED IN THE WOODS
RIVERMEN AND DAM OWNERS CLASH !
There followed a vague and highly coloured statement
to the effect that an initial skirmish had left the field in
possession of the rivermen, in spite of the sheriff and a
large posse, but that troops were being rushed to the spot,
and that this “high-handed defiance of authority" would
undoubtedly soon be suppressed. It concluded truthfully
with the statement that the loss of life was as yet un-
known.
Orde folded up the paper and handed it back.
“Don’t you know any better than to get into that kind
of a row down here?” Daly had been saying. “Do you
want to bring us up for good here? Don’t you realise that
THE RIVERMAN 29
this isn't the northern peninsula? What are you trying to
do, any way?”
“Sure I do,” replied Orde placidly. “Come along here
till I show you the situation.”
Ten minutes later, Daly, relieved in his mind, was stand-
ing by the fire drinking hot coffee and laughing at Orde's
description of Reed's plug hat.
To Orde's satisfaction, the sheriff did not reappear. Reed
evidently now pinned his faith to the State troops.
All night the work went on, the men spelling each other
at intervals of every few hours. By three o'clock the main
abutments had been removed. The gate was then blocked
to prevent its fall when its nether support should be with-
drawn, and two men, leaning over cautiously, began at
arm's-length to deliver their axe-strokes against the middle
of the sill-timbers of the sluice itself, notching each heavy
beam deeply that the force of the current might finally
break it in two. The night was very dark, and very still.
Even the night creatures had fallen into the quietude that
precedes the first morning hours. The muffled, spaced blows
of the axes, the low-voiced comments or directions of the
workers, the crackle of the fire ashore were thrown by
contrast into an undue importance. Men in blankets, await-
ing their turn, slept close to the blaze.
Suddenly the vast silence of before dawn was broken by
a loud and exultant yell from one of the axemen. At once
the two scrambled to the top of the dam. The blanketed
figures about the fire sprang to life. A brief instant later
the snapping of wood fibres began like the rapid explosions
of infantry fire; a crash and bang of timbers smote the
air; and then the river, exultant, roaring with joy, rushed
from its pent quietude into the new passage opened for it.
At the same moment, as though at the signal, a single
bird, premonitor of the yet distant day, lifted up his voice,
clearly audible above the tumult.
3o THE RIVERMAN
Orde stormed into the camp up stream, his eyes bright,
his big voice booming exultantly.
“Roll out, you river-hogs l’ he shouted to those who
had worked out their shifts earlier in the night. “Roll
out, you web-footed sons of guns, and hear the little birds
sing praise!”
Newmark, who had sat up the night through, and now
shivered sleepily by the fire, began to hunt around for
the bed-roll he had, earlier in the evening, dumped down
somewhere in camp.
“I suppose that's all,” said he. “Just a case of run
logs now. I'll turn in for a little.”
But Orde, a thick slice of bread half-way to his lips, had
frozen in an attitude of attentive listening.
“Hark!” said he.
Faint, still in the depths of the forest, the wandering
morning breeze bore to their ears a sound whose difference
from the louder noises nearer at hand alone rendered it
audible.
“The troops!” exclaimed Orde.
He seized a lantern and returned down the trail, fol-
lowed eagerly by Newmark and every man in camp.
“Troops coming !” said Orde to Daly.
The men drew a little to one side, watching the dim line
of the forest, dark against the paling sky. Shadows seemed
to stir in its blackness. They heard quite distinctly the
clink of metal against metal. A man rode out of the shadow
and reined up by the fire. “Halt l” commanded a harsh
voice. The rivermen could make out the troops—three or
four score of them—standing rigid at attention. Reed, afoot
now in favour of the commanding officer, pushed forward.
“Who is in charge here?” inquired the officer crisply.
“I am,” replied Orde, stepping forward.
“I wish to inquire, sir, if you have gone mad to counsel
your men to resist civil authority?”
THE RIVERMAN 31
“I have not resisted civil authority,” replied Orde re-
spectfully.
“It has been otherwise reported.”
“The reports have been false. The sheriff of this county
has arrested about twenty of my men single-handed and
without the slightest trouble.”
“Mr. Morris,” cried the officer sharply.
“Yes,” replied the sheriff.
“Is what this man says true?”
“It sure is. Never had so little fuss arrestin’ rivermen
before in my life.”
The officer’s face turned a slow brick-red. For a moment
he said nothing, then exploded with the utmost violence.
“Then why the devil am I dragged up here with my
men in the night?” he cried. “Who’s responsible for this
insanity, anyway? Don't you know,” he roared at Reed,
who that moment swung within his range of vision, “that
I have no standing in the presence of civil law P What do
you mean getting me up here to your miserable little back-
woods squabbles?”
Reed started to say something, but was immediately cut
short by the irate captain.
“I’ve nothing to do with that; settle it in court. And
'what's more, you’ll have something yourself to settle with
the State | About, face | Forward, march 1”
The men faded into the gray light as though dissolved
by it.
A deep and respectful silence fell upon the men, which
was broken by Orde's solemn and dramatic declamation.
“The King of France and twice ten thousand men
Marched up the hill, and then marched down again,”
he recited; then burst into his deep roar of laughter.
“Now you see, boys,” he said, digging his fists into his
32 THE RIVERMAN
eyes, “if you’d put up a row, what we’d have got into.
No blue-coats in mine, thank you. Well, push the grub
pile, and then get at those logs. It’s a case of flood-water
now.”
But Reed, having recovered from his astonishment, had
still his say.
“I tell ye, I’m not done with ye yet,” he threatened,
shaking his bony forefinger in Orde's face. “I’ll sue ye
for damages, and I’ll git ’em, too.”
“See here, you old mossback,” said Orde, thrusting his
bulky form to the fore, “you sue just as soon as you want
to. You can't get at it any too quick to suit us. But just
now you get out of this camp, and you stay out. You're
an old man, and we don’t want to be rough with you,
but you're biting off more than you can chew. Skedaddle!”
Reed hesitated, waving his long arms about, flail-like,
as though to begin a new oration.
“Now, do hop along,” urged Orde. “We’ll pay you any
legitimate damages, of course, but you can't expect to hang
up a riverful of logs just on a notion. And we're sick of
you. Oh, hell, then I See here, you two; just see that this
man leaves camp.”
Orde turned square on his heel. Reed, after a glance at
the two huge rivermen approaching, beat a retreat to his
mill, muttering and wrathful still.
“Well, good-bye, boys,” said Daly, pulling on his over-
coat; “I’ll just get along and bail the boys out of that
village calaboose. I reckon they’ve had a good night's rest.
Be good!”
The fringe of trees to eastward showed clearly against
the whitening sky. Hundreds of birds of all kinds sang
in an ecstasy. Another day had begun. Already men with
pike-poles were guiding the sullen timbers toward the
sluice-way.
IV
HEN New 7mark awoke once more to interest in
W W affairs, the morning was well spent. On the river
the work was going forward with the precision
of clockwork. The six-foot lowering of the sluice-way had
produced a fine current, which sucked the logs down from
above. Men were busily engaged in “sacking ” them from
the sides of the pond toward its centre, lest the lowering
water should leave them stranded. Below the dam the jam
crew was finding plenty to do in keeping them moving in
the white-water and the shallows. A fine sun, tempered
with a prophetic warmth of later spring, animated the
scene. Reed had withdrawn to the interior of his mill, and
appeared to have given up the contest.
Some of the logs shot away down the current, running
freely. To these the crews were not required to pay any
attention. With luck, a few of the individual timbers would
float ten, even twenty, miles before some chance eddy or
fortuitous obstruction would bring them to rest. Such ed-
dies and obstructions, however, drew a constant toll from
the ranks of the free-moving logs, so that always the vol-
ume of timbers floating with the current diminished, and
always the number of logs caught and stranded along the
sides of the river increased. To restore these to the faster
water was the especial province of the last and most ex-
pert crew—the rear.
Orde discovered about noon that the jam crew was hav-
ing its troubles. Immediately below Reed's dam ran a long
chute strewn with boulders, which was alternately a shal-
33
34 THE RIVERMAN
low or a stretch of white-water according as the stream
rose or fell. Ordinarily the logs were flushed over this
declivity by opening the gate, behind which a head of water
had been accumulated. Now, however, the efficiency of the
gate had been destroyed. Orde early discovered that he
was likely to have trouble in preventing the logs rushing
through the chute from grounding into a bad jam on the
rapids below.
For a time the jam crew succeeded in keeping the
“ wings” clear. In the centre of the stream, however, a
small jam formed, like a pier. Along the banks logs
grounded, and were rolled over by their own momentum
into places so shallow as to discourage any hope of re-
floating then unless by main strength. As the sluicing of
the nine or ten million feet that constituted this particular
drive went forward, the situation rapidly became worse.
“Tom, we’ve got to get flood-water unless we want to
run into an awful job there,” said Orde to the foreman.
“I wonder if we can’t drop that gate 'way down to get
something for a head.”
The two men examined the chute and the sluice-gate
attentively for some time.
“If we could clear out the splinters and rubbish, we
might spike a couple of saplings on each side for the gate
to slide down into,” speculated North. “Might try her on.”
The logs were held up in the pond, and a crew of men
set to work to cut away, as well as they might in the
rush of water, the splintered ends of the old sill and apron.
It was hard work. Newmark, watching, thought it im-
practicable. The current rendered footing impossible, so
all the work had to be done from above. Wet wood gripped
the long saws vice-like, so that a man's utmost strength
could scarcely budge them. The water deadened the force
of axe-blows. Nevertheless, with the sure persistence of the
riverman, they held to it. Orde, watching them a few
THE RIVERMAN 35
moments, satisfied himself that they would succeed, and so
departed up river to take charge of the rear.
This crew he found working busily among some over-
flowed woods. They were herding the laggards of the flock.
The subsidence of the water consequent upon the opening
of the sluice-gate had left stranded and in shallows many
hundreds of the logs. These the men sometimes, waist deep
in the icy water, owing to the extreme inequality of the bot-
tom, were rolling over and over with their peavies until
once more they floated. Some few the rivermen were forced
to carry bodily, ten men to a side, the peavies clamped
in as handles. When once they were afloat, the task became
easier. From the advantage of deadwood, stumps, or other
logs the “sackers ” pushed the unwieldy timbers forward,
leaping, splashing, heaving, shoving, until at last the steady
current of the main river seized the logs and bore them away.
With marvellous skill they topped the dripping, bobby,
rolling timbers, treading them over and over, back and
forth, in unconscious preservation of equilibrium.
There was a good deal of noise and fun at the rear.
The crew had been divided, and a half worked on either
side the river. A rivalry developed as to which side should
advance fastest in the sacking. It became a race. Momen-
tary success in getting ahead of the other fellow was occa-
sion for exultant crowing, while a mishap called forth
ironic cheers and catcalls from the rival camp. Just as Orde
came tramping up the trail, one of the rivermen’s caulks
failed to “bite ” on an unusually smooth, barked surface.
His foot slipped; the log rolled; he tried in vain to regain
his balance, and finally fell in with a heavy splash.
The entire river suspended work to send up a howl of
delight. As the unfortunate crawled out, dripping from
head to foot, he was greeted by a flood of sarcasm and
profane inquiry that left no room for even his acknowl-
edged talents of repartee. Cursing and ashamed, he made
36 THE RIVERMAN
his way ashore over the logs, spirting water at every step.
There he wrung out his woollen clothes as dry as he could,
and resumed work.
Hardly had Orde the opportunity to look about at the
progress making, however, before he heard his name
shouted from the bank. Looking up, to his surprise he saw
the solemn cook waving a frantic dish-towel at him. Noth-
ing could induce the cook to attempt the logs.
“What is it, Charlie?” asked Orde, leaping ashore and
stamping the loose water from his boots.
“It’s all off,” confided the cook pessimistically. “It’s no
good. He's stopped us now.”
“What's off? Who's stopped what?”
“Reed. He's druv the men from the dam with a shot-
gun. We might as well quit.”
“Shotgun, hey!” exclaimed Orde. “Well, the old son
of a gun l’” He thought a moment, his lips puckered as
though to whistle; then, as usual, he laughed amusedly.
“Let’s go take a look at the army,” said he.
He swung away at a round pace, followed rather breath-
lessly by the cook. The trail led through the brush across
a little flat point, up over a high bluff where the river
swung in, down to another point, and across a pole trail
above a marsh to camp.
A pole trail consists of saplings laid end to end, and
supported three or four feet above wet places by means
of sawbuck-like structures at their extremities. To a river-
man or a tight-rope dancer they are easy walks. All others
must proceed cautiously in contrite memory of their sins.
Orde marched across the first two lengths confidently
enough. Then he heard a splash and lamentations. Turn-
ing, he perceived Charlie, covered with mud, in the act
of clambering up one of the small trestles.
“Ain’t got no caulks' " ran the lamentations. “The -
of a - of a pole-trail, anyways!”
THE RIVERMAN 37
He walked ahead gingerly, threw his hands aloft, bent
forward, then suddenly protruded his stomach, held out one
foot in front of him, spasmodically half turned, and then,
realising the case hopeless, wilted like a wet rag, to clasp
the pole trail both by arm and leg. This saved him from
falling off altogether, but swung him underneath, where
he hung like the sloths in the picture-books. A series of
violent wriggles brought him, red-faced and panting, astride
the pole, whence, his feelings beyond mere speech, he sadly
eyed his precious derby, which lay, crown up, in the mud
below.
Orde contemplated the spectacle seriously.
“Sorry I haven’t got time to enjoy you just now, Char-
lie,” he remarked. “I’d take it slower, if I were you.”
He departed, catching fragments of vows anent never
going on any more errands for nobody, and getting his
time if ever again he went away from his wanigan.
Orde stopped short outside the fringe of brush to utter
another irrepressible chuckle of amusement.
The centre of the dam was occupied by Reed. The old
man was still in full regalia, his plug hat fuzzier than ever,
and thrust even farther back on his head, his coat-tails and
loose trousers flapping at his every movement as he paced
back and forth with military precision. Over his shoulder
he carried a long percussion-lock shotgun. Not thirty feet
away, perched along the bank, for all the world like a row
of cormorants, sat the rivermen, watching him solemnly
and in silence.
“What's the matter?” inquired Orde, approaching.
The old man surveyed him with a snort of disgust.
“If the law of the land don't protect me, I’ll protect my-
self, sir,” he proclaimed. “I give ye fair warning ! I ain’t
a-going to have my property interfered with no more.”
“But surely,” said Orde, “we have a right to run our
logs through. It’s an open river.”
38 THE RIVERMAN
“And hev ye been running your logs through?” cried
the old man excitedly. “Hev ye? First off ye begin to tear
down my dam; and then, when the river begins a-roarin'
and a-ragin' through, then you tamper with my improve-
ments furthermore, a-lowerin’ the gate and otherwise
a-modifyin’ my structure.”
Orde stepped forward to say something further. Imme-
diately Reed wheeled, his thumb on the hammer.
“All right, old Spirit of '76,” replied Orde. “Don’t
shoot; I’ll come down.”
He walked back to the waiting row, smiling quiz-
zically.
“Well, you calamity howlers, what do you think of it?”
Nobody answered, but everybody looked expectant.
“Think he'd shoot?” inquired Orde of Tom North.
“I know he would,” replied North earnestly. “That
crazy-headed kind are just the fellers to rip loose.”
“I think myself he probably would,” agreed Orde.
“Surely,” spoke up Newmark, “whatever the status of
the damage suits, you have the legal right to run your
logs.”
Orde rolled a quizzical eye in his direction.
“Per-fect—ly correct, son,” he drawled, “but we’re en-
gaged in the happy occupation of getting out logs. By the
time the law was all adjusted and a head of steam up,
the water'd be down. In this game, you get out logs first,
and think about law afterward.”
“How about legal damages?” insisted Newmark.
“Legal damages 1’’ scoffed Orde. “Legal damages
Why, we count legal damages as part of our regular ex-
penses—like potatoes. It's lucky it's so,” he added. “If
anybody paid any attention to legal technicalities, there'd
never be a log delivered. A man always has enemies.”
“Well, what are you going to do?” persisted New-
mark.
THE RIVERMAN 39
Orde thrust back his felt hat and ran his fingers through
his short, crisp hair.
“There you’ve got me,” he confessed, “but, if necessary,
we’ll pile the old warrior.”
He walked to the edge of the dam and stood looking
down current. For perhaps a full minute he remained
there motionless, his hat clinging to one side, his hand in
his hair. Then he returned to the grimly silent rivermen.
“Boys,” he commanded briefly, “get your peavies and
come along.”
He led the way past the mill to the shallows below.
“There’s a trifle of wading to do,” he announced.
“Bring down two logs—fairly big—and hold them by that
old snag,” he ordered. “Whoa-up ! Easy! Hold them end
On—no, pointing up stream—fix 'em about ten foot apart—
that’s it! George, drive a couple of stakes each side of them
to hold 'em. Correct! Now, run down a couple dozen more
and pile them across those two—side on to the stream, of
course. Roll 'em up—that's the ticket!”
Orde had been splashing about in the shallow water,
showing where each timber was to be placed. He drew back,
eyeing the result with satisfaction. It looked rather like a
small and bristly pier.
Next he cast his eye about and discovered a partially
submerged boulder on a line with the newly completed
structure. Against this he braced the ends of two more
logs, on which he once more caused to be loaded at right
angles many timbers. An old stub near shore furnished
him the basis of a third pier. He staked a thirty-inch butt
for a fourth; and so on, until the piers, in conjunction
with the small centre jam already mentioned, extended
quite across the river. te
All this was accomplished in a very short time, and im-
mediately below the mill, but beyond sight from the sluice-
gate of the dam. -
4O THE RIVERMAN
“Now, boys,” commanded Orde, “shove off some shore
logs, and let them come down.” -
“We’ll have a jam sure,” objected Purdy stupidly.
“No, my son, would we?” mocked Orde. “I surely
hope not!”
The stray logs floating down with the current the river-
men caught and arranged to the best possible advantage
about the improvised piers. A good riverman understands
the correlation of forces represented by saw-logs and water-
pressure. He knows how to look for the key-log in break-
ing jams; and by the inverse reasoning, when need arises
he can form a jam as expertly as Koosy-Oonek him-
self—that bad little god who brings about the disagree-
able and undesired—“who hides our pipes, steals our
last match, and brings rain on the just when they want
to go fishing.”
So in ten seconds after the shore logs began drifting
down from above, the jam was taking shape. Slowly it
formed, low and broad. Then, as the water gathered pres-
sure, the logs began to slip over one another. The weight
of the topmost sunk those beneath to the bed of the stream.
This to a certain extent dammed back the water. Imme-
diately the pressure increased. More logs were piled on
top. The piers locked the structure. Below the improvised
dam the water fell almost to nothing, and above it, swirling
in eddies, grumbling fiercely, bubbling, gurgling, searching
busily for an opening, the river, turned back on itself,
gathered its swollen and angry forces.
“That will do, boys,” said Orde with satisfaction.
He led the way to the bank and sat down. The men
followed his example. Every moment the water rose, and
each instant, as more logs came down the current, the jam
became more formidable.
“Nothing can stand that pressure,” breathed Newmark,
fascinated.
THE RIVERMAN 4. I
“The bigger the pressure the tighter she locks,” replied
Orde, lighting his pipe.
The high bank where the men sat lay well above the
reach of the water. Not so the flat on which stood Reed's
mill. In order to take full advantage of the water-power
developed by the dam, the old man had caused his struc-
ture to be built nearly at a level with the stream. Now the
river, backing up, rapidly overflowed this flat. As the jam
tightened by its own weight and the accumulation of logs,
the water fairly jumped from the lowest floor of the mill to
the one above.
Orde had not long to wait for Reed's appearance. In
less than five minutes the old man descended on the group,
somewhat of his martial air abated, and something of a
vague anxiety manifest in his eye.
“What’s the matter here?” he demanded.
“Matter?” inquired Orde easily. “Oh, nothing much,
just a little jam.” .
“But it's flooding my mill!”
“So I perceive,” replied Orde, striking a match.
“Well, why don't you break it?”
“Not interested.”
The old warrior ran up the bank to where he could get
a good view of his property. The water was pouring into
the first-floor windows.
“Here!” he cried, running back. “I’ve a lot of grain
up-stairs. It'll be ruined ”
“Not interested,” repeated Orde.
Reed was rapidly losing control of himself.
“But I’ve got a lot of money invested here !” he shouted.
“You miserable blackguard, you're ruining me!”
Orde replaced his pipe.
Reed ran back and forth frantically, disappeared, re-
turned bearing an antiquated pike-pole, and single-handed
and alone attacked the jam |
42 THE RIVERMAN
Astonishment and delight held the rivermen breathless
for a moment. Then a roar of laughter drowned even the
noise of the waters. Men pounded each other on the back,
rolled over and over, clutching handfuls of earth, strug-
gled weak and red-faced for breath as they saw against
the sky-line of the bristling jam the lank, flapping figure
with the old plug hat pushing frantically against the im-
movable statics of a mighty power. The exasperation of
delay, the anxiety lest success be lost through the mulish
and narrow-minded obstinacy of one man, the resentment
against another obstacle not to be foreseen and not to be
expected in a task redundantly supplied with obstacles of
its own—these found relief at last.
“By Jove!” breathed Newmark softly to himself. “Don
Quixote and the windmills' " Then he added vindictively,
“The old fool!” although, of course, the drive was not
his personal concern.
Only Orde seemed to see the other side. And on Orde
the responsibility, uncertainty, and vexation had borne most
heavily, for the success of the undertaking was in his
hands. With a few quick leaps he had gained the old
man's side.
“Look here, Reed,” he said kindly, “you can’t break
this jam. Come ashore now, and let up. You’ll kill your-
Self.”
Reed turned to him, a wild light in his eye.
“Break it!” he pleaded. “You’re ruining me. I’ve got
all my money in that mill.”
“Well,” said Orde, “we’ve got a lot of money in our
logs too. You haven’t treated us quite right.”
Reed glanced frantically toward the flood up stream.
“Come,” said Orde, taking him gently by the arm.
“There's no reason you and I shouldn’t get along together
all right. Maybe we're both a little hard-headed. Let's talk
it over.”
THE RIVERMAN 43
He led the old man ashore, and out of earshot of the
rivermen.
At the end of ten minutes he returned.
“War's over, boys!” he shouted cheerfully. “Get in and
break that jam.”
At once the crew swarmed across the log barrier to a
point above the centre pier. This they attacked with their
peavies, rolling the top logs off into the current below.
In less than no time they had torn out quite a hole in the
top layer. The river rushed through the opening. Imme-
diately the logs in the wings were tumbled in from either
side. At first the men had to do all of the work, but soon
the river itself turned to their assistance. Timbers creaked
and settled, or rose slightly buoyant as the water loosened
the tangle. Men trod on the edge of expectation. Constantly
the logs shifted, and as constantly the men shifted also,
avoiding the upheavals and grindings together, wary eyes
estimating the correlation of the forces into whose crushing
reach a single misstep would bring them. The move-
ment accelerated each instant, as the music of the play
hastens to the climax. Wood fibres smashed. The whole
mass seemed to sink down and forward into a boil-
ing of waters. Then, with a creak and a groan, the jam
moved, hesitated, moved again; finally, urged by the
frantic river, went out in a majestic crashing and batter-
ing of logs.
At the first movement Newmark expected the rivermen
to make their escape. Instead, they stood at attention, their
peavies poised, watching cat-eyed the symptoms of the
break. Twice or thrice several of the men, observing some-
thing not evident to Newmark's unpractised eye, ran for-
ward, used their peavies vigorously for a moment or so,
and stood back to watch the result. Only at the very last,
when it would seem that some of them must surely be
caught, did the river-jacks, using their peavy-shafts as bal-
44 THE RIVERMAN
ancing poles, zigzag calmly to shore across the plunging
logs. Newmark seemed impressed. .
“That was a close shave,” said he to the last man
ashore.
“What?” inquired the riverman. “Didn't see it. Some-
body fall down?”
“Why, no,” explained Newmark; “getting in off those
logs without getting caught.”
“Oh!” said the man indifferently, turning away.
The going out of the jam drained the water from the
lower floors of the mill; the upper stories and the grain
were still safe.
By evening the sluice-gate had been roughly provided
with pole guides down which to slide to the bed of the
river. The following morning saw the work going on as
methodically as ever. During the night a very good head
of water had gathered behind the lowered gate. The rear
crew brought down the afterguard of logs to the pond.
The sluicers with their long pike-poles thrust the logs into
the chute. The jam crew, scattered for many miles along
the lower stretches, kept the drive going; running out
over the surface of the river like water-bugs to thrust
apart logs threatening to lock; leaning for hours on the
shafts of their peavies watching contemplatively the or-
derly ranks as they drifted by, sleepy, on the bosom of
the river; occasionally gathering, as the filling of the river
gave warning, to break a jam. By the end of the second
day the pond was clear, and as Charlie's wanigan was
drifting toward the chute, the first of Johnson's drive
floated into the head of the pond.
V
know what such a thing may be, was a scow about
twenty feet long by ten wide. It was very solidly
constructed of hewn timbers, square at both ends, was in-
conceivably clumsy, and weighed an unbelievable number
of pounds. When loaded, it carried all the bed-rolls, tents,
provisions, cooking utensils, tools, and a chest of tobacco,
clothes, and other minor supplies. It was managed by
Charlie and his two cookees by means of pike-poles and a
long sweep at either end. The pike-poles assured progress
when the current slacked; the sweeps kept her head-on
when drifting with the stream.
Charlie's temperament was pessimistic at best. When the
wanigan was to be moved, he rose fairly to the heights
of what might be called destructive prophecy.
The packing began before the men had finished break-
fast. Shortly after daylight the wanigan, pushed strongly
from shore by the pike-poles, was drifting toward the chute.
When the heavy scow threatened to turn side-on, the sweeps
at either end churned the water frantically in an endeavour
to straighten her out. Sometimes, by a misunderstanding,
they worked against each other. Then Charlie, raging from
one to the other of his satellites, frothed and roared com-
mands and vituperations. His voice rose to a shriek. The
cookees, bewildered by so much violence, lost their heads
completely. Then Charlie abruptly fell to an exaggerated
calm. He sat down amidships on a pile of bags, and gazed
with ostentatious indifference out over the pond. Finally,
Cº. wanigan, in case you do not happen to
45
46 THE RIVERMAN
in a voice fallen almost to a whisper, and with an elaborate
politeness, Charlie proffered a request that his assistants
acquire the sense God gave a rooster. Newmark, who had
elected to accompany the wanigan on its voyage, evidently
found it vastly amusing, for his eyes twinkled behind his
glasses. As the wanigan neared the sluice through which
it must shoot the flood-water, the excitement mounted to
fever pitch. The water boiled under the strokes of the long
steering oars. The air swirled with the multitude and vigour
of Charlie's commands. As many of the driving crew as
were within distance gathered to watch. It was a Supreme
moment. As Newmark looked at the smooth rim of the
water sucking into the chute, he began to wonder why
he had come. -
However, the noble ship was pointed right at last, and
caught the faster water head-on. Even Charlie managed
to look cheerful for an instant, and to grin at his passenger
as he wiped his forehead with a very old, red handker-
chief.
“All right now,” he shouted.
Zeke and his mate took in the oars. The wanigan shot
forward below the gate—
Whack / Bump! Bang! and the scow stopped so sud-
denly that its four men plunged forward in a miscellaneous
heap, while Zeke narrowly escaped going overboard. Al-
most immediately the water, backed up behind the stern,
began to overflow into the boat. Newmark, clearing his
vision as well as he could for lack of his glasses, saw
that the scow had evidently run her bow on an obstruction,
and had been brought to a standstill square beneath the
sluice-gate. Men seemed to be running toward them. The
water was beginning to flow the entire length of the boat.
Various lighter articles shot past him and disappeared over
the side. Charlie had gone crazy and was grabbing at these,
quite uselessly, for as fast as he had caught one thing he
THE RIVERMAN 47
let it go in favour of another. The cookees, retaining some
small degree of coolness, were pushing uselessly with pike-
poles.
Newmark had an inspiration. The more important mat-
ters, such as the men's clothes-bags, the rolls of bedding,
and the heavier supplies of provisions, had not yet cut
loose from their moorings, although the rapid backing of
the water hreatened soon to convert the wanigan into a
chute for , early the full volume of the current. He seized
one of the long oars, thrust the blade under the edge of
a thwart astern laid the shaft of the oar across the cargo,
and by resting his weight on the handle attempted to bring
it down to bind the contents of the wanigan to their
places. The cookees saw what he was about, and came to
his assistance. Together they succeeded in bending the long
hickory sweep far enough to catch its handle-end under
another, forward, thwart. The second Oar was quickly
locked alongside the first, and not a moment too soon. A
rush of water forced them all to cling for their lives. The
poor old wanigan was almost buried by the river.
But now help was at hand. Two or three rivermen ap-
peared at the edge of the chute. A moment later old man
Reed ran up, carrying a rope. This, after some difficulty,
was made fast to the bow of the wanigan. A dozen men
ran with the end of it to a position of vantage from which
they might be able to pull the bow away from the sunken
obstruction, but Orde, appearing above, called a halt. After
consultation with Reed, another rope was brought and the
end of it tossed down to the shipwrecked crew. Orde pointed
to the stern of the boat, revolving his hands in pantomime
to show that the wanigan would be apt to upset if allowed
to get side-on when freed. A short rope led to the top of
the dam allowed the bow to be lifted free of the obstruc-
tion; a cable astern prevented the current from throwing
her broadside to the rush of waters; another cable from
48 THE RIVERMAN
the bow led her in the way she should go. Ten minutes
later she was pulled ashore out of the eddy below, very
much water-logged, and manned by a drench-d and dis-
gruntled crew.
But Orde allowed them little chance for lamentation.
“Hard luck!” he said briefly. “Hope you haven't lost
much. Now get a move on you and bail out. You’ve got
to get over the shallows while this head is on.”
“That's all the thanks you get,” grumbled Charlie to
himself and the other three as Orde moved away. “Work,
slave, get up in the night, drownd yourself 3 5
He happily discovered that the pails under the forward
thwart had not been carried away, and all started in to
bail. It was a back-breaking job, and consumed the greater
part of two hours. Even at the end of that time the wanigan,
though dry of loose water, floated but sluggishly.
“’Bout two ton of water in them bed-rolls and turkeys,”
grumbled Charlie. “Well, get at it!”
Newmark soon discovered that the progress of the wani-
gan was looked upon in the light of a side-show by the
rivermen. Its appearance was signal for shouts of delighted
and ironic encouragement; its tribulations—which at first,
in the white-water, were many—the occasion for unsympa-
thetic and unholy joy. Charlie looked on all spectators as
enemies. Part of the time he merely glowered. Part of
the time he tried to reply in kind. To his intense disgust,
he was taken seriously in neither case.
In a couple of hours' run the wanigan had overtaken
and left far behind the rear of the drive. All about floated
the logs, caroming gently one against the other, shifting
and changing the pattern of their brown against the blue
of the water. The current flowed strongly and smoothly,
but without obstruction. Everything went well. The banks
slipped by silently and mysteriously, like the unrolling of
a panorama—little strips of marshland, stretches of wood-
THE RIVERMAN 49
land where the great trees leaned out over the river, thickets
of overflowed swampland with the water rising and drain-
ing among roots in a strange regularity of its own. The
sun shone warm. There was no wind. Newmark wrung out
his outer garments, and basked below the gunwale. Zeke
and his companion pulled spasmodically on the sweeps.
Charlie, having regained his equanimity together with his
old brown derby, which he came upon floating sodden in
an eddy, marched up and down the broad gunwale with
his pike-pole, thrusting away such logs as threatened in-
terference.
“Well,” said he at last, “we better make camp. We'll
be down in the jam pretty soon.”
The cookees abandoned the sweeps in favour of more
pike-poles. By pushing and pulling on the logs floating
about them, they managed to work the wanigan in close
to the bank. Charlie, a coil of rope in his hand, surveyed
the prospects.
“We'll stop right down there by that little knoll,” he
announced.
He leaped ashore, made a turn around a tree, and braced
himself to snub the boat, but unfortunately he had not
taken into consideration the “two ton ’’ of water soaked
up by the cargo. The weight of the craft relentlessly
dragged him forward. In vain he braced and struggled.
The end of the rope came to the tree; he clung for a
moment, then let go, and ran around the tree to catch it
before it should slip into the water.
By this time the wanigan had caught the stronger cur-
rent at the bend and was gathering momentum. Charlie
tried to snub at a sapling, and broke the sapling; on a
stub, and uprooted the stub. Down the banks and through
the brush he tore at the end of his rope, clinging desper-
ately, trying at every solid tree to stop the career of his
runaway, but in every instance being forced by the danger
5o THE RIVERMAN
of jamming his hands to let go. Again he lost his derby.
The landscape was a blur. Dimly he made out the howls
of laughter as the outfit passed a group of rivermen. Then
abruptly a ravine yawned before him, and he let go just
in time to save himself a fall. The wanigan, trailing her
rope, drifted away.
Nor did she stop until she had overtaken the jam. There,
her momentum reduced by the closer crowding of the logs,
she slowed down enough so that Newmark and the cookees
managed to work her to the bank and make her fast.
That evening, after the wanigan's crew had accomplished
a hard afternoon’s work pitching camp and drying blankets,
the first of the rear drifted in very late after a vain search
for camp farther up stream.
“For God’s sake, Charlie,” growled one, “it’s a wonder
you wouldn't run through to Redding and be done with it.”
Whereupon Charlie, who had been preternaturally calm
all the afternoon, uttered a shriek of rage, and with a carv-
ing-knife chased that man out into the brush. Nor would
he be appeased to the point of getting supper until Orde
himself had intervened.
“Well,” said Orde to Newmark later, around the camp-
fire, “how does river-driving strike you?”
“It is extremely interesting,” replied Newmark.
“Like to join the wanigan crew permanently?”
“No, thanks,” returned Newmark drily.
“Well, stay with us as long as you’re having a good
time,” invited Orde heartily, but turning away from his
rather uncommunicative visitor.
“Thank you,” Newmark acknowledged this, “I believe
I Will.” *
“Well, Tommy,” called Orde across the fire to North,
“I reckon we’ve got to rustle some more supplies. That
shipwreck of ours to-day mighty near cleaned us out of
some things. Lucky Charlie held his head and locked
THE RIVERMAN 51
in the bedding with those sweeps, or we’d have been
strapped.”
“I didn't do it,” grumbled Charlie. “It was him.”
“Oh!” Orde congratulated Newmark. “Good work!
I'm tickled to death you belonged to that crew.”
“That old mossback Reed was right on deck with his
rope,” remarked Johnny Simms. “That was pretty decent
of him.”
“Old skunk l’’ growled North. “He lost us two days
with his damn nonsense. You let him off too easy, Jack.”
“Oh, he's a poor old devil,” replied Orde easily. “He
means well enough. That's the way the Lord made him.
He can’t help how he's made.”
VI
URING the thirty-three days of the drive, New-
D mark, to the surprise of everybody, stayed with the
work. Some of these days were very disagreeable.
April rains are cold and persistent—the proverbs as to
showers were made for another latitude. Drenched gar-
ments are bad enough when a man is moving about and
has daylight; but when night falls, and the work is over,
he likes a dry place and a change with which to comfort
himself. Dry places there were none. Even the interior of
the tents became sodden by continual exits and entrances
of dripping men, while dry garments speedily dampened
in the shiftings of camp which, in the broader reaches of
the lower river, took place nearly every day. Men worked
in soaked garments, slept in damp blankets. Charlie cooked
only by virtue of persistence. The rivermen ate standing
up, as close to the sputtering, roaring fires as they could
get. Always the work went forward.
But there were other times when a golden sun rose each
morning a little earlier on a green and joyous world. The
river ran blue. Migratory birds fled busily northward—
robins, flute-voiced blue-birds, warblers of many species,
sparrows of different kinds, shore birds and ducks, the
sweet-songed thrushes. Little tepid breezes wandered up and
down, warm in contrast to the faint snow-chill that even
yet lingered in the shadows. Sounds carried clearly, so that
the shouts and banter of the rivermen were plainly audible
up the reaches of the river. Ashore moist and aggressive
green things were pushing up through the watery earth
52
|
Several Bad Jams Relieved the Monotony



THE RIVERMAN 53
from which, in shade, the last frost had not yet departed.
At camp the fires roared invitingly. Charlie's 'grub was hot
and grateful. The fir beds gave dreamless sleep.
Newmark followed the work of the log-drive with great
interest. All day long he tramped back and forth—on jam
One day, on rear the next. He never said much, but watched
keenly, and listened to the men's banter both on the work
and about the evening’s fire as though he enjoyed it. Grad-
ually the men got used to him, and ceased to treat him
as an outsider. His thin, eager face, his steel-blue, inquiring
eyes behind the glasses, his gray felt hat, his lank, tense
figure in its gray, became a familiar feature. They threw
remarks to him, to which he replied briefly and drily.
When anything interesting was going on, somebody told
him about it. Then he hurried to the spot, no matter how
distant it might be. He used always the river trail; he never
attempted to ride the logs.
He seemed to depend most on observation, for he rarely
asked any questions. What few queries he had to proffer,
he made to Orde himself, waiting sometimes until evening
to interview that busy and good-natured individual. Then
his questions were direct and to the point. They related
generally to the advisability of something he had seen done;
only rarely did they ask for explanation of the work itself.
That Newmark seemed capable of puzzling out for himself.
The drive, as has been said, went down as far as Red-
ding in thirty-three days. It had its share of tribulation.
The men worked fourteen and sixteen hours at times.
Several bad jams relieved the monotony. Three dams had
to be sluiced through. Problems of mechanics arose to be
solved on the spot; problems that an older civilisation
would have attacked deliberately and with due respect for
the seriousness of the situation and the dignity of engineer-
ing. Orde solved them by a rough-and-ready but very ef-
fective rule of thumb. He built and abandoned structures
54 THE RIVERMAN
which would have furnished opportunity for a winter's dis-
cussion to some committees; just as, earlier in the work,
the loggers had built through a rough country some hun-
dreds of miles of road better than railroad grade, solid in
foundation, and smooth as a turnpike, the quarter of which
would have occupied the average county board of Super-
visors for five years. And while he was at it, Orde kept
his men busy and satisfied. Your white-water birler is not
an easy citizen to handle. Yet never once did the boss
appear hurried or flustered. Always he wandered about,
his hands in his pockets, chewing a twig, his round, wind-
reddened face puckered humorously, his blue eyes twink-
ling, his square, burly form lazily relaxed. He seemed to
meet his men almost solely on the plane of good-natured
chaffing. Yet the work was done, and done efficiently, and
Orde was the man responsible.
The drive of which Orde had charge was to be delivered
at the booms of Morrison and Daly, a mile or so above the
city of Redding. Redding was a thriving place of about
thirty thousand inhabitants, situated on a long rapids some
forty miles from Lake Michigan. The water-power devel-
oped from the rapids explained Redding’s existence. Most
of the logs floated down the river were carried through to
the village at the lake coast, where, strung up the river
for eight or ten miles, stood a dozen or so big saw-mills,
with concomitant booms, yards, and wharves. Morrison and
Daly, however, had built a saw and planing mill at Red-
ding, where they supplied most of the local trade and that
of the surrounding country-side.
The drive, then, was due to break up as soon as the
logs should be safely impounded.
The last camp was made some six or eight miles above
the mill. From that point a good proportion of the river-
men, eager for a taste of the town, tramped away down
the road, to return early in the morning, more or less
THE RIVERMAN 55
drunk, but faithful to their job. One or two did not
return.
Among the revellers was the cook, Charlie, commonly
called The Doctor. The rivermen early worked off the
effects of their rather wild spree, and turned up at noon
chipper as larks. Not so the cook. He moped about dis-
consolately all day; and in the evening, after his work
had been finished, he looked so much like a chicken with
the pip that Orde's attention was attracted.
“Got that dark-brown taste, Charlie?” he inquired with
mock solicitude. •
The cook mournfully shook his head.
“Large head? Let's feel your pulse. Stick out your
tongue, Sonny.”
“I ain't been drinking, I tell you!” growled Charlie.
“Drinking !” expostulated Orde, horrified. “Of course
not l I hope none of my boys ever take a drink! But that
lemon-pop didn't agree with your stomach—now did it,
Charlie P’’ ... "
“I tell you I only had two glasses of beer!” cried
Charlie, goaded, “and I can prove it by Johnny Challan.”
Orde turned to survey the pink-cheeked, embarrassed
young boy thus designated.
“How many glasses did Johnny Challan have?” he in-
quired.
“He didn't drink none to speak of,” spoke up the boy.
“Then why this joyless demeanour?” begged Orde.
Charlie grumbled, fiercely inarticulate; but Johnny Chal-
lan interposed with a chuckle of enjoyment.
“He got ‘bunked.’”
“Tell us!” cried Orde delightedly.
“It was down at McNeill's place,” explained Johnny
Challan, encouraged by the interest of his audience. “They
was a couple of sports there who throwed out three cards
on the table and bet you couldn't pick the jack. They
| ??
56 THE RIVERMAN
showed you where the jack was before they throwed, and
it surely looked like a picnic, but it wasn't.”
“Three-card monte,” said Newmark.
“How much P” asked Simms.
“About fifty dollars,” replied the boy.
Orde turned on the disgruntled cook.
“And you had fifty in your turkey, camping with this
outfit of hard citizens!” he cried. “You ought to lose it.”
Johnny Challan was explaining to his companions ex-
actly how the game was played. *
“It’s a case of keep your eye on the card, I should think,”
said big Tim Nolan. “If you got a quick enough eye to
see him flip the card around, you ought to be able to
pick her.”
“That's what this sport said,” agreed Challan. “‘Your
eye agin my hand,’ says he.”
“Well, I’d like to take a try at her,” mused Tim.
But at this point Newmark broke into the discussion.
“Have you a pack of cards?” he asked in his dry, in-
cisive manner.
Somebody rummaged in a turkey and produced the re-
mains of an old deck.
“I don’t believe this is a full deck,” said he, “and I
think they’s part of two decks in it.”
“I only want three,” assured Newmark, reaching his
hand for the pack.
The men crowded around close, those in front squatting,
those behind looking over their shoulders.
Newmark cleared a cracker-box of drying socks and drew
it to him.
“These three are the cards,” he said, speaking rapidly.
“There is the jack of hearts. I pass my hands—so. Pick
the jack, one of you,” he challenged, leaning back from
the cracker-box on which lay the three cards, back up.
“Any of you,” he urged. “You, North.”
The Doctor

THE RIVERMAN 57
Thus directly singled out, the foreman leaned forward
and rather hesitatingly laid a blunt forefinger on one of
the bits of pasteboard.
Without a word, Newmark turned it over. It was the
ten of spades. -
“Let me try,” interposed Tim Nolan, pressing his big
shoulders forward. “I bet I know which it was that time;
and I bet I can pick her next time.”
“Oh, yes, you bet! ” shrugged Newmark. “And that's
where the card-sharps get you fellows every time. Well,
pick it,” said he, again deftly flipping the cards.
Nolan, who had watched keenly, indicated one without
hesitation. Again it proved to be the ten of spades.
“Anybody else ambitious?” inquired Newmark.
Everybody was ambitious; and the young man, with in-
exhaustible patience, threw out the cards, the corners of
his mouth twitching sardonically at each wrong guess.
At length he called a halt.
“By this time I’d have had all your money,” he pointed
out. “Now, I’ll pick the jack.”
For the last time he made his swift passes and distributed
the cards. Then quite calmly, without disturbing the three
on the cracker-box, he held before their eyes the jack of
hearts.
An exclamation broke from the interested group. Tim
Nolan, who was the nearest, leaned forward and turned
over the three on the board. They were the eight of dia-
monds and two tens of spades. -
“That’s how the thing is worked nine times out of ten,”
announced Newmark. “Once in a while you’ll run against
a straight game, but not often.”
“But you showed us the jack every time before you
throwed them l’’ puzzled Johnny Simms.
“Sleight of hand,” explained Newmark. “The simplest
kind of palming.”
58 THE RIVERMAN
“Well, Charlie,” said big Tim, “looks to me as if
you had just about as much chance as a snowball in
hell.”
“Where'd you get onto doing all that, Newmark?” in-
quired North. “You ain’t a tin horn yourself?”
Newmark laughed briefly. “Not I,” said he. “I learned
a lot of those tricks from a travelling magician in col-
lege.”
During this demonstration Orde had sat well in the
background, his chin propped on his hand, watching in-
tently all that was going on. After the comment and ex-
clamations following the exposure of the method had sub-
sided, he spoke.
“Boys,” said he, “how game are you to get Charlie's
money back—and then some?”
“Try us,” returned big Tim.
“This game's at McNeill’s, and McNeill’s is a tough
hole,” warned Orde. “Maybe everything will go peaceful,
and maybe not. And you boys that go with me have got
to keep sober. There isn’t going to be any row unless I
Say So, and I’m not taking any contract to handle a lot of
drunken river-hogs as well as go against a game.”
“All right,” agreed Nolan, “I’m with you.”
The thirty or so men of the rear crew then in camp
signified their intention to stay by the procession.
“You can’t make those sharps disgorge,” counselled
Newmark. “At the first look of trouble they will light
out. They have it all fixed. Force won’t do you much
good—and may get some of you shot.” -
“I’m not going to use force,” denied Orde. “I’m just
going to play their game. But I bet I can make it go.
Only I sort of want the moral support of the boys.”
“I tell you, you can't win l’’ cried Newmark disgust-
edly. “It’s a brace game pure and simple.” -
“I don’t know about it's being pure,” replied Orde
THE RIVERMAN 59
drolly, “but it's simple enough, if you know how to make
the wheels go ‘round. How is it, boys—will you back my
play?”.
And such was their confidence that, in face of New-
mark's demonstration, they said they would.
VII
FTER the men had been paid off, perhaps a dozen
A of them hung around the yards awaiting evening
and the rendezvous named by Orde. The rest
drifted away full of good intentions, but did not show
up again. Orde himself was busy up to the last moment,
but finally stamped out of the office just as the boarding-
house bell rang for supper. He surveyed what remained
of his old crew and grinned.
“Well, boys, ready for trouble?” he greeted them.
“Come on.”
They set out up the long reach of Water Street, their
steel caulks biting deep into the pitted board-walks.
For nearly a mile the street was flanked solely by lumber-
yards, small mills, and factories. Then came a strip of
unimproved land, followed immediately by the wooden,
ramshackle structures of Hell's Half-Mile.
In the old days every town of any size had its Hell's
Half-Mile, or the equivalent. Saginaw boasted of its Cata-
combs; Muskegon, Alpena, Port Huron, Ludington, had
their “Pens,” “White Rows,” “River Streets,” “Kilyub-
bin,” and so forth. They supported row upon row of sa-
loons, alike stuffy and squalid; gambling hells of all sorts;
refreshment “parlours,” where drinks were served by
dozens of “pretty waiter-girls,” and huge dance-halls.
The proprietors of these places were a bold and un-
scrupulous lot. In their everyday business they had to deal
with the most dangerous rough-and-tumble fighters this
country has ever known; with men bubbling over with the
Óo
THE RIVERMAN 61
joy of life, ready for quarrel if quarrel also spelled fun,
drinking deep, and heavy-handed and fearless in their cups.
But each of these rivermen had two or three hundred
dollars to “blow ’’ as soon as possible. The pickings were
good. Men got rich very quickly at this business. And there
existed this great advantage in favour of the dive-keeper:
nobody cared what happened to a riverman. You could
pound him over the head with a lead pipe, or drug his
drink, or choke him to insensibility, or rob him and throw
him out into the street, or even drop him tidily through
a trap-door into the river flowing conveniently beneath.
Nobody bothered—unless, of course, the affair was so
bungled as to become public. The police knew enough
to stay away when the drive hit town. They would have
been annihilated if they had not. The only fly in the
divekeeper's ointment was that the riverman would fight
back.
And fight back he did, until from one end of his street
to the other he had left the battered evidences of his skill
as a warrior. His constant heavy lifting made him as hard
as nails and as strong as a horse; the continual demand
on his agility in riding the logs kept him active and pre-
vented him from becoming muscle-bound; in his wild heart
was not the least trace of fear of anything that walked,
crawled, or flew. And he was as tireless as machinery, and
apparently as indifferent to punishment as a man cast in
11 O11.
Add to this a happy and complete disregard of conse-
quences—to himself or others—of anything he did, and, in
his own words, he was a “hard man to nick.”
As yet the season was too early for much joy along Hell's
Half-Mile. Orde's little crew, and the forty or fifty men
of the drive that had preceded him, constituted the rank
and file at that moment in town. A little later, when all
the drives on the river should be in, and those of its tribu-
62 THE RIVERMAN
taries, and the men still lingering at the woods camps, at
least five hundred woods-weary men would be turned loose.
Then Hell's Half-Mile would awaken in earnest from its
hibernation. The lights would blaze from day to day. From
its opened windows would blare the music, the cries of
men and women, the shuffle of feet, the noise of fighting,
the shrieks of wild laughter, curses deep and frank and
unashamed, songs broken and interrupted. Crews of men,
arms locked, would surge up and down the narrow side-
walks, their little felt hats cocked one side, their heads
back, their fearless eyes challenging the devil and all his
works—and getting the challenge accepted. Girls would flit
across the lit windows like shadows before flames, or stand
in the doorways hailing the men jovially by name. And
every few moments, above the roar of this wild inferno,
would sound the sudden crash and the dull blows of com-
bat. Only, never was heard the bark of the pistol. The
fighting was fierce, and it included kicking with the sharp
steel boot-caulks, biting and gouging; but it barred knives
and firearms. And when Hell's Half-Mile was thus in full
eruption, the citizens of Redding stayed away from Water
Street after dark. “Drive's in,” said they, and had business
elsewhere. And the next group of rivermen, hurrying
toward the fun, broke into an eager dog-trot. “Taking the
old town apart to-night,” they told each other. “Let’s get
in the game.” -
To-night, however, the street was comparatively quiet.
The saloons were of modified illumination. In many of
them men stood drinking, but in a sociable rather than a
hilarious mood. Old friends of the two drives were getting
together for a friendly glass. The barkeepers were list-
lessly wiping the bars. The “pretty waiter-girls” gossiped
with each other and yawned behind their hands. From sev-
eral doorways Orde's little compact group was accosted
by the burly saloonkeepers.
THE RIVERMAN 63
- Hullo, boys!” said they invariably, “glad to see you
back. Come in and have a drink on me.”
Well these men knew that one free drink would mean
a dozen paid for. But the rivermen merely shook their
heads.
“Huh !” sneered one of the girls. “Them's no river-
jacks! Them's just off the hay trail, I bet!”
But even this time-honoured and generally effective
taunt was ignored.
In the middle of the third block Orde wheeled sharp
to the left down a dark and dangerous-looking alley. An-
other turn to the right brought him into a very narrow
street. Facing this street stood a three-story wooden struc-
ture, into which led a high-arched entrance up a broad
half-flight of wooden steps. This was McNeill's.
As Orde and his men turned into the narrow street, a
figure detached itself from the shadow and approached.
Orde uttered an exclamation.
“You here, Newmark?” he cried.
“Yes,” replied that young man. “I want to see this
through.”
“With those clothes?” marvelled Orde. “It’s a wonder
some of these thugs haven't held you up long ago! I'll
get Johnny here to go back with you to the main street.”
“No,” argued Newmark, “I want to go in with you.”
“It’s dangerous,” explained Orde. “You’re likely to get
slugged.” -
“I can stand it if you can,” returned Newmark.
“I doubt it,” said Orde grimly. “However, it's your
funeral. Come on, if you want to.”
McNeill's lower story was given over entirely to drink-
ing. A bar ran down all one side of the room. Dozens of
little tables occupied the floor. “Pretty waiter-girls” were
prepared to serve drinks at these latter—and to share in
them, at a commission. The second floor was a theatre,
64 THE RIVERMAN
and the third a dance-hall. Beneath the building were still
viler depths. From this basement the riverman and the
shanty boy generally graduated penniless, and perhaps un-
conscious, to the street. Now, your lumber-jack did not
customarily arrive at this stage without more or less lively
doings en route; therefore McNeill's maintained a force of
fighters. They were burly, sodden men, in striking contrast
to the clean-cut, clear-eyed rivermen, but strong in their
experience and their discipline. To be sure, they might not
last quite as long as their antagonists could—a whisky
training is not conducive to long wind—but they always
lasted plenty long enough. Sand-bags and brass knuckles
helped some, ruthless singleness of purpose counted, and
team work finished the job. At times the storm rose high,
but up to now McNeill had always ridden it.
Orde and his men entered the lower hall, as though
sauntering in without definite aim. Perhaps a score of men
were in the room. Two tables of cards were under way—
with a great deal of noisy card-slapping that proclaimed
the game merely friendly. Eight or ten other men wandered
about idly, chaffing loudly with the girls, pausing to over-
look the card games, glancing with purposeless curiosity
at the professional gamblers sitting quietly behind their
various lay-outs. It was a dull evening.
Orde wandered about with the rest, a wide, good-natured
smile on his face.
“Start your little ball to rolling for that,” he in-
structed the roulette man, tossing down a bill. “Dropped
again l’ he lamented humorously. “Can’t seem to have
any luck.”
He drifted on to the crap game.
“Throw us the little bones, pardner,” he said. “I’ll go
you a five on it.”
He lost here, and so found himself at the table presided
over by the three-card monte men. The rest of his party,
THE RIVERMAN . 65
who had according to instructions scattered about the place,
now began quietly to gravitate in his direction.
“What kind of a lay-out is this?” inquired Orde.
The dealer held up the three cards face out.
“What kind of an eye have you got, bub?” he asked.
“Oh, I don't know. A pretty fair eye. Why?”
“Do you think you could pick out the jack when I
throw them out like this?” asked the dealer.
“Sure! She's that one.”
“Well,” exclaimed the gambler with a pretence of dis-
gust, “ damn if you didn't! I bet you five dollars you can't
do it again.”
“Take you!” replied Orde. “Put up your five.”
Again Orde was permitted to pick the jack.
“You’ve got the best eye that's been in this place since
I got here,” claimed the dealer admiringly. “Here, Den-
nis,” said he to his partner, “try if you can fool this
fellow.”
Dennis obligingly took the cards, threw them, and lost.
By this time the men, augmented by the idlers not busy
with the card games, had drawn close.
“Sail into 'em, bub,” encouraged one.
Whether it was that the gamblers, expert in the reading
of a man’s mood and intentions, sensed the fact that Orde
might be led to plunge, or whether, more simply, they were
using him as a capper to draw the crowd into their game,
it would be difficult to say, but twice more they bungled
the throw and permitted him to win.
Newmark plucked him at the sleeve.
“You’re twenty dollars ahead,” he muttered. “Quit it!
I never saw anybody beat this game that much before.”
Orde merely shrugged him off with an appearance of
growing excitement, while an habitué of the place, prob-
ably one of the hired fighters, growled into Newmark's
€2.1".
66 THE RIVERMAN
“Shut up, you damn dude!” warned this man. “Keep
out of what ain’t none of your business.”
“What limit do you put on this game, anyway?” Orde
leaned forward, his eyes alight.
The two gamblers spoke swiftly apart.
“How much do you want to bet?” asked one.
“Would you stand for five hundred dollars?” asked
Orde.
A dead silence fell on the group. Plainly could be heard
the men's quickened breathing. The shouts and noise from
the card parties blundered through the stillness. Some one
tiptoed across and whispered in the ear of the nearest
player. A moment later the chairs at the two tables scraped
back. One of them fell violently to the floor. Their occu-
pants joined the tense group about the monte game. All
the girls drew near. Only behind the bar the white-aproned
bartenders wiped their glasses with apparent imperturba-
bility, their eyes, however, on their brass knuckles hanging
just beneath the counter, their ears pricked up for the
riot call.
The gambler pretended to deliberate, his cool, shifty eyes
running over the group before him. A small door imme-
diately behind him swung slowly ajar an inch or so.
“Got the money?” he asked.
“Have you?” countered Orde.
Apparently satisfied, the man nodded.
“I’ll go you, bub, if I lose,” said he. “Lay out your
money.”
Orde counted out nine fifty-dollar bills and five tens.
Probably no one in the group of men standing about had
realised quite how much money five hundred dollars meant
until they saw it thus tallied out before them.
“All right,” said the gambler, taking up the cards.
“Hold on 1’’ cried Orde. “Where's yours?”
“Oh, that's all right,” the gambler reassured him. “I’m
THE RIVERMAN 67
with the house. I guess McNeill's credit is good,” he
laughed.
“That may all be,” insisted Orde, “but I'm putting up
my good money, and I expect to see good money put up
in return.”
They wrangled over this point for some time, but Orde
was obstinate. Finally the gamblers yielded. A canvass of
the drawer, helped out by the bar and the other games,
made up the sum. It bulked large on the table beside Orde's
higher denominations.
The interested audience now consisted of the dozen men
comprised by Orde's friends; nearly twice as many stran-
gers, evidently rivermen; eight hangers-on of the joint,
probably fighters and “bouncers ”; half a dozen profes-
sional gamblers, and several waitresses. The four barkeep-
ers still held their positions. Of these, the rivermen were
scattered loosely back of Orde, although Orde's own friends
had by now gathered compactly enough at his shoulder.
The mercenaries and gamblers had divided, and flanked
the table at either side. Newmark, a growing wonder and
disgust creeping into his usually unexpressive face, recog-
nised the strategic advantage of this arrangement. In case
of difficulty, a determined push would separate the river-
men from the gamblers long enough for the latter to dis-
appear quietly through the small door at the back.
“Satisfied ?” inquired the gambler briefly.
“Let her flicker,” replied Orde with equal brevity.
A gasp of anticipation went up. Quite coolly the gambler
made his passes. With equal coolness and not the slightest
hesitation, Orde planted his great red fist on one of the
cards.
“That is the jack,” he announced, looking the gambler
in the eye. -
“Oh, is it?” sneered the dealer. “Well, turn it over
and let's see.”
68 THE RIVERMAN
“No l’ roared Orde. “You turn over the other two 1 °
A low oath broke from the gambler, and his face con-
torted in a spasm. The barkeepers slid out from behind the
bar. For a moment the situation was tense and threatening.
The dealer with a sweeping glance again searched the
faces of those before him. In that moment, probably, he
made up his mind that an open scandal must be avoided.
Force and broken bones, even murder, might be all right
enough under colour of right. If Orde had turned up for
a jack the card on which he now held his fist, and then had
attempted to prove cheating, a cry of robbery and a lively
fight would have given opportunity for making way with
the stakes. But McNeill’s could not afford to be shown up
before thirty interested rivermen as running an open-and-
shut brace-game. However, the gambler made a desperate
try at what he must have known was a very forlorn hope.
“That isn’t the way this game is played,” said he. “Show
up your jack.”
“It's the way I play it,” replied Orde sternly. “These
gentlemen heard the bet.” He reached over and dexterously
flipped over the other two cards. “You see, neither of
these is the jack; this must be.”
“You win,” assented the gambler, after a pause.
Orde, his fist still on the third card, began pocketing
the stakes with the other hand. The gambler reached,
palm up, across the table.
“Give me the other card,” said he.
Orde picked it up, laughing. For a moment he seemed
to hesitate, holding the bit of pasteboard tantalisingly out-
stretched, as though he were going to turn also this one
face up. Then, quite deliberately he looked to right and
to left where the fighters awaited their signal, laughed
again, and handed the card to the gambler.
At once pandemonium broke loose. The rivermen of
Orde's party fairly shouted with joy over the unexpected
“I Say, Orde, I Want to Apologise to You”
-
º -
of .
ºncº


THE RIVERMAN 69
trick; the employees of the resort whispered apart; the
gambler explained, low-voiced and angry, his reasons for
not putting up a fight for so rich a stake.
“All to the bar!” yelled Orde.
They made a rush, and lined up and ordered their drinks.
Orde poured his on the floor and took the glass belonging
to the man next him.
“Get them to give you another, Tim,” said he, “No
knock-out drops, if I can help it.”
The men drank, and some one ordered another round.
“Tim,” said Orde, low-voiced, “get the crowd together
and we'll pull out. I’ve a thousand dollars on me, and they'll
sand-bag me sure if I go alone. And let's get out right
off.” - -
Ten minutes later they all stood safely on the lighted
thoroughfare of Water Street.
“Good-night, boys,” said Orde. “Go easy, and show up
at the booms Monday.”
He turned up the street toward the main part of the
town. Newmark joined him.
“I’ll walk a little ways with you,” he explained. “And
I say, Orde, I want to apologise to you. 'Most of the
evening I’ve been thinking you the worst fool I ever saw,
but you can take care of yourself at every stage of the
game. The trick was good, but your taking the other fel-
low’s drink beat it.”
VIII
RDE heard no more of Newmark—and hardly
O thought of him—until over two weeks later.
In the meantime the riverman, assuming the
more conventional garments of civilisation, lived with his
parents in the old Orde homestead at the edge of town.
This was a rather pretentious two-story brick structure,
in the old solid, square architecture, surrounded by a small
orchard, some hickories, and a garden. Orde's father had
built it when he arrived in the pioneer country from New
England forty years before. At that time it was considered
well out in the country. Since then the town had crept to
it, so that the row of grand old maples in front shaded
a stone-guttered street. A little patch of corn opposite, and
many still vacant lots above, placed it, however, as about
the present limit of growth.
Jack Orde was the youngest and most energetic of a
large family that had long since scattered to diverse cities
and industries. He and Grandpa and Grandma Orde dwelt
now in the big, echoing, old-fashioned house alone, save
for the one girl who called herself the “help * rather than
the servant. Grandpa Orde, now above sixty, was tall,
straight, slender. His hair was quite white, and worn a
little long. His features were finely chiselled and aquiline.
From them looked a pair of piercing, young, black eyes.
In his time, Grandpa Orde had been a mighty breaker
of the wilderness; but his time had passed, and with the
advent of a more intensive civilisation he had fallen upon
somewhat straitened ways. Grandma Orde, on the other
hand, was a very small, spry old lady, with a small face,
7o
THE RIVERMAN 71
a small figure, small hands and feet. She dressed in the
then usual cap and black silk of old ladies. Half her time
she spent at her housekeeping, which she loved, jingling
about from cellar to attic store-room, seeing that Amanda,
the “help,” had everything in order. The other half she
sat in a wooden “Dutch ‘’ rocking-chair by a window
overlooking the garden. Her silk-shod feet rested neatly
side by side on a carpet-covered hassock, her back against
a gay tapestried cushion. Near her purred big Jim, a mal-
tese rumoured to weigh fifteen pounds. Above her twit-
tered a canary.
And the interior of the house itself was in keeping. The
low ceilings, the slight irregularities of structure peculiar
to the rather rule-of-thumb methods of the earlier builders,
the deep window embrasures due to the thickness of the
walls, the unexpected passages leading to unsuspected
rooms, and the fact that many of these apartments were
approached by a step or so up or a step or so down—
these lent to it a quaint, old-fashioned atmosphere en-
hanced further by the steel engravings, the antique fur-
nishings, the many-paned windows, and all the belongings
of old people who have passed from a previous generation
untouched by modern ideas.
To this house and these people Orde came direct from
the greatness of the wilderness and the ferocity of Hell's
Half-Mile. Such contrasts were possible even ten or fifteen
years ago. The untamed country lay at the doors of the
most modern civilisation.
Newmark, reappearing one Sunday afternoon at the end
of the two weeks, was apparently bothered. He examined
the Orde place for some moments; walked on beyond it;
finding nothing there, he returned, and after some hesi-
tation turned in up the tar sidewalk and pulled at the old-
fashioned wire bell-pull. Grandma Orde herself answered
the door.
72 THE RIVERMAN
At sight of her fine features, her dainty lace cap and
mitts, and the stiffness of her rustling black silks, New-
mark took off his gray felt hat.
“Good-afternoon,” said he. “Will you kindly tell me
where Mr. Orde lives?”
“This is Mr. Orde's,” replied the little old lady.
“Pardon me,” persisted Newmark, “I am looking for
Mr. Jack Orde, and I was directed here. I am sorry to
have troubled you.”
“Mr. Jack Orde lives here,” returned Grandma Orde.
“He is my son. Would you like to see him?”
“If you please,” assented Newmark gravely, his thin,
shrewd face masking itself with its usual expression of
quizzical cynicism.
“Step this way, please, and I’ll call him,” requested his
interlocutor, standing aside from the doorway.
Newmark entered the cool, dusky interior, and was
shown to the left into a dim, long room. He perched on
a mahogany chair, and had time to notice the bookcases
with the white owl atop, the old piano with the yellowing
keys, the haircloth sofa and chairs, the steel engravings,
and the two oil portraits, when Orde's large figure dark-
ened the door.
For an instant the young man, who must just have come
in from the outside sunshine, blinked into the dimness.
Newmark, too, blinked back, although he could by this
time see perfectly well.
Newmark had known Orde only as a riverman. Like
most Easterners, then and now, he was unable to imagine
a man in rough clothes as being anything but essentially a
rough man. The figure he saw before him was decently
and correctly dressed in what was then the proper Sunday
costume. His big figure set off the cloth to advantage, and
even his wind-reddened face seemed toned down and re-
fined by the change in costume and surroundings.
THE RIVERMAN 73
“Oh, it's you, Mr. Newmark!” cried Orde in his hearty
way, and holding out his hand. “I’m glad to see you.
Where you been P Come on out of there. This is the ‘com-
pany place.’” Without awaiting a reply, he led the way into
the narrow hall, whence the two entered another, brighter
room, in which Grandma Orde sat, the canary singing
above her head.
“Mother,” said Orde, “this is Mr. Newmark, who was
with us on the drive this spring.”
Grandma Orde laid her gold-bowed glasses and her black
leather Bible on the stand beside her.
“Mr. Newmark and I spoke at the door,” said she, ex-
tending her frail hand with dignity. “If you were on the
drive, Mr. Newmark, you must have been one of the High
Privates in this dreadful war we all read about.”
Newmark laughed and made some appropriate reply. A
few moments later, at Orde's suggestion, the two passed
out a side door and back into the remains of the old
orchard.
“It’s pretty nice here under the trees,” said Orde. “Sit
down and light up. Where you been for the last couple of
weeks P’’
“I caught Johnson's drive and went on down river with
him to the lake,” replied Newmark, thrusting the offered
cigar in one corner of his mouth and shaking his head
at Orde's proffer of a light.
“You must like camp life.”
“I do not like it at all,” negatived Newmark emphat-
ically, “but the drive interested me. It interested me so
much that I’ve come back to talk to you about it.”
“Fire ahead,” acquiesced Orde. -
“I’m going to ask you a few questions about yourself,
and you can answer them or not, just as you please.”
“Oh, I'm not bashful about my career,” laughed Orde.
“How old are you?” inquired Newmark abruptly.
74. THE RIVERMAN
er-º-º-º-
“Thirty.”
“How long have you been doing that sort of thing—
driving, I mean?” --~~~
“Off and on, about six years.”
“Why did you go into that particular sort of thing?”
Orde selected a twig and carefully threw it at a lump
in the turf.
“Because there's nothing ahead of shovelling but dirt,”
he replied with a quaint grin.
“I see,” said Newmark, after a pause. “Then you think
there's more future to that sort of thing than the sort
of thing the rest of your friends go in for—law, and
wholesale groceries, and banking and the rest of it?”
“There is for me,” replied Orde simply.
“Yet you're merely river-driving on a salary at thirty.”
Orde flushed slowly, and shifted his position.
“Exactly so—Mr. District Attorney,” he said drily.
Newmark started from his absorption in his questioning
and shifted his unlighted cigar.
“Does sound like it,” he admitted; “but I’m not asking
all this out of idle curiosity. I’ve got a scheme in my head
that I think may work out big for us both.”
“Well,” assented Orde reservedly, “in that case—I’m
foreman on this drive because my outfit went kerplunk
two years ago, and I’m making a fresh go at it.”
“Failed?” inquired Newmark.
“Partner skedaddled,” replied Orde. “Now, if you're
satisfied with my family history, suppose you tell me what
the devil you're driving at.”
He was plainly restive under the cross-examination to
which he had been subjected.
“Look here,” said Newmark, abruptly changing the sub-
ject, “you know that rapids up river flanked by shallows,
where the logs are always going aground?”
“I do,” replied Orde, still grim.
THE RIVERMAN 75
“Well, why wouldn't it help to put a string of piers
down both sides, with booms between them to hold the
logs in the deeper water?”
“It would,” said Orde.
“Why isn't it done, then?”
“Who would do it?” countered Orde, leaning back more
easily in the interest of this new discussion. “If Daly did
it, for instance, then all the rest of the drivers would get
the advantage of it for nothing.”
“Get them to pay their share.”
Orde grinned. “I’d like to see you get any three men
to agree to anything on this river.”
“And a sort of dam would help at that Spruce Rapids?”
“Sure! If you improved the river for driving, she'd be
easier to drive. That goes without saying.”
“How many firms drive logs on this stream?”
“Ten,” replied Orde, without hesitation.
“How many men do they employ P.”
“Driving?” asked Orde.
“Driving.”
“About five hundred; a few more or less.”
“Now suppose,” Newmark leaned forward impressively,
“suppose a firm should be organised to drive all the logs
on the river. Suppose it improved the river with necessary
piers, dams, and all the rest of it, so that the driving would
be easier. Couldn’t it drive with less than five hundred
men, and couldn't it save money on the cost of driving?”
“It might,” agreed Orde.
“You know the conditions here. If such a firm should
be organised and should offer to drive the logs for these
ten firms at so much a thousand, do you suppose it would
get the business?”
“It would depend on the driving firm,” said Orde. “You
see, mill men have got to have their logs. They can't
afford to take chances. It wouldn’t pay.”
76 THE RIVERMAN
“Then that's all right,” agreed Newmark, with a gleam
of satisfaction across his thin face. “Would you form a
partnership with me having such an object in view P”
Orde threw back his head and laughed with genuine
amusement. t;
“I guess you don’t realise the situation,” said he. “We’d
have to have a few little things like distributing booms,
and tugs, and a lot of tools and supplies and works of
various kinds.”
“Well, we'd get them.”
It was now Orde's turn to ask questions.
“How much are you worth?” he inquired bluntly.
“About twenty thousand dollars,” replied Newmark.
“Well, if I raise very much more than twenty thousand
cents, I’m lucky just now.”
“How much capital would we have to have?” asked
Newmark.
Orde thought for several minutes, twisting the petal of
an old apple-blossom between his strong, blunt fingers.
“Somewhere near seventy-five thousand dollars,” he esti-
mated at last.
“That's easy,” cried Newmark. “We'll make a stock
company—say a hundred thousand shares. We’ll keep just
enough between us to control the company—say fifty-one
thousand. I’ll put in my pile, and you can pay for yours
out of the earnings of the company.”
“That doesn’t sound fair,” objected Orde.
“You pay interest,” explained Newmark. “Then we’ll
sell the rest of the stock to raise the rest of the money.”
“If we can,” interjected Orde.
“I think we can,” asserted Newmark.
Orde fell into a brown study, occasionally throwing a
twig or a particle of earth at the offending lump in the
turf. Overhead the migratory warblers balanced right-side
up or up-side down, searching busily among the new leaves,
“I'd Like to See You Get Any Three Men to Agree to
Anything on This River”


THE RIVERMAN 77
uttering their simple calls. The air was warm and soft
and still, the sky bright. Fat hens clucked among the
grasses. A feel of Sunday was in the air.
“I must have something to live on,” said he thoughtfully
at last.
“So must I,” said Newmark. “We’ll have to pay our-
selves salaries, of course, but the smaller the better at first.
You'll have to take charge of the men and the work and
all the rest of it—I don’t know anything about that. I’ll
attend to the incorporating and the routine, and I’ll try to
place the stock. You'll have to see, first of all, whether you
can get contracts from the logging firms to drive the logs.”
“How can I tell what to charge them?”
“We'll have to figure that very closely. You know where
these different drives would start from, and how long each
of them would take?”
“Oh, yes; I know the river pretty well.”
“Well, then we'll figure how many days’ driving there
is for each, and how many men there are, and what it costs
for wages, grub, tools—we'll just have to figure as near as
we can to the actual cost, and then add a margin for profit
and for interest on our investment.”
“It might work out all right,” admitted Orde.
“I’m confident it would,” asserted Newmark. “And
there'd be no harm figuring it all out, would there?” * . . .
“No,” agreed Orde, “that would be fun all right.”
At this moment Amanda appeared at the back door and
waved an apron.
“Mr. Jack!” she called. “Come in to dinner.”
Newmark looked puzzled, and, as he arose, glanced sur-
reptitiously at his watch. Orde seemed to take the summons
as one to be expected, however. In fact, the strange hour
was the usual Sunday custom in the Redding of that day,
and had to do with the late-church freedom of Arnanda
and her like.
78 THE RIVERMAN
“Come in and eat with us,” invited Orde. “We’d be
glad to have you.”
But Newmark declined.
“Come up to-morrow night, then, at half-past six, for
supper,” Orde urged him. “We can figure on these things
a little. I’m in Daly’s all day, and hardly have time except
evenings.”
To this Newmark assented. Orde walked with him down
the deep-shaded driveway with the clipped privet hedge on
one side, to the iron gate that swung open when one drove
over a projecting lever. There he said good-bye.
A moment later he entered the long dining-room, where
Grandpa and Grandma Orde were already seated. An old-
fashioned service of smooth silver and ivory-handled steel
knives gave distinction to the plain white linen. A tea-pot
smothered in a “cosey’’ stood at Grandma Orde's right.
A sirloin roast on a noble platter awaited Grandpa Orde's
knife.
Orde dropped into his place with satisfaction.
“Shut up, Cheep !” he remarked to a frantic canary
hanging in the sunshine.
“Your friend seems a nice-appearing young man,” said
Grandma Orde. “Wouldn't he stay to dinner?”
“I asked him,” replied Orde, “but he couldn't. He and
I have a scheme for making our everlasting fortunes.”
“Who is he?” asked grandma.
Orde dropped his napkin into his lap with a comical
chuckle of dismay.
“Blest if I have the slightest idea, mother,” he said.
“Newmark joined us on the drive. Said he was a lawyer,
and was out in the woods for his health. He's been with
us, studying and watching the work, ever since.”
IX
remarked to his mother, as he arose from the table.
This was his method of announcing that he would not
be home for supper.
Jane Hubbard lived in a low one-story house of blue
granite, situated amid a grove of Oaks at the top of the
hill. She was a kindly girl, whose parents gave her free
swing, and whose house, in consequence, was popular with
the younger people. Every Sunday she offered to all who
came a “Sunday-night lunch,” which consisted of cold
meats, cold salad, bread, butter, cottage cheese, jam, pre-
serves, and the like, warmed by a cup of excellent tea.
These refreshments were served by the guests themselves.
It did not much matter how few or how many came.
On the Sunday evening in question Orde found about
the usual crowd gathered. Jane herself, tall, deliberate in
movement and in speech, kindly and thoughtful, talked in
a corner with Ernest Colburn, who was just out of college,
and who worked in a bank. Mignonne Smith, a plump,
rather pretty little body with a tremendous aureole of hair
like spun golden fire, was trying to balance a croquet-ball
on the end of a ruler. The ball regularly fell off. Three
young men, standing in attentive attitudes, thereupon dove
forward in an attempt to catch it before it should hit the
floor—which it generally did with a loud thump. A col-
lapsed chair of slender lines stacked against the wall at-
tested previous acrobatics. This much Orde, standing in the
doorway, looked upon quite as the usual thing. Only he
I THINK I’ll go see Jane Hubbard this evening,” Orde
79
8o THE RIVERMAN
missed the Incubus. Searching the room with his eyes, he
at length discovered that incoherent, desiccated, but per-
sistent youth vis-à-vis with a stranger. Orde made out the
white of her gown in the shadows, the willowy outline
of her small and slender figure, and the gracious forward
bend of her head.
The company present caught sight of Orde standing in
the doorway, and suspended occupations to shout at him
joyfully. He was evidently a favourite. The strange girl
in the corner turned to him a white, long face, of which
he could see only the outline and the redness of the lips
where the lamplight reached them. She leaned slightly for-
ward and the lips parted. Orde's muscular figure, standing
square and uncompromising in the doorway, the out-of-door
freshness of his complexion, the steadiness of his eyes
laughing back a greeting, had evidently attracted her. Or
perhaps anything was a relief from the Incubus.
“So you're back at last, are you, Jack?” drawled Jane
in her lazy, good-natured way. “Come and meet Miss
Bishop. Carroll, I want to present Mr. Orde.”
Orde bowed ceremoniously into the penumbra cast by the
lamp's broad shade. The girl inclined gracefully her small
head with the glossy hair. The Incubus, his thin hands
clasped on his knee, his sallow face twisted in one of its
customary wry smiles, held to the edge of his chair with
characteristic pertinacity.
“Well, Walter,” Orde addressed him genially, “are you
having a good time?”
“Yes-indeed!” replied the Incubus as though it were
one word.
His chair was planted squarely to exclude all others.
Orde surveyed the situation with good-humour.
“Going to keep the other fellow from getting a chance,
I see.”
“Yes-indeed!” replied the Incubus.
THE RIVERMAN 81
Orde bent over, and with great ease lifted Incubus,
chair, and all, and set him facing Mignonne Smith and
the croquet-ball.
“Here, Mignonne,” said he, “I’ve brought you another
assistant.”
He returned to the lamp, to find the girl, her dark eyes
alight with amusement, watching him intently. She held
the tip of a closed fan against her lips, which brought her
head slightly forward in an attitude as though she listened.
Somehow there was about her an air of poise, of absolute
balanced repose quite different from Jane's rather awkward
statics, and in direct contrast to Mignonne's dynamics.
“Walter is a very bright man in his own line,” said
Orde, swinging forward a chair, “but he mustn't be al-
lowed any monopolies.”
“How do you know I want him so summarily removed?”
the girl asked him, without changing either her graceful
attitude of suspended motion or the intentness of her gaze.
“Well,” argued Orde, “I got him to say all he ever
says to any girl—‘Yes-indeed !’—so you couldn't have any
more conversation from him. If you want to look at him,
why, there he is in plain sight. Besides, I want to talk to
you myself.”
“Do you always get what you want?” inquired the girl.
Orde laughed.
“Any one can get anything he wants, if only he wants it
bad enough,” he asserted.
The girl pondered this for a moment, and finally lowered
and opened her fan, and threw back her head in a more
relaxed attitude.
“Some people,” she amended. “However, I forgive you.
I will even flatter you by saying I am glad you came.
You look to have reached the age of discretion. I venture
to say that these boys' idea of a lively evening is to throw
bread about the table.”
82 THE RIVERMAN
Orde flushed a little. The last time he had supped at
Jane Hubbard's, that was exactly what they did do.
“They are young, of course,” he said, “and you and I
are very old and wise. But having a noisy, good time isn't
such a great crime—or is it where you came from?”
The girl leaned forward, a sparkle of interest in her
eyes.
“Are you and I going to fight?” she demanded.
“That depends on you,” returned Orde squarely, but
with perfect good-humour.
They eyed each other a moment. Then the girl closed
her fan, and leaned forward to touch him on the arm
with it.
“You are quite right not to allow me to say mean things
about your friends, and I am a nasty little snip.”
Orde bowed with sudden gravity.
“And they do throw bread,” said he.
They both laughed. She leaned back with a movement
of satisfaction, seeming to sink into the shadows.
“Now, tell me; what do you do?”
“What do I do?” asked Orde, puzzled. -
“Yes. Everybody does something out West here. It’s a
disgrace not to do something, isn't it?”
“Oh, my business! I'm a river-driver just now.”
“A river-driver?” she repeated, once more leaning for-
ward. “Why, I've just been hearing a great jeal about
you.”
“That so?” he inquired.
“Yes, from Mrs. Baggs.”
“Oh!” said Orde. “Then you know what a drunken,
swearing, worthless lot of bums and toughs we are, don't
you?”
For the first time, in some subtle way she broke the poise
of her attitude.
“There is Hell’s Half-Mile,” she reminded him.
THE RIVERMAN 83
“Oh, yes,” said Orde bitterly, “there's Hell's Half-Mile !
Whose fault is that? My rivermen's P My boys? Look here!
I suppose you couldn't understand it, if you tried a month;
but suppose you were working out in the woods nine months
of the year, up early in the morning and in late at night.
Suppose you slept in rough blankets, on the ground or in
bunks, ate rough food, never saw a woman or a book,
undertook work to scare your city men up a tree and into
a hole too easy, risked your life a dozen times a week
in a tangle of logs, with the big river roaring behind just
waiting to swallow you; saw nothing but woods and river,
were cold and hungry and wet, and so tired you couldn't
wiggle, until you got to feeling like the thing was never
going to end, and until you got sick of it way through
in spite of the excitement and danger. And then suppose
you hit town, where there were all the things you hadn't
had—and the first thing you struck was Hell's Half-Mile.
Say! you’ve seen water behind a jam, haven’t you? Water-
power's a good thing in a mill course, where it has wheels
to turn; but behind a jam it just rips things—Oh, what's
the use talking ! A girl doesn't know what it means. She
couldn’t understand.”
He broke off with an impatient gesture. She was looking
at him intently, her lips again half-parted.
“I think I begin to understand a little,” said she softly.
She smiled to herself. “But they are a hard and heartless
class in spite of all their energy and courage, aren't they?”
she drew him out.
“Hard and heartless!” exploded Orde. “There's no
kinder lot of men on earth, let me tell you. Why, there
isn’t a man on that river who doesn't chip in five or ten
dollars when a man is hurt or killed; and that means three
or four days’ hard work for him. And he may not know
or like the injured man at all ! Why 35
“What's all the excitement?” drawled Jane Hubbard
84 THE RIVERMAN
behind them. “Can't you make it a to-be-continued-in-our-
next? We’re 'most starved.”
“Yes-indeed ” chimed in the Incubus.
The company trooped out to the dining-room where the
table, spread with all the good things, awaited them.
“Ernest, you light the candles,” drawled Jane, drifting
slowly along the table with her eye on the arrangements,
“ and some of you boys go get the butter and the milk-
pitcher from the ice-box.”
To Orde's relief, no one threw any bread, although the
whole-hearted fun grew boisterous enough before the close
of the meal. Miss Bishop sat directly across from him. He
had small chance of conversation with her in the hubbub
that raged, but he gained full leisure to examine her more
closely in the fuller illumination. Throughout, her note was
of fineness. Her hands, as he had already noticed, were
long, the fingers tapering; her wrists were finely moulded,
but slender, and running without abrupt swelling of muscles
into the long lines of her forearm; her figure was rounded,
but built on the curves of slenderness; her piled, glossy
hair was so fine that though it was full of wonderful soft
shadows denied coarser tresses, its mass hardly did justice
to its abundance. Her face, again, was long and oval, with
a peculiar transparence to the skin and a peculiar faint,
healthy circulation of the blood well below the surface,
which relieved her complexion of pallor, but did not give
her a colour. The lips, on the contrary, were satin red, and
Orde was mildly surprised, after his recent talk, to find them
sensitively moulded, and with a quaint, child-like quirk at
the corners. Her eyes were rather contemplative, and so
black as to resemble spots.
In spite of her half-scornful references to “bread-throw-
ing,” she joined with evident pleasure in the badinage and
more practical fun which struck the note of the supper.
Only Orde thought to discern even in her more boisterous
THE RIVERMAN 8;
movements a graceful, courteous restraint, to catch in the
bend of her head a dainty concession to the joy of the
moment, to hear in the tones of her laughter a reservation
of herself, which nevertheless was not at all a reservation,
against the others.
After the meal was finished, each had his candle to blow
out, and then all returned to the parlour, leaving the débris
for the later attention of the “hired help.”
Orde with determination made his way to Miss Bishop's
side. She smiled at him.
“You see, I am a hypocrite as well as a mean little snip,”
said she. “I threw a little bread myself.”
“Threw bread?” repeated Orde. “I didn't see you.”
“The moon is made of green cheese,” she mocked him,
“and there are countries where men's heads do grow be-
neath their shoulders.” She moved gracefully away toward
Jane Hubbard. “Do you Western “business men’ never deal
in figures of speech as well as figures of the other sort?”
she wafted back to him over her shoulder.
“I was very stupid,” acknowledged Orde, following
her.
She stopped and faced him in the middle of the room,
smiling quizzically.
“Well?” she challenged.
“Well, what?” asked Orde, puzzled.
“I thought perhaps you wanted to ask me something.”
66 Why? 55
“Your following me,” she explained, the corners of her
mouth smiling. “I had turned away 53
“I just wanted to talk to you,” said Orde.
“And you always get what you want,” she repeated.
“Well?” she conceded, with a shrug of mock resignation.
But the four other men here cut in with a demand. -
“Music!” they clamoured. “We want music!”
With a nod, Miss Bishop turned to the piano, sweeping
9
86 . THE RIVERMAN
aside her white draperies as she sat. She struck a few soft
chords, and then, her long hands wandering idly and
softly up and down the keys, she smiled at them over
her shoulder.
“What shall it be?” she inquired. -
Some one thrust an open song-book on the rack in front
of her. The others gathered close about, leaning forward
to See.
Song followed song, at first quickly, then at longer in-
tervals. At last the members of the chorus dropped away
one by one to occupations of their own. The girl still sat
at the piano, her head thrown back idly, her hands wan-
dering softly in and out of melodies and modulations.
Watching her, Orde finally saw only the shimmer of her
white figure, and the white outline of her head and throat.
All the rest of the room was gray from the concentration
of his gaze. At last her hands fell in her lap. She sat look-
ing straight ahead of her.
Orde at once arose and came to her.
“That was a wonderfully quaint and beautiful thing,”
said he. “What was it?”
She turned to him, and he saw that the mocking had
gone from her eyes and mouth, leaving them quite simple,
like a child’s.
“Did you like it?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Orde. He hesitated and stammered awk-
wardly. “It was so still and soothing, it made me think
of the river sometimes about dusk. What was it?”
“It wasn't anything. I was improvising.”
“You made it up yourself?”
“It was myself, I suppose. I love to build myself a gar-
den, and wander on until I lose myself in it. I’m glad
there was a river in the garden—a nice, still, twilight
river.” -
She flashed up at him, her head sidewise.
THE RIVERMAN 87
“There isn't always.” She struck a crashing discord on
the piano.
Every one looked up at the sudden noise of it.
“Oh, don't stop !” they cried in chorus, as though each
had been listening intently.
The girl laughed up at Orde in amusement. Somehow
this flash of an especial understanding between them to
the exclusion of the others sent a warm glow to his heart.
“I do wish you had your harp here,” said Jane Hub-
bard, coming indolently forward. “You just ought to hear
her play the harp,” she told the rest. “It’s just the best
thing you ever did hear!”
At this moment the outside door opened to admit Mr.
and Mrs. Hubbard, who had, according to their usual Sun-
day custom, been spending the evening with a neighbour.
This was the signal for departure. The company began to
break up.
Orde pushed his broad shoulders in to screen Carroll
Bishop from the others.
“Are you staying here?” he asked.
She opened her eyes wide at his brusqueness.
“I’m visiting Jane,” she replied at length, with an af-
fectation of demureness.
“Are you going to be here long?” was Orde's next
question.
“About a month.”
“I am coming to see you,” announced Orde. “Good-
night.”
He took her hand, dropped it, and followed the others
into the hall, leaving her standing by the lamp. She watched
him until the outer door had closed behind him. Not once
did he look back. Jane Hubbard, returning after a moment
from the hall, found her at the piano again, her head
slightly one side, playing with painful and accurate exact-
ness a simple one-finger melody.
88 THE RIVERMAN
Orde walked home down the hill in company with the
Incubus. Neither had anything to say; Orde because he
was absorbed in thought, the Incubus because nothing oc-
curred to draw from him his one remark. Their feet clipped
sharply against the tar walks, or rang more hollow on
the boards. Overhead the stars twinkled through the still-
bare branches of the trees. With few exceptions the houses
were dark. People “retired '' early in Redding. An occa-
sional hall light burned dimly, awaiting some one's return.
At the gate of the Orde place, Orde roused himself to
say good-night. He let himself into the dim-lighted hall,
hung up his hat, and turned out the gas. For some time
he stood in the dark, quite motionless; then, with the ac-
curacy of long habitude, he walked confidently to the nar-
row stairs and ascended them. Subconsciously he avoided
the creaking step, but outside his mother's door he stopped,
arrested by a greeting from within.
“That you, Jack?” queried Grandma Orde.
For answer Orde pushed open the door, which stood
an inch or so ajar, and entered. A dim light from a dis-
tant street-lamp, filtered through the branches of a tree,
flickered against the ceiling. By its aid he made out the
great square bed, and divined the tiny figure of his mother.
He seated himself sidewise on the edge of the bed.
“Go to Jane's P” queried grandma in a low voice, to
avoid awakening grandpa, who slept in the adjoining room.
“Yes,” replied Orde, in the same tone.
“Who was there?”
“Oh, about the usual crowd.”
He fell into an abstracted silence, which endured for
Several minutes.
“Mother,” said he abruptly, at last, “I’ve met the girl
I want for my wife.”
Grandma Orde sat up in bed.
º “Who is she?” she demanded.
THE RIVERMAN 89
“Her name is Carroll Bishop,” said Orde, “and she's
visiting Jane Hubbard.”
“Yes, but who is she?” insisted Grandma Orde. “Where
is she from ?” -
Orde stared at her in the dim light.
“Why, mother,” he repeated for the second time that
day, “blest if I know that!”
Y
RDE was up and out at six o'clock the following
morning. By eight he had reported for work at
Daly's mill, where, with the assistance of a portion
of the river crew, he was occupied in sorting the logs in
the booms. Not until six o'clock in the evening did the
whistle blow for the shut-down. Then he hastened home,
to find that Newmark had preceded him by some few mo-
ments and was engaged in conversation with Grandma
Orde. The young man was talking easily, though rather
precisely and with brevity. He nodded to Orde and finished
his remark.
After supper Orde led the way up two flights of narrow
stairs to his own room. This was among the gables, a
chamber of strangely diversified ceiling, which slanted here
and there according to the demands of the roof outside.
“Well,” said he, “I’ve made up my mind to-day to go
in with you. It may not work out, but it’s a good chance,
and I want to get in something that looks like money. I
don’t know who you are, nor how much of a business
man you are or what your experience is, but I’ll risk it.”
“I’m putting in twenty thousand dollars,” pointed out
Newmark. •
“And I’m putting in my everlasting reputation,” said
Orde. “If we tell these fellows that we’ll get out their
logs for them, and then don't do it, I’ll be dead around
here.”
“So that’s about a stand-off,” said Newmark. “I’m bet-
ting twenty thousand on what I’ve seen and heard of you,
90
THE RIVERMAN 91
and you’re risking your reputation that I don’t want to
drop my money.” -
Orde laughed.
“And I reckon we're both right,” he responded.
“Still,” Newmark pursued the subject, “I’ve no objec-
tion to telling you about myself. New York born and bred;
experience with Cooper and Dunne, brokers, eight years.
Money from a legacy. Parents dead. No relatives to
speak to.”
Orde nodded gravely twice in acknowledgment.
“Now,” said Newmark, “have you had time to do any
figuring?”
“Well,” replied Orde, “I got at it a little yesterday
afternoon, and a little this noon. I have a rough idea.”
He produced a bundle of scribbled papers from his coat-
pocket. “Here you are. I take Daly as a sample, because
I’ve been with his outfit. It costs him to run and deliver
his logs one hundred miles about two dollars a thousand
feet. He's the only big manufacturer up here; the rest are
all at Monrovia, where they can get shipping by water.
I suppose it costs the other nine firms doing business on
the river from two to two and a half a thousand.”
Newmark produced a note-book and began to jot down
figures. -
“Do these men all conduct separate drives?” he in-
quired.
“All but Proctor and old Heinzman. They pool in to-
gether.”
“Now,” went on Newmark, “if we were to drive the
whole river, how could we improve on that?”
“Well, I haven't got it down very fine, of course,” Orde
told him, “but in the first place we wouldn’t need so
many men. I could run the river on three hundred easy
enough. That saves wages and grub on two hundred right
there. And, of course, a few improvements on the river
92 THE RIVERMAN
would save time, which in our case would mean money.
We would not need so many separate cook outfits and all
that. Of course, that part of it we'd have to get right
down and figure on, and it will take time. Then, too, if
we agreed to sort and deliver, we'd have to build sorting
booms down at Monrovia.”
“Suppose we had all that. What, for example, do you
reckon you could bring Daly's logs down for P”
Orde fell into deep thought, from which he emerged
occasionally to scribble on the back of his memoranda.
“I suppose somewhere about a dollar,” he announced at
last. He looked up a trifle startled. “Why,” he cried, “that
looks like big money ! A hundred per cent!”
Newmark watched him for a moment, a quizzical Smile
wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Hold your horses,” said he at last. “I don’t know any-
thing about this business, but I can see a few things. In
the first place, close figuring will probably add a few cents
to that dollar. And then, of course, all our improvements
will be absolutely valueless to anybody after we’ve got
through using them. You said yesterday they'd prob-
ably stand us in seventy-five thousand dollars. Even at
a dollar profit, we'd have to drive seventy-five million
before we got a cent back. And, of course, we’ve got
to agree to drive for a little less than they could them-
selves.”
“That's so,” agreed Orde, his crest falling.
“However,” said Newmark briskly, as he arose, “there's
good money in it, as you say. Now, how soon can you
leave Daly?” -
“By the middle of the week we ought to be through
with this job.”
“That’s good. Then we’ll go into this matter of expense
thoroughly, and establish our schedule of rates to submit
to the different firms.”
THE RIVERMAN 93
Newmark said a punctilious farewell to Mr. and Mrs. .
Orde.
“By the way,” said Orde to him at the gate, “where
are you staying?”
“At the Grand.” *
“I know most of the people here—all the young folks.
I’d be glad to take you around and get you acquainted.”
“Thank you,” replied Newmark, “you are very kind.
But I don’t go in much for that sort of thing, and I
expect to be very busy now on this new matter; so I won't
trouble you.”
XI
HE new partners, as soon as Orde had released
| himself from Daly, gave all their time to working
out a schedule of tolls. Orde drew on his intimate
knowledge of the river and its tributaries, and the loca-
tions of the different rollways, to estimate as closely as
possible the time it would take to drive them. He also
hunted up Tom North and others of the older men domi-
ciled in the cheap boarding-houses of Hell's Half-Mile,
talked with them, and verified his own impressions. To-
gether, he and Newmark visited the supply houses, got
prices, obtained lists. All the evenings they figured busily,
until at last Newmark expressed himself as satisfied.
“Now, Orde,” said he, “here is where you come in.
It's now your job to go out and interview these men and
get their contracts for driving their next winter's cut.”
But Orde drew back.
“Look here, Joe,” he objected, “that's more in your
line. You can talk business to them better than I can.”
“Not a bit,” negatived Newmark. “They don't know me
from Adam, and they do know you, and all about you.
We've got to carry this thing through at first on our face,
and they’d be more apt to entrust the matter to you per-
sonally.” -
“All right,” agreed Orde. “I’ll start in on Daly.”
He did so the following morning. Daly swung his bulk
around in his revolving office-chair and listened attentively.
“Well, Jack,” said he, “I think you're a good riverman,
and I believe you can do it. I’d be only too glad to get
94
THE RIVERMAN 95
rid of the nuisance of it, let alone get it done cheaper.
If you’ll draw up your contract and bring it in here, I’ll
sign it. I suppose you'll break out the rollways?”
“No,” said Orde; “we hadn’t thought of doing more
than the driving and distributing. You'll have to deliver
the logs in the river. Maybe another year, after we get
better organised, we'll be able to break rollways—at a price
per thousand—but until we get a-going we'll have to rush
her through.”
Orde repeated this to his associate.
“That was smooth enough sailing,” he exulted.
“Yes,” pondered Newmark, removing his glasses and
tapping his thumb with their edge. “Yes,” he repeated,
“that was smooth sailing. What was that about rollways?”
“Oh, I told him we’d expect him to break out his own,”
said Orde. •
“Yes, but what does that mean exactly?”
“Why,” explained Orde, with a slight stare of surprise,
“when the logs are cut and hauled during the winter, they
are banked on the river-banks, and even in the river-chan-
nel itself. Then, when the thaws come in the spring, these
piles are broken down and set afloat in the river.”
“I see,” said Newmark. “Well, but why shouldn't we
undertake that part of it? I should think that would be
more the job of the river-drivers.”
“It would hold back our drive too much to have to stop
and break rollways,” explained Orde.
The next morning they took the early train for Mon-
rovia, where were situated the big mills and the offices
of the nine other lumber companies. Within an hour they
had descended at the small frame terminal station, and were
walking together up the village street.
Monrovia was at that time a very spread-out little place
of perhaps two thousand population. It was situated a half
mile from Lake Michigan, behind the sparsely wooded sand
96 THE RIVERMAN
hills of its shore. From the river, which had here grown
to a great depth and width, its main street ran directly at
right angles. Four brick blocks of three stories lent im-
pressiveness to the vista. The stores in general, however,
were low frame structures. All faced broad plank sidewalks
raised above the street to the level of a waggon body.
From this main street ran off, to right and left, other
streets, rendered lovely by maple trees that fairly met
across the way. In summer, over sidewalk and roadway
alike rested a dense, refreshing dark shadow that seemed
to throw from itself an odour of coolness. This was ren-
dered further attractive lay the warm spicy odour of damp
pine that arose from the resilient surface of sawdust and
shingles broken beneath the wheels of traffic. Back from
these trees, in wide, well-cultivated lawns, stood the better
residences. They were almost invariably built of many cor-
ners, with steep roofs meeting each other at all angles,
with wide and ornamented red chimneys, numerous win-
dows, and much scroll work adorning each apex and cor-
nice. The ridge poles bristled in fancy foot-high palisades
of wood. Chimneys were provided with lightning-rods.
Occasionally an older structure, on square lines, recorded
the era of a more dignified architecture. Everywhere ran
broad sidewalks and picket fences. Beyond the better resi-
dence districts were the board shanties of the mill workers.
Orde and Newmark tramped up the plank walk to the
farthest brick building. When they came to a cross street,
they had to descend to it by a short flight of steps on one
side, and ascend from it by a corresponding flight on the
other. At the hotel, Newmark seated himself in a rocking-
chair next the big window.
“Good luck!” said he.
Orde mounted a wide, dark flight of stairs that led from
the street to a darker hall. The smell of stale cigars and
cocoa matting was in the air. Down the dim length of this
THE RIVERMAN 97
hall he made his way to a door, which without ceremony
he pushed open.
He found himself in a railed-off space, separated from
the main part of the room by a high walnut grill.
“Mr. Heinzman in P” he asked of a clerk.
“I think so,” replied the clerk, to whom evidently Orde
was known.
Orde spent the rest of the morning with Heinzman, a
very rotund, cautious person of German extraction and ac-
cent. Heinzman occupied the time in asking questions of
all sorts about the new enterprise. At twelve he had not
in any way committed himself nor expressed an opinion.
He, however, instructed Orde to return the afternoon of
the following day.
“I vill see Proctor,” said he.
Orde, rather exhausted, returned to find Newmark still
sitting in the rocking-chair with his unlighted cigar. The
two had lunch together, after which Orde, somewhat re-
freshed, started out. He succeeded in getting two more
promises of contracts and two more deferred interviews.
“That's going a little faster,” he told Newmark cheer-
fully.
The following morning, also, he was much encouraged
by the reception his plan gained from the other lumber-
men. At lunch he recapitulated to Newmark.
“That's four contracts already,” said he, “and three
more practically a sure thing. Proctor and Heinzman are
slower than molasses about everything, and mean as pus-
ley, and Johnson's up in the air, the way he always is,
for fear some one's going to do him.”
“It isn't a bad outlook,” admitted Newmark.
But Heinzman offered a new problem for Orde's con-
sideration.
“I haſ talked with Proctor,” said he, “and ve like your
Scheme. If you can deliffer our logs here for two dollars
98 THE RIVERMAN
and a quarter, why, that is better as ve can do it; but how
do ve know you vill do it?”
“I’ll guarantee to get them here all right,” laughed
Orde.
“But what is your guarantee good for?” persisted
Heinzman blandly, locking his fingers over his rotund
little stomach. “Suppose the logs are not deliffered—what
then? How responsible are you financially?”
“Well, we're investing seventy-five thousand dollars or
so.”
Heinzman rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and
wafted the imaginary pulverisation away.
“Worth that for a judgment,” said he.
He allowed a pause to ensue.
“If you will give a bond for the performance of your
contract,” pursued Heinzman, “that vould be satisfactory.”
Orde's mind was struck chaotic by the reasonable-
ness of this request, and the utter impossibility of ac-
ceding to it. -
“How much of a bond P” he asked.
“Twenty-fife thousand vould satisfy us,” said Heinzman.
“Bring us a suitable bond for that amount and ve vill
sign your contract.”
Orde ran down the stairs to find Newmark.
“Heinzman won't sign unless we give him a bond for
performance,” he said in a low tone, as he dropped into the
chair next to Newmark.
Newmark removed his unlighted cigar, looked at the
chewed end, and returned it to the corner of his mouth.
“Heinzman has sense,” said he drily. “I was wondering
if ordinary business caution was unknown out here.”
“Can we get such a bond? Nobody would go on my
bond for that amount.”
“Mine either,” said Newmark. “We'll just have to let
them go and drive ahead without them. I only hope they
THE RIVERMAN 99
won't spread the idea. Better get those other contracts
signed up as soon as we can.”
With this object in view, Orde started out early the next
morning, carrying with him the duplicate contracts on
which Newmark had been busy.
“Rope ’em in,” advised Newmark. “It’s Saturday, and
we don't want to let things simmer over Sunday, if we
can help it.”
About eleven o’clock a clerk of the Welton Lumber Co.
entered Mr. Welton's private office to deliver to Orde a
note.
“This just came by special messenger,” he explained.
Orde, with an apology, tore it open. It was from Heinz-
man, and requested an immediate interview. Orde delayed
only long enough to get Mr. Welton's signature, then has-
tened as fast as his horse could take him across the draw-
bridge to the village.
Heinzman he found awaiting him. The little German,
with his round, rosy cheeks, his dot of a nose, his big
spectacles, and his rotund body, looked even more than
usual like a spider or a Santa Claus—Orde could not de-
cide which.
“I haſ been thinking of that bond,” he began, waving
a pudgy hand toward a seat, “ and I haſ been talking with
Proctor.”
“Yes,” said Orde hopefully.
“I suppose you would not be prepared to gif a bond P”
“I hardly think so.”
“Vell, suppose ve fix him this way,” went on Heinz-
man, clasping his hands over his stomach and beaming
through his spectacles. “Proctor and I haf talked it of r,
and ve are agreet that the probosition is a good one. Also
ve think it is vell to help the young fellers along.” He
laughed silently in such a manner as to shake himself all
over. “We do not vish to be too severe, and yet ve must
IOO THE RIVERMAN
be assured that ve get our logs on time. Now, I unterstood
you to say that this new concern is a stock company.”
Orde did not remember having said so, but he nodded.
“Vell, if you gif us a bond secured with stock in the new
company, that would be satisfactory to us.”
Orde's face cleared.
“Do you mean that, Mr. Heinzman?”
“Sure. We must haſ some security, but ve do not vish
to be too hard on you boys.”
“Now, I call that a mighty good way out!” cried Orde.
“Make your contract out according to these terms, then,”
said Heinzman, handing him a paper, “and bring it in
Monday.”
Orde glanced over the slip. It recited two and a quarter
as the agreed price; specified the date of delivery at Heinz-
man and Proctor's booms; named twenty-five thousand dol-
lars as the amount of the bond, to be secured by fifty
thousand dollars’ worth of stock in the new company. This
looked satisfactory. Orde arose.
“I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Heinzman,” said he.
“I’ll bring it around Monday.”
He had reached the gate to the grill before Heinzman
called him back.
“By the vay,” the little German beamed up at him,
swinging his fat legs as the Office-chair tipped back on its
Springs, “if it is to be a stock company, you will be selling
some of the stock to raise money, is it not so?”
“Yes,” agreed Orde, “I expect so.”
“How much vill you capitalise for?”
“We expect a hundred thousand ought to do the trick,”
replied Orde.
“Vell,” said Heinzman, “ven you put it on the market,
come and see me.” He nodded paternally at Orde, beaming
through his thick spectacles.
That evening, well after six, Orde returned to the hotel.
THE RIVERMAN 1 O1
After freshening up in the marbled and boarded washroom,
he hunted up Newmark.
“Well, Joe,” said he, “I’m as hungry as a bear. Come
on, eat, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
They deposited their hats on the racks and pushed open
the swinging screen doors that led into the dining-room.
There they were taken in charge by a marvellously haughty
and redundant head-waitress, who signalled them to follow
down through ranks of small tables watched by more stately
damsels. Newmark, reserved and precise, irreproachably
correct in his neat gray, seemed enveloped in an aloofness
as impenetrable as that of the head-waitress herself. Orde,
however, was as breezy as ever. He hastened his stride to
overtake the head-waitress.
“Annie, be good!” he said in his jolly way. “We’ve got
business to talk. Put us somewhere alone.”
Newmark nodded approval, and thrust his hand in his
pocket. But Annie looked up into Orde's frank, laughing
face, and her lips curved ever so faintly in the condescen-
sion of a smile.
“Sure, sorr,” said she, in a most unexpected brogue.
“Well, I’ve got 'em all,” said Orde, as soon as the wait-
ress had gone with the order. “But the best stroke of busi-
ness you’d never guess. I roped in Heinzman.”
“Good l’’ approved Newmark briefly.
“It was really pretty decent of the little Dutchman. He
agreed to let us put up our stock as security. Of course,
that security is good only if we win out; and if we win
out, why, then he'll get his logs, so he won’t have any use
for security. So it’s just one way of beating the devil
around the bush. He evidently wanted to give us the busi-
ness, but he hated like the devil to pass up his rules—you
know how those old shellbacks are.”
“H’m, yes,” said Newmark.
The waitress sailed in through a violently kicked swing-
1O2 THE RIVERMAN
ing door, bearing aloft a tin tray heaped perilously. She
slanted around a corner in graceful opposition to the cen-
trifugal, brought the tray to port on a sort of landing
stage by a pillar, and began energetically to distribute small
“iron-ware” dishes, each containing a dab of something.
When the clash of arrival had died, Orde went on: •A
“I got into your department a little, too.”
“How's that?” asked Newmark, spearing a baked potato.
“Heinzman said he'd buy some of our stock. He seems
to think we have a pretty good show.”
Newmark paused, his potato half-way to his plate.
“Kind of him,” said he after a moment. “Did he sign
a contract?”
“It wasn’t made out,” Orde reminded him. “I’ve the
memoranda here. We'll make it out to-night. I am to bring
it in Monday.” t
“I see we're hung up here over Sunday,” observed New-
mark. “No Sunday trains to Redding.”
Orde became grave.
“I know it. I tried to hurry matters to catch the six
o'clock, but couldn't make it.” His round, jolly face fell
sombre, as though a light within had been extinguished.
After a moment the light returned. “Can't be helped,” said
he philosophically.
They ate hungrily, then drifted out into the office again,
where Orde lit a cigar.
“Now, let's see your memoranda,” said Newmark.
He frowned over the three simple items for some time
“It’s got me,” he confessed at last.
“What?” inquired Orde.
“What Heinzman is up to.”
“What do you mean?” asked Orde, turning in his chair
with an air of slow surprise.
“It all looks queer to me. He's got something up his
sleeve. Why should he take a bond with that security from
THE RIVERMAN 103
us? If we can’t deliver the logs, our company fails; that
makes the stock worthless; that makes the bond worthless
—just when it is needed. Of course, it's as plain as the
nose on your face that he thinks the proposition a good one
and is trying to get control.”
“Oh, no!” cried Orde, astounded.
“Orde, you’re all right on the river,” said Newmark,
with a dry little laugh, “but you're a babe in the woods
at this game.”
“But Heinzman is honest,” cried Orde. “Why, he is a
church member, and has a class in Sunday-school.”
Newmark selected a cigar from his case, examined
it from end to end, finally put it between his lips. The
corners of his mouth were twitching quietly with amuse-
Iment.
“Besides, he is going to buy some stock,” added Orde,
after a moment.
“Heinzman has not the slightest intention of buying a
dollar’s worth of stock,” asserted Newmark.
“But why 35
“—Did he make that bluff P” finished Newmark. “Be-
cause he wanted to find out how much stock would be
issued. You told him it would be a hundred thousand dol-
lars, didn’t you?”
“Why—yes, I believe I did,” said Orde, pondering.
Newmark threw back his head and laughed noiselessly.
“So now he knows that if we forfeit the bond he’ll have
controlling interest,” he pointed out.
Orde smoked rapidly, his brow troubled.
“But what I can’t make out,” reflected Newmark, “is
why he's so sure we'll have to forfeit.”
“I think he's just taking a long shot at it,” suggested
Orde, who seemed finally to have decided against New-
mark's opinion. “I believe you’re shying at mare's nests.”
“Not he. He has some good reason for thinking we
104. THE RIVERMAN
won't deliver the logs. Why does he insist on putting in
a date for delivery? None of the others does.”
“I don’t know,” replied Orde. “Just to put some sort
of a time limit on the thing, I suppose.”
“You say you surely can get the drive through by
then P’’
Orde laughed.
“Sure? Why, it gives me two weeks' leeway over the
worst possible luck I could have. You're too almighty sus-
picious, Joe.”
Newmark shook his head.
“You let me figure this out,” said he.
But bedtime found him without a solution. He retired to
his room under fire of Orde's good-natured raillery. Orde
himself shut his door, the smile still on his lips. As he
began removing his coat, however, the smile died. The
week had been a busy one. Hardly had he exchanged a
dozen words with his parents, for he had even been forced
to eat his dinner and supper away from home. This Sun-
day he had promised himself to make his deferred but
much-desired call on Jane Hubbard—and her guest. He
turned out the gas with a shrug of resignation. For the
first time his brain cleared of its turmoil of calculations,
of guesses, of estimates, and of men. He saw clearly the
limited illumination cast downward by the lamp beneath its
wide shade, the graceful, white figure against the shadow
of the easy chair, the oval face cut in half by the lamp-
light to show plainly the red lips with the quaint upward
quirks at the corners, and dimly the inscrutable eyes and
the hair with the soft shadows. With a sigh he felt asleep.
Some time in the night he was awakened by a persistent
tapping on the door. In the woodsman's manner, he was
instantly broad awake. He lit the gas and opened the door
to admit Newmark, partially dressed over his night gown.
“Orde,” said he briefly and without preliminary, “didn't
THE RIVERMAN loš
you tell me the other day that rollways were piled both on
the banks and in the river?”
“Yes, sometimes,” said Orde. “Why?”
“Then they might obstruct the river?”
“Certainly.”
“I thought so | * cried Newmark, with as near an ap-
proach to exultation as he ever permitted himself. “Now,
just one other thing: aren't Heinzman's rollways below
most of the others?”
“Yes, I believe they are,” said Orde.
“And, of course, it was agreed, as usual, that Heinzman
was to break out his own rollways?”
“I see,” said Orde slowly. “You think he intends to
delay things enough so we can’t deliver on the date agreed
on.”
“I know it,” stated Newmark positively.
“But if he refuses to deliver the logs, no court of law
will—” -
“Law 1 ° cried Newmark. “Refuse to deliver! You don’t
know that kind. He won't refuse to deliver. There'll just be
a lot of inevitable delays, and his foreman will misunder-
stand, and all that. You ought to know more about that
than I do.”
Orde nodded, his eye abstracted.
“It’s a child-like scheme,” commented Newmark. “If I’d
had more knowledge of the business, I’d have seen it
sooner.” &
“I’d never have seen it at all,” said Orde humbly. “You
seem to be the valuable member of this firm, Joe.”
“In my way,” said Newmark, “you in yours. We ought
to make a good team.” -
XII
vices of his own, walked slowly up the main street,
turned to the right down one of the shaded side
residence streets that ended finally in a beautiful glistening
sand-hill. Up this he toiled slowly, starting at every step
avalanches and streams down the slope. Shortly he found
himself on the summit, and paused for a breath of air
from the lake.
He was just above the tops of the maples, which seen
from this angle stretched away like a forest through which
occasionally thrust roofs and spires. Some distance beyond
a number of taller buildings and the red of bricks were
visible. Beyond them still were other sand-hills, planted rag-
gedly with wind-twisted and stunted trees. But between the
brick buildings and these sand-hills flowed the river—wide,
deep, and still—bordered by the steamboat landings on the
town side and by fishermen's huts and net-racks and small
boats on the other. Orde seated himself on the smooth,
clean sand and removed his hat. He saw these things, and
in imagination the far upper stretches of the river, with
the mills and yards and booms extending for miles; and
still above them the marshes and the flats where the river
widened below the Big Bend. That would be the location
for the booms of the new company—a cheap property on
which the partners had already secured a valuation. And
below he dropped in imagination with the slackening cur-
rent until between two greater sand-hills than the rest the
river ran out through the channel made by two long piers
Sº afternoon, Orde, leaving Newmark to de-
Iod
THE RIVERMAN IoW
to the lake—blue, restless, immeasurable. To right and left
stretched the long Michigan coast, with its low yellow
hills topped with the green of twisted pines, firs, and
beeches, with always its beach of sand, deep and dry to
the very edge of its tideless sea, strewn with sawlogs, bark,
and the ancient remains of ships.
After he had cooled he arose and made his way back
to a pleasant hardwood forest of maple and beech. Here
the leaves were just bursting from their buds. Underfoot
the early spring flowers—the hepaticas, the anemones, the
trilium, the dog-tooth violets, the quaint, early, bright-green
undergrowths—were just reaching their perfection. Migra-
tion was in full tide. Birds, little and big, flashed into view
and out again, busy in the mystery of their northward pil-
grimage, giving the appearance of secret and silent fur-
tiveness, yet each uttering his characteristic call from time
to time, as though for a signal to others of the host. The
woods were swarming as city streets, yet to Orde these little
creatures were as though invisible. He stood in the middle
of a great multitude, he felt himself under the observation
of many bright eyes, he heard the murmuring and twitter-
ing that proclaimed a throng, he sensed an onward move-
ment that flowed slowly but steadily toward the pole; never-
theless, a flash of wings, a fluttering little body, the dip
of a hasty short flight, represented the visible tokens. Across
the pale silver sun of April their shadows flickered, and
with them flickered the tracery of new leaves and the deli-
cacy of the lace-like upper branches.
Orde walked slowly farther and farther into the forest,
lost in an enjoyment which he could not have defined accu-
rately, but which was so integral a portion of his nature
that it had drawn him from the banks and wholesale gro-
ceries to the woods. After a while he sat down on a log
and lit his pipe. Ahead the ground sloped upward. Dimly
through the half-fronds of the early season he could make
108 THE RIVERMAN
out the yellow of sands and the deep complementary blue
of the sky above them. He knew the Lake to lie just be-
yond. With the thought he arose. A few moments later
he stood on top the hill, gazing out over the blue waters.
Very blue they were, with a contrasting snowy white
fringe of waves breaking gently as far up the coast as the
eye could reach. The beach, on these tideless waters, was
hard and smooth only in the narrow strip over which ran
the wash of the low surf. All the rest of the expanse of
sand back to the cliff-like hills lay dry and tumbled into
hummocks and drifts, from which projected here a sawlog
cast inland from a raft by some long-past storm, there a
slab, again a ship's rib sticking gaunt and defiant from the
shifting, restless medium that would smother it. And just
beyond the edge of the hard sand, following the long curves
of the wash, lay a dark, narrow line of bark fragments.
The air was very clear and crystalline. The light-houses
on the ends of the twin piers, though some miles distant,
seemed close at hand. White herring gulls, cruising against
the blue, flashed white as the sails of a distant ship. A
fresh breeze darkened the blue velvet surface of the water,
tumbled the white foam hissing up the beach, blew forward
over the dunes a fine hurrying mist of sand, and bore to
Orde at last the refreshment of the wide spaces. A woman,
walking slowly, bent her head against the force of this wind.
Orde watched her idly. She held to the better footing
of the smooth sand, which made it necessary that she re-
treat often before the inrushing wash, sometimes rather
hastily. Orde caught himself admiring the grace of her
deft and sudden movements, and the sway of her willowy
figure. Every few moments she turned and faced the lake,
her head thrown back, the wind whipping her garments
about her.
As she drew nearer, Orde tried in vain to catch sight
of her face. She looked down, watching the waters advance
THE RIVERMAN 109
and recede; she wore a brimmed hat bent around her head
by means of some sort of veil tied over the top and beneath
her chin. When she had arrived nearly opposite Orde she
turned abruptly inland, and a moment later began laboriously
to climb the steep sand.
The process seemed to amuse her. She turned her head
sidewise to watch with interest the hurrying, tumbling little
cascades that slid from her every step. From time to time
she would raise her skirts daintily with the tips of her
fingers, and lean far over in order to observe with interest
how her feet sank to the ankles, and how the sand rushed
from either side to fill in the depressions. The wind carried
up to Orde low, joyous chuckles of delight, like those of
a happy child.
As though directed by some unseen guide, her course
veered more and more until it led directly to the spot where
Orde stood. When she was within ten feet of him she at
last raised her head so the young man could see something
besides the top of her hat. Orde looked plump into her
eyes.
“Hulloſ” she said cheerfully and unsurprised, and sank
down cross-legged at his feet.
Orde stood quite motionless, overcome by astonishment.
Her face, its long oval framed in the bands of the gray
veil and the down-turned brim of the hat, looked up smiling
into his. The fresh air had deepened the colour beneath
her skin and had blown loose stray locks of the fine shadow-
filled hair. Her red lips, with the quaintly up-turned cor-
ners, smiled at him with a new frankness, and the black
eyes—the eyes so black as to resemble spots—had lost their
half-indolent reserve and brimmed over quite frankly with
the joy of life. She scooped up a handful of the dry, clean
- sand from either side of her, raised it aloft, and let it
trickle slowly between her fingers. The wind snatched at
the sand and sprayed it away in a beautiful plume.
I IO THE RIVERMAN
“Isn’t this real fun?” she asked him.
“Why, Miss Bishop !” cried Orde, finding his voice.
“What are you doing here?”
A faint shade of annoyance crossed her brow.
“Oh, I could ask the same of you; and then we’d talk
about how surprised we are, world without end,” said she.
“The important thing is that here is sand to play in, and
there is the Lake, and here are we, and the day is charmed,
and it's good to be alive. Sit down and dig a hole ! We've
all the common days to explain things in.”
Orde laughed and seated himself to face her. Without
further talk, and quite gravely, they commenced to scoop
out an excavation between them, piling the sand over them-
selves and on either side as was most convenient. As the
hole grew deeper they had to lean over more and more.
Their heads sometimes brushed ever so lightly, their hands
perforce touched. Always the dry sand flowed from the
edges partially to fill in the result their efforts. Faster and
faster they scooped it out again. The excavation thus took on
the shape of a funnel. Her cheeks glowed pink, her eyes
shone like stars. Entirely was she absorbed in the task. At
last a tiny commotion manifested itself in the bottom of the
funnel. Impulsively she laid her hand on Orde's, to stop
them. Fascinated, they watched. After incredible though
lilliputian upheavals, at length appeared a tiny black insect,
struggling against the rolling, overwhelming sands. With
great care the girl scooped this newcomer out and set him
On the level ground. She looked up happily at Orde, thrust-
ing the loose hair from in front of her eyes.
“I was convinced we ought to dig a hole,” said she
gravely. “Now, let's go somewhere else.”
She arose to her feet, shaking the sand free from her
skirts.
“I think, through these woods,” she decided. “Can we
get back to town this way?”
THE RIVERMAN 1 1 1
Receiving Orde's assurance, she turned at once down
the slope through the fringe of scrub spruces and juni-
pers into the tall woods. Here the air fell still. She re-
marked on how warm it seemed, and began to untie from
over her ears the narrow band of veil that held close
her hat.
“Yes,” replied Orde. “The lumber-jacks say that the
woods are the poor man's overcoat.”
She paused to savour this, her head on one side, her
arms upraised to the knot.
“Oh, I like that!” said she, continuing her task. In a
moment or so the veil hung free. She removed it and the
hat, and swung them both from One finger, and threw
back her head.
“Hear all the birds!” she said.
Softly she began to utter a cheeping noise between her
lips and teeth, low and plaintive. At once the volume of
bird-sounds about increased ; the half-seen flashes became
more frequent. A second later the twigs were alive with
tiny warblers and creepers, flirting from branch to branch,
with larger, more circumspect chewinks, catbirds, and
finches hopping down from above, very silent, very grave.
In the depths of the thickets the shyer hermit and olive
thrushes and the oven birds revealed themselves ghost-like,
or as sea-growths lift into a half visibility through translu-
cent shadows the colour of themselves. All were very in-
tent, very earnest, very interested, each after his own man-
ner, in the comradeship of the featherhood he imagined
to be uttering distressful cries. A few, like the chickadees,
quivered their wings, opened their little mouths, fluttered
down tiny but aggressive against the disaster. Others
hopped here and there restlessly, uttering plaintive, low-
toned cheeps. The shyest contented themselves by a discreet,
silent, and distant sympathy. Three or four freebooting
jays, attracted not so much by the supposed calls for help
1 12 THE RIVERMAN
as by curiosity, fluttered among the tops of the trees, utter-
ing their harsh notes.
Finally, the girl ended her performance in a musical
laugh.
“Run away, Brighteyes,
body's damaged.” e
She waved her hand. As though at a signal, the host
she had evoked melted back into the shadows of the forest.
Only the chickadee, impudent as ever, retreated scolding
rather ostentatiously, and the jays, splendid in their ornate
blue, screamed opinions at each other from the tops of trees.
“How would you like to be a bird?” she inquired.
“Hadn't thought,” replied Orde.
“Don’t you ever indulge in vain and idle speculations?”
she inquired. “Never mind, don't answer. It’s too much
to expect of a man.”
She set herself in idle motion down the slope, swinging
the hat at the end of its veil, pausing to look or listen,
humming a little melody between her closed lips, throwing
her head back to breathe deep the warm air, revelling in
the woods sounds and woods odours and woods life with
entire self-abandonment. Orde followed her in silence. She
seemed to be quite without responsibility in regard to him;
and yet an occasional random remark thrown in his direc-
tion proved that he was not forgotten. Finally they emerged
from the beach woods.
They faced an open rolling country. As far as the eye
could reach were the old stumps of pine trees. Sometimes
they stood in place, burned and scarred, but attesting
mutely the abiding place of a spirit long since passed away.
Sometimes they had been uprooted and dragged to mark
the boundaries of fields, where they raised an abatis of
twisted roots to the sky.
The girl stopped short as she came face to face with
this open country. The inner uplift, that had lent to her
59
she called. “It’s all right; no-
THE RIVERMAN II3
aspect the wide-eyed, careless ioy of a child, faded. In its
place came a new and serious gravity. She turned on him
troubled eyes.
“You do this,” she accused him quite simply.
For answer he motioned to the left where below them
lay a wide and cultivated countryside—farmhouses sur-
rounded by elms; compact wood lots of hardwood; crops
and orchards, all fair and pleasant across the bosom of a
fertile nature.
“And this,” said he. “That valley was once nothing but
a pine forest—and so was all the southern part of the State,
the peach belt and the farms. And for that matter Indi-
ana, too, and all the other forest States right out to the
prairies. Where would we be now, if we hadn’t done that?”
he pointed across at the stump-covered hills.
Mischief had driven out the gravity from the girl’s eyes.
She had lowered her head slightly sidewise as though to
conceal their expression from him.
“I was beginning to be afraid you'd say ‘yes-indeed,’”
said she.
Orde looked bewildered, then remembered the Incubus,
and laughed.
“I haven’t been very conversational,” he acknowledged.
“Certainly not l’ she said severely. “That would have
been very disappointing. There has been nothing to say.”
She turned and waved her hat at the beech woods fall-
ing sombre against the lowering sun.
“Good-bye,” she said gravely, “and pleasant dreams to
you. I hope those very saucy little birds won't keep you
awake.” She looked up at Orde. “He was rather nice to
us this afternoon,” she explained, “ and it’s always well to
be polite to them anyway.” She gazed steadily at Orde for
signs of amusement. He resolutely held his face sympa-
thetic.
“Now I think we'll go home,” said she.
114 THE RIVERMAN
They made their way between the stumps to the edge
of the sand-hill overlooking the village. With one accord
they stopped. The low-slanting sun cast across the vista a
sleepy light of evening.
“How would you like to live in a place like that all your
life?” asked Orde.
“I don't know.” She weighed her words carefully. “It
would depend. The place isn't of so much importance, it
seems to me. It’s the life one is called to. It’s whether one
finds her soul’s realm or not that a place is liveable or not.
I can imagine entering my kingdom at a railway water-
tank,” she said quaintly, “ or missing it entirely in a big
city.”
Orde looked out over the raw little village with a new
interest. 3.
“Of course I can see how a man’s work can lie in a small
place,” said he ; “but a woman is different.”
“Why is a woman different?” she challenged. “What
is her ‘work,” as you call it; and why shouldn’t it, as well
as a man's, lie in a small place? What is work—outside
of drudgery—unless it is correspondence of one’s abilities
to one's task?”
“But the compensations—” began Orde vaguely.
“Compensations?” she cried. “What do you mean?
Here are the woods and fields, the river, the lake, the birds,
and the breezes. We’ll check them off against the theatre
and balls. Books can be had here as well as anywhere.
As to people: in a large city you meet a great many, and
they’re all busy, and unless you make an especial and par-
ticular effort—which you're not likely to—you'll see them
only casually and once in a great while. In a small place
you know fewer people; but you know them intimately.”
She broke off with a half-laugh. “I’m from New York,”
she stated humorously, “and you’ve magicked me into an
eloquent defence of Podunk!” She laughed up at Orde
THE RIVERMAN 115
quite frankly. “Giant Strides l’” she challenged suddenly.
She turned off the edge of the sand-hill, and began to
plunge down its slope, leaning far back, her arms extended,
increasing as much as possible the length of each step.
Orde followed at full speed. When the bottom was reached,
he steadied her to a halt. She shook herself, straightened
her hat, and wound the veil around it. Her whole aspect
seemed to have changed with the descent into the con-
ventionality of the village street. The old, gentle though
capable and self-contained reserve had returned. She moved
beside Orde with dignity.
“I came down with Jane and Mrs. Hubbard to see Mr.
Hubbard off on the boat for Milwaukee last night,” she told
him. “Of course we had to wait over Sunday. Mrs. Hub-
bard and Jane had to see some relative or other; but I pre-
ferred to take a walk.”
“Where are you staying?” asked Orde.
“At the Bennetts'. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes,” replied Orde.
They said little more until the Bennetts' gate was reached.
Orde declined to come in.
“Good-night,” she said. “I want to thank you. You did
not once act as though you thought I was silly or crazy.
And you didn't try, as all the rest of them would, to act
silly too. You couldn’t have done it; and you didn’t try.
Oh, you may have felt it—I know !” She smiled one of her
quaint and quizzical smiles. “But men aren't built for fool-
ishness. They have to leave that to us. You’ve been very
nice this afternoon; and it’s helped a lot. I’m good for quite
a long stretch now. Good-night.”
She nodded to him and left him tongue-tied by the gate.
Orde, however, walked back to the hotel in a black rage
with himself over what he termed his imbecility. As he re-
membered it, he had made just one consecutive speech that
afternoon.
116 THE RIVERMAN
“Joe,” said he to Newmark, at the hotel office, “what's
the plural form of Incubus? I dimly remember it isn't
‘ busses.’” -
“Incubi,” answered Newmark.
“Thanks,” said Orde gloomily.
XIII
HAVE Heinzman's contract all drawn,” said New-
I mark the next morning, “ and I think I’ll go around
with you to the office.”
At the appointed time they found the little German await-
ing them, a rotund smile of false good-nature illuminating
his rosy face. Orde introduced his partner. Newmark im-
mediately took charge of the interview.
“I have executed here the contract, and the bonds se-
cured by Mr. Orde's and my shares of stock in the new
company,” he explained. “It is only necessary that you
affix your signature and summon the required witnesses.”
Heinzman reached his hands for the papers, beaming
over his glasses at the two young men.
As he read, however, his smile vanished, and he looked
up sharply.
“Vat is this?” he inquired, a new crispness in his voice.
“You tolt me,” he accused Orde, “dot you were not bre-
pared to break out the rollways. You tolt me you would
egspect me to do that for myself.”
“Certainly,” agreed Orde.
“Well, why do you put in this?” demanded Heinzman,
reading from the paper in his hand. “‘In case said roll-
ways belonging to said parties of the second part are not
broken out by the time the drive has reached them, and
in case on demand said parties of the second part do refuse
or do not exercise due diligence in breaking out said roll-
ways, the said parties of the first part shall themselves
break out said rollways, and the said parties of the second
II7
118 THE RIVERMAN
part do hereby agree to reimburse said parties of the first
part at the rate of a dollar per thousand board feet.’”
“That is merely to protect ourselves,” struck in New-
mark.
“But,” exploded Heinzman, his face purpling, “a dollar
a tousand is absurd l’’
“Of course it is,” agreed Newmark. “We expect it to
be. But also we expect you to break out your own roll-
ways in time. It is intended as a penalty in case you don't.”
“I will not stand for such foolishness,” pounded Heinz-
man on the arm of his chair.
“Very well,” said Newmark crisply, reaching for the
COntract.
But Heinzman clung to it.
“It is absurd,” he repeated in a milder tone. “See, I will
strike it out.” He did so with a few dashes of the pen.
“We have no intention,” stated Newmark with deci-
sion, “ of giving you the chance to hang up our drive.”
Heinzman caught his breath like a child about to cry
Out.
“So that is what you think!” he shouted at them.
“That's the sort of men you think we are I’ll show you
you cannot come into honest men's offices to insoolt them
by such insinuations !” He tore the contract in pieces and
threw it in the waste basket. “Get Oudt of here ! ” he
cried.
Newmark arose as dry and precise as ever. Orde was
going red and white by turns, and his hands twitched.
“Then I understand you to refuse our offer?” asked
Newmark coolly.
“Refuse! Yes! You and your whole kapoodle
Heinzman.
He hopped down and followed them to the grill door,
repeating over and over that he had been insulted. The
clerks stared in amazement.
| 22
yelled
THE RIVERMAN 119
Once at the foot of the dark stairs and in the open street,
Orde looked up at the sky with a deep breath of relief.
“Whew l’” said he, “that was a terror! We’ve gone off
the wrong foot that time.”
Newmark looked at him with some amusement.
“You don't mean to say that fooled you!” he marvelled.
“What?” asked Orde.
“All that talk about insults, and the rest of the rubbish.
He saw we had spotted his little scheme; and he had to
retreat somehow. It was as plain as the nose on your
face.” p
“You think so?” doubted Orde.
“I know so. If he was mad at all, it was only at being
found out.”
“Maybe,” said Orde.
“We’ve got an enemy on our hands in any case,” con-
cluded Newmark, “ and one we’ll have to look out for.
I don't know how he’ll do it; but he'll try to make trouble
on the river. Perhaps he'll try to block the stream by not
breaking his rollways.”
“One of the first things we'll do will be to boom through
a channel where Mr. Man's rollways will be,” said Orde.
A faint gleam of approval lit Newmark's eyes.
“I guess you’ll be equal to the occasion,” said he drily.
Before the afternoon train, there remained four hours.
The partners at once hunted out the little one-story frame
building near the river in which Johnson conducted his
business.
Johnson received them with an evident reserve of sus-
picion.
“I see no use in it,” said he, passing his hand over his
hair “slicked ” down in the lumber-jack fashion. “I can
run me own widout help from any man.”
“Which seems to settle that!” said Newmark to Orde
after they had left.
12O THE RIVERMAN
“Oh, well, his drive is small; and he's behind us,” Orde
pointed out.
“True,” said Newmark thoughtfully.
“Now,” said Newmark, as they trudged back to their
hotel to get lunch and their hand-bags. “I’ll get to work
at my part of it. This proposition of Heinzman's has given
me an idea. I’m not going to try to sell this stock outside,
but to the men who own timber along the river. Then they
won’t be objecting to the tolls; for if the company makes
any profits, part will go to them.”
“Good idea!” cried Orde.
“I’ll take these contracts, to show we can do the busi-
ness.” -
“All correct.”
“And I’ll see about incorporation. Also I’ll look about
and get a proper office and equipments, and get hold of
a book-keeper. Of course we'll have to make this our head-
quarters.”
“I suppose so,” said Orde a little blankly. After an in-
stant he laughed. “Do you know, I hadn’t thought of that!
We’ll have to live here, won’t we?”
“Also,” went on Newmark calmly, “I’ll buy the sup-
plies to the best advantage I can, and see that they get
here in good shape. I have our preliminary lists, and as fast
as you think you need anything, send a requisition in to me,
and I’ll see to it.”
“And I?” inquired Orde.
“You’ll get right at the construction. Get the booms
built and improve the river where it needs it. Begin to
get your crew—I’m not going to tell you how; you know
better than I do. Only get everything in shape for next
spring's drive. You can start right off. We have my money
to begin on.”
Orde laughed and stretched his arms over his head.
“My! She's a nice big job, isn't she?” he cried joyously.
XIV
RDE, in spite of his activities, managed to see Car-
O roll Bishop twice during the ensuing week.
On his return home late Monday afternoon,
Grandma Orde informed him with a shrewd twinkle that
she wanted him surely at home the following evening.
“I’ve asked in three or four of the young people for a
candy pull,” said she.
“Who, mother?” asked Orde.
“Your crowd. The Smiths, Collinses, Jane Hubbard, and
Her,” said Grandma Orde, which probably went to show
that she had in the meantime been making inquiries, and
was satisfied with them.
“Do you suppose they'll care for candy pulling?” haz-
arded Orde a little doubtfully.
“You mean, will she P” countered Grandma. “Well, I
hope for both your sakes she is not beyond a little old-
fashioned fun.” -
So it proved. The young people straggled in at an early
hour after supper—every one had supper in those days.
Carroll Bishop and Jane arrived nearly the last. Orde
stepped into the hall to help them with their wraps. He
was surprised as he approached Miss Bishop to lift her
cloak from her shoulders, to find that the top of her dain-
tily poised head, with its soft, fine hair, came well below the
level of his eyes. Somehow her poise, her slender grace of
movement and of attitude, had lent her the impression of a
stature she did not possess. To-night her eyes, while fath-
omless as ever, shone quietly in anticipation.
I2I
122 THE RIVERMAN
“Do you know,” she told Orde delightedly, “I have
never been to a real candy pull in my life. It was so good
of your mother to ask me. What a dear she looks to-night.
And is that your father? I’m going to speak to him.”
She turned through the narrow door into the lighted,
low-ceilinged parlour where the company were chatting
busily. Orde mechanically followed her. He was arrested
by the sound of Jane Hubbard’s slow good-humoured voice
behind him.
“Now, Jack,” she drawled, “I agree with you perfectly;
but that is no reason why I should be neglected entirely.
Come and hang up my coat.” *
Full of remorse, Orde turned. Jane Hubbard stood ac-
cusingly in the middle of the hall, her plain, shrewd, good-
humoured face smiling faintly. Orde met her frank wide
eyes with some embarrassment.
“Here it is,” said Jane, holding out the coat. “I don't
much care whether you hang it up or not. I just wanted
to call you back to wish you luck.” Her slow Smile widened,
and her gray eyes met his still more knowingly.
Orde seized the coat and her hand at the same time.
“Jane, you're a trump,” said he, “No wonder you're
the most popular girl in town.”
“Of course I am, Jack,” she agreed indolently. She en-
tered the parlour.
The candy pulling was a success. Of course everybody
got burned a little and spattered a good deal; but that was
to be expected. After the product had been broken and been
piled on dishes, all trooped to the informal “back sitting-
room,” where an open fire invited to stories and games of
the quieter sort. Some of the girls sat in chairs, though
most joined the men on the hearth.
Carroll Bishop, however, seemed possessed of a spirit
of restlessness. The place seemed to interest her. She wan-
dered here and there in the room, looking now at the wal-
THE RIVERMAN 123
nut-framed photograph of Uncle Jim Orde, now at the
great pink conch shells either side the door, now at the
marble-topped table with its square paper-weight of pol-
ished agate and its glass “bell,” beneath which stood a very
life-like robin. This “back sitting-room * contained little in
the way of ornament. It was filled, on the contrary, with
old comfortable chairs, and worn calf-backed books. The
girl peered at the titles of these; but the gas-jets had been
turned low in favour of the firelight, and she had to give
over the effort to identify the volumes. Once she wandered
close to Grandma Orde's cushioned wooden rocker, and
passed her hand lightly over the old lady’s shoulder.
“Do you mind if I look at things?” she asked. “It’s
so dear and sweet and old and different from our New
York homes.”
“Look all you want to, dearie,” said Grandma Orde.
After a moment she passed into the dining-room. Here
Orde found her, her hands linked in front of her.
“Oh, it is so quaint and delightful,” she exhaled slowly.
“This dear, dear old house with its low ceilings and its
queer haphazard lines, and its deep windows, and its old
pictures, and queer unexpected things that take your breath
away.”
“It is one of the oldest houses in town,” said Orde, “and
I suppose it is picturesque. But, you see, I was brought up
here, so I’m used to it.”
“Wait until you leave it,” said she prophetically, “and
live away from it. Then all these things will come back
to you to make your heart ache for them.”
They rambled about together, Orde's enthusiasm gradu-
ally kindling at the flame of her own. He showed her the
marvellous and painstaking pencil sketch of Napoleon
looking out over a maltese-cross sunset done by Aunt
Martha at the age of ten. It hung framed in the upper
hall.
124. THE RIVERMAN
“It has always been there, ever since I can remember,”
said Orde, “ and it has seemed to belong there. I’ve never
thought of it as good or bad, just as belonging.”
“I know,” she nodded.
In this spirit also they viewed the plaster statue of Wash-
ington in the lower hall, and the Roger's group in the par-
lour. The glass cabinet of “curiosities” interested her
greatly—the carved ivory chessmen, the dried sea-weeds,
the stone from Sugar Loaf Rock, the bit from the wreck
of the North Star, the gold and silver shells, the glittering
geodes and pyrites, the sandal-wood fan, and all the hun-
dred and one knick-knacks it was then the custom to col-
lect under glass. They even ventured part way up the
creaky attic stairs, but it was too dark to enter that mys-
terious region. . -
“I hear the drip of water,” she whispered, her finger on
her lips.
“It’s the tank,” said Orde.
“And has it a Dark Place behind it?” she begged.
“That's just what it has,” said he.
“And—tell me—are there real hair trunks with brass
knobs on 'em P’’ +
“Yes, mother has two or three.”
“O-o-h ” she breathed softly. “Don’t tell me what's in
them. I want to believe in brocades and sashes. Do you
know,” she looked at him soberly, “I never had any dark
places behind the tank, nor mysterious trunks, when I was
a child.” -
“You might begin now,” suggested Orde.
“Do you mean to insinuate I haven't grown up?” she
mocked. “Thank you ! Look out !” she cried suddenly,
“the Boojum will catch us,” and picking up her skirts she
fairly flew down the narrow stairs. Orde could hear the
light swish of her draperies down the hall, and then the
pat of her feet on the stair carpet of the lower flight.
THE RIVERMAN I25
He followed"rather dreamily. A glance into the sitting-
room showed the group gathered close around the fire lis-
tening to Lem Collin's attempt at a ghost story. She was
not there. He found her, then, in the parlour. She was
kneeling on the floor before the glass cabinet of curiosities,
and she had quite flattened her little nose against the pane.
At his exclamation she looked up with a laugh.
“This is the proper altitude from which to view a cabinet
of curiosities,” said she, “and something tells me you ought
to flatten your nose, too.” She held out both hands to
be helped up. “Oh, what a house for a child !” she cried.
After the company had gone, Orde stood long by the
front gate looking up into the infinite spaces. Somehow,
and vaguely, he felt the night to be akin to her elusive
spirit. Farther and farther his soul penetrated into its
depths; and yet other depths lay beyond, other mysteries,
other unguessed realms. And yet its beauty was the sim-
plicity of space and dark and the stars.
The next tire he saw her was at her own house—or
rather the house of the friend she visiter. Orde went to
call on Friday evening and was lucky enough to find the
girls home and alone. After a decent interval Jane made
an excuse and went out. They talked on a great variety
of subjects, and with a considerable approach toward in-
timacy. Not until nearly time to go did Orde stumble upon
the vital point of the evening. He had said something about
a plan for the week following. .
“But you forget that by that time I shall be gone,” said
she.
“Gone!” he echoed blankly. “Where?”
“Home,” said she. “Don’t you remember I am to go
Sunday morning?”
“I thought you were going to stay a month.”
“I was, but I—certain things came up that made it neces-
sary for me to leave sooner.”
126 THE RIVERMAN
“I—I’m sorry you’re going,” stammered Orde.
“So am I,’” said she. “I’ve had a very nice time
here.”
“Then I won’t see you again,” said Orde, still groping
for realisation. “I must go to Monrovia to-morrow. But
I’ll be down to see you off.”
“Do come,” said she.
“It’s not to be for good?” he expostulated. “You’ll be
coming back.”
She threw her hands palm out, with a pretty gesture of
ignorance.
“That is in the lap of the gods,” said she.
“Will you write me occasionally?” he begged.
“As to that—” she began—“I’m a very poor corre-
spondent.”
“But won't you write?” he insisted.
“I do not make it a custom to write to young men.”
“Oh!” he cried, believing mimself enlightened. “Will
you answer if I write you?”
“That depends.”
“On What?”
“On whether there is a reply to make.”
“But may I write you?”
“I suppose I couldn't very well prevent you, if you were
sure to put on a three-cent stamp.”
“Do you want me to?” persisted Orde. **
She began gently to laugh, quite to herself, as though
enjoying a joke entirely within her own personal privilege.
“You are so direct and persistent and boy-like,” said
she presently. “Now if you’ll be very good, and not whis-
per to the other little pupils, I’ll tell you how they do such
things usually.” She sat up straight from the depths of
her chair, her white, delicately tapering forearms resting
lightly on her knees. “Young men desiring to communicate
with young ladies do not ask them bluntly. They make
THE RIVERMAN 127
some excuse, like sending a book, a magazine, a marked
newspaper, or even a bit of desired information. At the
same time, they send notes informing the girl of the fact.
The girl is naturally expected to acknowledge the polite-
ness. If she wishes the correspondence to continue, she
asks a question, or in some other way leaves an opening.
Do you see?”
“Yes, I see,” said Orde, slightly crestfallen. “But that's
a long time to wait. I like to feel settled about a thing,
I wanted to know.”
She dropped back against the cushioned slant of her
easy chair, and laughed again.
“And so you just up and asked ' " she teased.
“I beg your pardon if I was rude,” he said humbly.
The laughter died slowly from her eyes.
“Don’t,” she said. “It would be asking pardon for being
yourself. You wanted to know: so you asked. And I’m
going to answer. I shall be very glad to correspond with
you and tell you about my sort of things, if you happen
to be interested in them. I warn you: they are not very
exciting.”
“They are yours,” said he. -
She half rose to bow in mock graciousness, caught her-
self, and sank back.
“No, I won’t,” she said, more than half to herself. She
sat brooding for a moment; then suddenly her mood
changed. She sprang up, shook her skirts free, and seated
herself at the piano. To Orde, who had also arisen, she
made a quaint grimace over her shoulder.
“Admire your handiwork!” she told him. “You are
rapidly bringing me to “tell the truth and shame the
devil.” Oh, he must be dying of mortification this evening !”
She struck a great crashing chord, holding the keys while
the strings reverberated and echoed down slowly into
silence again. “It isn't fair,” she went on, “for you big
128 THE RIVERMAN
simple men to disarm us. I don't care! I have my private
opinion of such brute strength. Je me moque !”
She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes. Then
ruthlessly she drowned his reply in a torrent of music.
Like mad she played, rocking her slender body back and
forth along the key-board; holding rigid her fingers, her
hands, and the muscles of her arms. The bass notes roared
like the rumbling of thunder; the treble flashed like the
dart of lightnings. Abruptly she muted the instrument.
Silence fell as something that had been pent and suddenly
released. She arose from the piano stool quite naturally,
both hands at her hair.
“Aren't Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard dear old people?” said
she.
“What is your address in New York?” demanded Orde.
She sank into a chair nearby with a pretty uplifted
gesture of despair. -
“I surrender l’” she cried, and then she laughed until
the tears started from her eyes and she had to brush them
away with what seemed to Orde an absurd affair to call
a handkerchief. “Oh, you are delicious !” she said at last.
“Well, listen. I live at 12 West Ninth Street. Can you
remember that?” Orde nodded. “And now any other ques-
tions the prisoner can reply to without incriminating her-
self, she is willing to answer.” She folded her hands de-
murely in her lap.
Two days later Orde saw the train carry her away. He
watched the rear car disappear between the downward
slopes of two hills, and then finally the last smoke from the
locomotive dissipate in the clear blue.
Declining Jane's kindly meant offer of a lift, he walked
back to town.
XV
y | WHE new firm plunged busily into its more pressing
activities. Orde especially had an infinitude of de-
tails on his hands. The fat note-book in his side
pocket filled rapidly with rough sketches, lists, and esti-
mates. Constantly he interviewed men of all kinds—river-
men, mill men, contractors, boat builders, hardware deal-
ers, pile-driver captains, builders, wholesale grocery men,
cooks, axe-men, chore boys—all a little world in itself.
The signs of progress soon manifested themselves. Be-
low Big Bend the pile-drivers were at work, the square
masses of their hammers rising rapidly to the tops of the
derricks, there to pause a moment before dropping Swiftly
to a dull thump! They were placing a long, compact row,
which should be the outer bulwarks separating the sort-
ing-booms from the channel of the river. Ashore the car-
penters were knocking together a long, low structure for
the cook-house and a larger building, destined to serve as
bunk-house for the regular boom-crew. There would also
be a blacksmith's forge, a storehouse, a tool and supply-
house, a barn, and small separate shanties for the married
men. Below more labourers with picks, shovels, axes, and
scrapers were cutting out and levelling a road which would,
when finished, meet the county road to town. The numerous
bayous of great marsh were crossed by “float-bridges,”
lying flat on the surface of the water, which spurted up in
rhythmical little jets under the impact of hoofs. Down
stream eight miles, below the mills, and just beyond where
the drawbridge crossed over to Monrovia, Duncan Mc-
I29
13o THE RIVERMAN
Leod's shipyards clipped and sawed, and steamed and bent
and bolted away at two tugboats, the machinery for which
was already being stowed in the hold of a vessel lying at
wharf in Chicago. In the storerooms of hardware firms
porters carried and clerks checked off chains, strap iron,
bolts, spikes, staples, band iron, bar iron, peavies, cant-
hooks, pike-poles, sledge-hammers, blocks, ropes, and
cables.
These things took time and attention to details; also a
careful supervision. The spring increased, burst into leaf
and bloom, and settled into summer. Orde was constantly
on the move. As soon as low water came with midsum-
mer, however, he arranged matters to run themselves as
far as possible, left with Newmark minute instructions
as to personal supervision, and himself departed to Red-
ding. Here he joined a crew which Tom North had already
collected, and betook himself to the head of the river.
He knew exactly what he intended to do. Far back on
the head-waters he built a dam. The construction of it was
crude, consisting merely of log cribs filled with stone and
débris placed at intervals across the bed of the stream,
against which slanted logs made a face. The gate operated
simply, and could be raised to let loose an entire flood.
And indeed this was the whole purpose of the dam. It
created a reservoir from which could be freed new sup-
plies of water to eke out the dropping spring freshets.
Having accomplished this formidable labour—for the
trees had to be cut and hauled, the stone carted, and the
earth shovelled—the crew next moved down a good ten
miles to where the river dropped over a rapids rough and
full of boulders. Here were built and placed a row of stone-
filled log cribs in a double row down stream to define the
channel and to hold the drive in it and away from the
shallows near either bank. The profile of these cribs was
that of a right-angled triangle, the slanting side up stream.
THE RIVERMAN 131
Booms chained between them helped deflect the drive from
the shoals. Their more important office, however, was to
give footing to the drivers.
For twenty-five miles then nothing of importance was
undertaken. Two or three particularly bad boulders were
split out by the explosion of powder charges; a number
of Snags and old trees were cut away and disposed of; the
channel was carefully examined for obstructions of any
kind whatever. Then the party came to the falls.
Here Orde purposed his most elaborate bit of rough en-
gineering. The falls were only about fifteen feet high, but
they fell straight down to a bed of sheer rock. This had
been eaten by the eddies into pot-holes and crannies until
a jagged irregular Scoop-hollow had formed immediately
underneath the fall. Naturally this implied a ledge below.
In flood time the water boiled and roared through this
obstruction in a torrent. The saw logs, caught in the rush,
plunged end on into the scoop-hollow, hit with a crash, and
were spewed out below more or less battered, barked, and
stripped. Sometimes, however, when the chance of the
drive brought down a hundred logs together, they failed
to shoot over the barrier of the ledge. Then followed a
jam, a bad jam, difficult and dangerous to break. The
falls had taken her usurious share of the lives the river
annually demands as her toll.
This condition of affairs Orde had determined, if pos-
sible, to obviate. From the thirty-five or forty miles of
river that lay above, and from its tributaries would come
the bulk of the white and Norway pine for years to fols
low. At least two thirds of each drive Orde figured would
come from above the fall.
“If,” said he to North, “we could carry an apron on a
slant from just under the crest and over the pot-holes, it
would shoot both the water and the logs off a better angle.”
“Sure,” agreed North, “but you’ll have fun placing
132 THE RIVERMAN
your apron with all that water running through. Why, it
would drown us!”
“I’ve got a notion on that,” said Orde. “First thing is
to get the material together.” -
A hardwood forest topped the slope. Into this went the
axe-men. The straightest trees they felled, trimmed, and
dragged, down travoy trails they constructed, on sleds they
built for the purpose, to the banks of the river. Here they
bored the two holes through either end to receive the bolts
when later they should be locked together side by side in
their places. As fast as they were prepared, men with cant-
hooks rolled them down the slope to a flat below the falls.
They did these things swiftly and well, because they were
part of the practised day's work, but they shook their heads
at the falls.
After the trees had been cut in sufficient number—there
were seventy-five of them, each twenty-six feet long—Orde
led the way back up stream a half mile to a shallows,
where he commanded the construction of a number of ex-
aggerated sawhorses with very widespread slanting legs.
In the meantime the cook-wagon and the bed-wagon had
evidently been making many trips to Sand Creek, fifteen
miles away, as was attested by a large pile of heavy planks.
When the sawhorses were completed, Orde directed the
picks and shovels to be brought up.
At this point the river, as has been hinted, widened over
Shoals. The banks at either hand, too, were flat and com-
paratively low. As is often the case in bends of rivers sub-
ject to annual floods, the banks sloped back for some dis-
tance into a lower black-ash swamp territory.
Orde set his men to digging a channel through this
bank. It was no slight job, from one point of view, as the
slope down into the swamp began only at a point forty
or fifty feet inland; but on the other hand the earth was
soft and free from rocks. When completed the channel
THE RIVERMAN 133
gave passage to a rather feeble streamlet from the outer
fringe of the river. The men were puzzled, but Orde, by
the strange freak of his otherwise frank and open nature,
as usual told nothing of his plans, even to Tom North.
“He can't expect to turn that river,” said Tim Nolan,
who was once more with the crew. “He’d have to dig a
long ways below that level to catch the main current—
and then some.”
“Let him alone,” advised North, puffing at his short
pipe. “He’s wiser than a tree full of owls.”
Next Orde assigned two men to each of the queer-shaped
sawhorses, and instructed them to place the horses in a
row across the shallowest part of the river, and broadside
to the stream. This was done. The men, half-way to their
knees in the swift water, bore down heavily to keep their
charges in place. Other men immediately began to lay the
heavy planks side by side, perpendicular to and on the
up-stream side of the horses. The weight of the water
clamped them in place; big rocks and gravel shovelled on
in quantity prevented the lower ends from rising; the wide
slant of the legs directed the pressure so far downward
that the horses were prevented from floating away. And
slowly the bulk of the water, thus raised a good three
feet above its former level, turned aside into the new chan-
nel and poured out to inundate the black-ash swamp be-
yond.
A good volume still poured over the top of the tem-
porary dam and down to the fall; but it was by this
expedient so far reduced that work became possible.
“Now, boys l’ cried Orde. “Lively, while we've got the
chancel ”
By means of blocks and tackles and the team horses the
twenty-six-foot logs were placed side by side, slanting
from a point two feet below the rim of the fall to the
ledge below. They were bolted together top and bottom
134 THE RIVERMAN
through the four holes bored for that purpose. This was
a confusing and wet business. Sufficient water still flowed
in the natural channel of the river to dash in spray over
the entire work. Men toiled, wet to the skin, their gar-
ments clinging to them, their eyes full of water, barely
able to breathe, yet groping doggedly at it, and arriving
at last. The weather was warm with the midsummer. They
made a joke of the difficulty, and found inexhaustible
humour in the fact that one of their number was an Im-
mersion Baptist. When the task was finished, they pried
the flash-boards from the improvised dam; piled them
neatly beyond reach of high water; rescued the sawhorses
and piled them also for a possible future use; blocked the
temporary channel with a tree or so—and earth. The river,
restored to its immemorial channel by these men who had
so nonchalantly turned it aside, roared on, singing again
the song it had until now sung uninterruptedly for centuries.
Orde and his crew tramped back to the falls, and gazed on
their handiwork with satisfaction. Instead of plunging over
an edge into a turmoil of foam and eddies, now the water
flowed smoothly, almost without a break, over an incline of
thirty degrees.
“Logs’ll slip over that slick as a gun barrel,” said Tom
North. “How long do you think she'll last?”
“Haven't an idea,” replied Orde. “We may have to do
it again next summer, but I don’t think it. There's nothing
but the smooth of the water to wear those logs until they
begin to rot.”
Quite cheerfully they cook up their long, painstaking
journey back down the river. -
Travel down the river was at times very pleasant, and
at times very disagreeable. The ground had now hardened
so that a wanigan boat was unnecessary. Instead, the camp
outfit was transported in waggons, which often had to
journey far inland, to make extraordinary detours, but
THE RIVERMAN 135
which always arrived somehow at the various camping
places. Orde and his men, of course, took the river trail.
The river trail ran almost unbroken for over a hundred
miles of meandering way. It climbed up the high banks at
the points, it crossed the bluffs along their sheer edges, it
descended to the thickets in the flats, it crossed the swamps
on pole-trails, it skirted the great, solemn woods. Some-
times, in the lower reaches, its continuity was broken by a
town, but always after it recovered from its confusion it
led on with purpose unvarying. Never did it desert for long
the river. The cool, green still reaches, or the tumbling of
the white-water, were always within its sight, sometimes
beneath its very tread. When occasionally it cut in across
a very long bend, it always sent from itself a little tributary
trail which traced all the curves, and returned at last to its
parent, undoubtedly with a full report of its task. And the
trail was beaten hard by the feet of countless men, who,
like Orde and his crew, had taken grave, interested charge
of the river from her birth to her final rest in the great ex-
panses of the Lake. It is there to-day, although the life that
brought it into being has been gone from it these many
years.
In midsummer Orde found the river trail most un-
familiar in appearance. Hardly did he recognise it in some
places. It possessed a wide, leisurely expansiveness, an in-
dolent luxury, a lazy invitation born of broad green leaves,
deep and mysterious shadows, the growth of ferns, docks,
and the like cool in the shade of the forest, the shimmer of
aspens and poplars through the heat, the green of tangling
vines, the drone of insects, the low-voiced call of birds, the
Opulent splashing of sun-gold through the woods, quite
lacking to the hard, tight season in which his river work
was usually performed. What, in the early year, had been
merely a whip of brush, now had become a screen through
whose waving, shifting interstices he caught glimpses of
136 THE RIVERMAN
the river flowing green and cool. What had been bare tim-
ber amongst whose twigs and branches the full daylight
had shone unobstructed, now had clothed itself in foliage
and leaned over to make black and mysterious the water
that flowed beneath. Countless insects hovered over the
polished surface of that water. Dragon-flies cruised about.
Little birds swooped silently down and fluttered back, in-
tent on their tiny prey. Water-bugs skated hither and
thither in apparently purposeless diagonals. Once in a great
while the black depths were stirred. A bass rolled lazily
over, carrying with him his captured insect, leaving on the
surface of the water concentric rings which widened and
died away.
The trail led the crew through many minor labours, all
of which consumed time. At Reed’s Mill Orde entered into
diplomatic negotiations with Old Man Reed, whom he
found singularly amenable. The skirmish in the spring
seemed to have taken all the fight out of him; or perhaps,
more simply, Orde's attitude toward him at that time had
won him over to the young man's side. At any rate, as
soon as he understood that Orde was now in business
for himself, he readily came to an agreement. Thereupon
Orde's crew built a new sluiceway and gate far enough
down to assure a good head in the pond above. Other dam
owners farther down the stream also signed agreements
having to do with supplying water over and above what
the law required of them. Above one particularly shallow
rapid Orde built a dam of his own.
All this took time, and the summer months slipped away.
Orde had fallen into the wild life as into a habit. He lived
on the river or the trail. His face took on a ruddier hue
than ever; his clothes faded to a nondescript neutral colour
of their own; his hair below his narrow felt hat bleached
three shades. He did his work, and figured on his schemes,
and smoked his pipe, and occasionally took little trips to ,
THE RIVERMAN 137
the nearest town, where he spent the day at he hotel desks
reading and answering his letters. The weather was gen-
erally very warm. Thunder-storms were not infrequent.
Until the latter part of August, mosquitoes and black flies
were bad.
About the middle of September the crew had worked
down as far as Redding, leaving behind them a river
tamed, groomed, and harnessed for their uses. Remained
still the forty miles between Redding and the Lake to be
improved. As, however, navigation for light draught ves-
sels extended as far as that city, Orde here paid off his
men. A few days’ work with a pile driver would fence the
principal shoals from the channel.
He stayed over night with his parents, and at once took
the train for Monrovia. There he made his way immedi-
ately to the little office the new firm had rented. Newmark
had just come down.
“Hullo, Joe,” greeted Orde, his teeth flashing in con-
trast to the tan of his face. “I’m done. Anything new since
you wrote last?”
Newmark had acquired his articles of incorporation and
sold his stock. How many excursions, demonstrations,
representations, and arguments that implied, only one who
has undertaken the floating of a new and untried scheme can
imagine. Perhaps his task had in it as much of difficulty
as Orde's taming of the river. Certainly he carried it to as
successful a conclusion. The bulk of the stock he sold to
the log-owners themselves; the rest he scattered here and
there and everywhere in small lots, as he was able. Some
five hundred and thousand dollar blocks even went to
Chicago. His own little fortune of twenty thousand he paid
in for the shares that represented his half of the majority
retained by himself and Orde. The latter gave a note at
ten per cent for his proportion of the stock. Newmark then
borrowed fifteen thousand more, giving as security a mort-
138 THE RIVERMAN
gage on the company's newly acquired property—the tugs,
booms, buildings, and real estate. Thus was the financing
determined. It left the company with obligations of fifteen
hundred dollars a year in interest, expenses which would
run heavily into the thousands, and an obligation to make
good outside stock worth at par exactly forty-nine thou-
sand dollars. In addition, Orde had charged against his ac-
count a burden of two thousand dollars a year interest on
his personal debt. To offset these liabilities—outside the
river improvements and equipments, which would hold little
or no value in case of failure—the firm held contracts to
deliver about one hundred million feet of logs. After some
discussion the partners decided to allow themselves twenty-
five hundred dollars apiece by way of salary.
“If we don't make any dividends at first,” Orde pointed
out, “I’ve got to keep even on my interest.”
“You can't live on five hundred,” objected Newmark.
“I’ll be on the river and at the booms six months of the
year,” replied Orde, “and I can’t spend much there.”
“I’m satisfied,” said Newmark thoughtfully, “I’m get-
ting a little better than good interest on my own invest-
ment from the start. And in a few years after we’ve paid
up, there’ll be mighty big money in it.”
He removed his glasses and tapped his palm with their
edge.
“The only point that is at all risky to me,” said he, “is
that we have only one-season contracts. If for any reason
we hang up the drive, or fail to deliver promptly, we're
going to get left the year following. And then it's B-U-S-T,
bust.”
“Well, we'll just try not to hang her,” replied Orde.
XVI
RDE'S bank account, in spite of his laughing asser-
O tion to Newmark, contained some eleven hundred
dollars. After a brief but comprehensive tour of in-
spection over all the works then forward, he drew a hun-
dred of this and announced to Newmark that business would
take him away for about two weeks.
“I have some private affairs to attend to before set-
tling down to business for keeps,” he told Newmark
vaguely.
At Redding, whither he went to pack his little sole-
leather trunk, he told Grandma Orde the same thing. She
said nothing at the time, but later, when Grandpa Orde's
slender figure had departed, very courteous, very erect,
very dignified, with its old linen duster flapping around it,
she came and stood by the man leaning over the trunk.
“Speak to her, Jack,” said she quietly. “She cares for
you.”
Orde looked up in astonishment, but he did not pretend
to deny the implied accusation as to his destination.
“Why, mother!” he cried. “She’s only seen me three
or four times l It’s absurd—yet.” ~
“I know,” nodded Grandma Orde, wisely. “I know. But
you mark my words; she cares for you.”
She said nothing more, but stood looking while Orde
folded and laid away, his head bent low in thought.
Then she placed her hand for an instant on his shoul-
der and went away. The Ordes were not a demonstrative
people.
I39
14O THE RIVERMAN
The journey to New York was at that time very long
and disagreeable, but Orde bore it with his accustomed
stoicism. He had visited the metropolis before, so it was
not unfamiliar to him. He was very glad, however, to get
away from the dust and monotony of the railroad train.
The September twilight was just falling. Through its dusk
the street lamps were popping into illumination as the lamp-
lighter made his rapid way. Orde boarded a horse-car and
jingled away down Fourth Avenue. He was pleased at
having arrived, and stretched his legs and filled his lungs
twice with so evident an enjoyment that several people
smiled.
His comfort was soon disturbed, however, by an influx
of people boarding the car at Twenty-third Street. The
seats were immediately filled, and late comers found them-
selves obliged to stand in the aisle. Among these were sev-
eral women. The men nearest buried themselves in the
papers after the almost universal metropolitan custom. Two
or three arose to offer their seats, among them Orde. When,
however, the latter had turned to indicate to one of the
women the vacated seat, he discovered it occupied by a
chubby and flashily dressed youth of the sort common
enough in the vicinity of Fourteenth Street; impudent of
eye, cynical of demeanour, and slightly contemptuous of
everything unaccustomed. He had slipped in back of Orde
when that young man arose, whether under the impression
that Orde was about to get off the car or from sheer im-
pudence, it would be impossible to say.
Orde stared at him, a little astonished. -
“I intended that seat for this lady,” said Orde, touching
him on the shoulder.
The youth looked up coolly.
“You don’t come that! ” said he. -
Orde wasted no time in discussion, which no doubt saved
the necessity of a more serious disturbance. He reached
THE RIVERMAN 14.1
over suddenly, seized the youth by the collar, braced his
knee against the seat, and heaved the interloper so rapidly
to his feet that he all but plunged forward among the pas-
sengers sitting opposite.
“Your seat, madam,” said Orde.
The woman, frightened, unwilling to become the partici-
pant of a scene of any sort, stood looking here and there.
Orde, comprehending her embarrassment, twisted his an-
tagonist about, and, before he could recover his equilib-
rium sufficiently to offer resistance, propelled him rapidly
to the open door, the passengers hastily making way for
them.
“Now, my friend,” said Orde, releasing his hold on the
other's collar, “don’t do such things any more. They aren’t
nice.”
Trivial as the incident was, it served to draw Orde to
the particular notice of an elderly man leaning against the
rear rail. He was a very well-groomed man, dressed in
garments whose fit was evidently the product of the highest
art, well buttoned up, well brushed, well cared for in every
way. In his buttonhole he wore a pink carnation, and in
his gloved hand he carried a straight, gold-headed cane.
A silk hat covered his head, from beneath which showed a
slightly empurpled countenance, with bushy white eye-
brows, a white moustache, and a pair of rather bloodshot,
but kindly, blue eyes. In spite of his somewhat pudgy
rotundity, he carried himself quite erect, in a manner that
bespoke the retired military man.
“You have courage, sir,” said this gentleman, inclining
his head gravely to Orde.
The young man laughed in his good-humoured fashion.
“Not much courage required to root out that kind of a
skunk,” said he cheerfully.
“I refer to the courage of your convictions. The young
men of this generation seem to prefer to avoid public dis-
142 THE RIVERMAN
turbances. That breed is quite capable of making a row,
calling the police, raising the deuce, and all that.”
“What of it?” said Orde.
The elderly gentleman puffed out his cheeks.
“You are from the West, are you not?” he stated,
rather than asked.
“We call it the East out there,” said Orde. “It’s Mich-
igan.”
“I should call that pretty far west,” said the old gen-
tleman.
Nothing more was said. After a block or two Orde de-
scended on his way to a small hotel just off Broadway.
The old gentleman saluted. Orde nodded good-humouredly.
In his private soul he was a little amused at the old boy.
To his view a man and clothes carried to their last refine-
ment were contradictory terms.
Orde ate, dressed, and set out afoot in search of Miss
Bishop's address. He arrived in front of the house a little
past eight o'clock, and, after a moment’s hesitation, mount-
ed the steps and rang the bell.
The door swung silently back to frame an impassive
man-servant dressed in livery. To Orde's inquiry he stated
that Miss Bishop had gone out to the theatre. The young
man left his name and a message of regret. At this the foot-
man, with an irony so subtle as to be quite lost on Orde,
demanded a card. Orde scribbled a line in his note-book,
tore it out, folded it, and left it. In it he stated his regret,
his short residence in the city, and desired an early oppor-
tunity to call. Then he departed down the brownstone
steps, totally unconscious of the contempt he had inspired
in the heart of the liveried man behind him.
He retired early and arose early, as had become his habit.
When he descended to the office the night clerk, who had
not yet been relieved, handed him a note delivered the
night before. Orde ripped it open eagerly.
THE RIVERMAN 143
“My DEAR MR. ORDE:
“I was so sorry to miss you that evening because of a
stupid play. Come around as early as you can to-morrow
morning. I shall expect you.
“Sincerely yours,
“CARROLL BISHOP.”
Orde glanced at the clock, which pointed to seven. He
breakfasted, read the morning paper, finally started leisure-
ly in the direction of West Ninth Street. He walked slowly,
so as to consume more time, then at University Place was
seized with a panic, and hurried rapidly to his destination.
The door was answered by the same man who had opened
the night before, but now, in some indefinable way, his
calm, while flawless externally, seemed to have lifted to a
mere surface, as though he might hastily have assumed his
coat. To Orde's inquiry he stated with great brevity that
Miss Bishop was not yet visible, and prepared to close the
door.
“You are mistaken,” said Orde, with equal brevity, and
stepped inside. “I have an engagement with Miss Bishop.
Tell her Mr. Orde is here.”
The man departed in some doubt, leaving Orde standing
in the gloomy hall. That young man, however, quite cheer-
fully parted the heavy curtains leading into a parlour, and
sat down in a spindle-legged chair. At his entrance, a maid
disappeared out another door, carrying with her the im-
plements of dusting and brushing.
Orde looked around the room with some curiosity. It
was long, narrow, and very high. Tall windows admitted
light at one end. The illumination was, however, modified
greatly by hangings of lace covering all the windows, sup-
plemented by heavy draperies drawn back to either side.
The embrasure was occupied by a small table, over which
9
144. THE RIVERMAN
seemed to flutter a beautiful marble Psyche. A rubber
plant, then as now the mark of the city and suburban
dweller, sent aloft its spare, shiny leaves alongside a closed
square piano. The lack of ornaments atop the latter be-
spoke the musician. Through the filtered gloom of the
demi-light Orde surveyed with interest the excellent re-
productions of the Old World masterpieces framed on the
walls—“Madonnas* by Raphael, Murillo, and Perugino,
the “Mona Lisa,” and Botticelli’s “Spring ”—the three
oil portraits occupying the large spaces; the spindle-legged
chairs and tables, the tea service in the corner, the tall
bronze lamp by the piano, the neat little grate-hearth, with
its mantel of marble; the ormolu clock, all the decorous and
decorated gentility which marked the irreproachable cor-
rectness of whoever had furnished the apartment. Dark and
heavy hangings depended in front of a double door leading
into another room beyond. Equally dark and heavy hang-
ings had closed behind Orde as he entered. An absolute and
shrouded stillness seemed to settle down upon him. The
ormolu clock ticked steadily. Muffled sounds came at long
intervals from behind the portières. Orde began to feel op-
pressed and subdued.
For quite three quarters of an hour he waited without
hearing any other indications of life than the muffled
sounds just remarked upon. Occasionally he shifted his
position, but cautiously, as though he feared to awaken
some one. The three oil portraits stared at him with all the
reserved aloofness of their painted eyes. He began to doubt
whether the man had announced him at all.
Then, breaking the stillness with almost startling abrupt-
ness, he heard a clear, high voice saying something at the
top of the stairs outside. A rhythmical swish of skirts, punc-
tuated by the light pat-pat of a girl tripping downstairs,
brought him to his feet. A moment later the curtains parted
and she entered, holding out her hand.
THE RIVERMAN 145
“Oh, I did keep you waiting such a long time!” she
cried.
He stood holding her hand, suddenly unable to say a
word, looking at her hungrily. A flood of emotion, of which
he had had no prevision, swelled up within him to fill his
throat. An almost irresistible impulse all but controlled him
to crush her to him, to kiss her lips and her throat, to lose
his fingers in the soft, shadowy fineness of her hair. The
crest of the wave passed almost immediately, but it left him
shaken. A faint colour deepened under the transparence of
her skin; her fathomless black eyes widened ever so little;
she released her hand.
“It was good of you to come so promptly,” said she.
“I’m so anxious to hear all about the dear people at Red-
ding.”
She settled gracefully in one of the little chairs. Orde
sat down, once more master of himself, but still inclined to
devour her with his gaze. She was dressed in a morning
gown, all laces and ribbons and long, flowing lines. Her
hair was done low on the back of her head and on the
nape of her neck. The blood ebbed and flowed beneath her
clear skin. A faint fragrance of cleanliness diffused itself
about her—the cool, sweet fragrance of daintiness. They
entered busily into conversation. Her attitudes were no
longer relaxed and languidly graceful as in the easy chairs
under the lamplight. She sat forward, her hands crossed
on her lap, a fire smouldering deep beneath the cool surface
lights of her eyes. -
The sounds in the next room increased in volume, as
though several people must have entered that apartment.
In a moment or so the curtains to the hall parted to frame
the servant.
“Mrs. Bishop wishes to know, miss,” said that function-
ary, “if you’re not coming to breakfast.”
Orde sprang to his feet.
146 THE RIVERMAN
“Haven't you had your breakfast yet?” he cried, con-
science stricken.
“Didn't you gather the fact that I’m just up?” she
mocked him. “I assure you it doesn't matter. The family
has just come down.”
“But,” cried Orde, “I wasn’t here until nine o'clock. I
thought, of course, you'd be around. I’m mighty sorry 99
“Oh, la la l' she cried, cutting him short. “What a
pother about nothing. Don't you see—I’m ahead a whole
hour of good talk.”
“You see, you told me in your note to come early,” said
Orde.
“I forgot you were one of those dreadful outdoor men.
You didn't see any worms, did you? Next time I'll tell you
to come the day after.”
Orde was for taking his leave, but this she would not
have.
“You must meet my family,” she negatived. “For if
you're here for so short a time we want to see something
of you. Come right out now.”
Orde thereupon followed her down a narrow, dark hall,
squeezed between the stairs and the wall, to a door that
opened slantwise into a dining-room the exact counterpart
in shape to the parlour at the other side of the house. Only
in this case the morning sun and more diaphanous curtains
lent an air of brightness, further enhanced by a wire stand
of flowers in the bow-windows.
The centre of the room was occupied by a round table,
about which were grouped several people of different ages.
With her back to the bow-window sat a woman well be-
yond middle age, but with evidently some pretensions to
youth. She was tall, desiccated, quick in movement. Dark
rings below her eyes attested either a nervous disease, an
hysterical temperament, or both. Immediately at her left
sat a boy of about fourteen years of age, his face a curious
THE RIVERMAN 147
contradiction between a naturally frank and open expres-
sion and a growing sullenness. Next him stood a vacant
chair, evidently for Miss Bishop. Opposite lolled a young
man, holding a newspaper in one hand and a coffee cup in
the other. He was very handsome, with a drooping black
moustache, dark eyes, under lashes almost too luxuriant,
and a long, oval face, dark in complexion, and a trifle sar-
donic in expression. In the vis-à-vis to Mrs. Bishop, Orde
was surprised to find his ex-military friend of the street
car. Miss Bishop performed the necessary introductions,
which each acknowledged after his fashion, but with an ap-
parent indifference that dashed Orde, accustomed to a more
Western cordiality. Mrs. Bishop held out a languidly grace-
ful hand, the boy mumbled a greeting, the young man
nodded lazily over his newspaper. Only General Bishop,
recognising him, arose and grasped his hand, with a real,
though rather fussy, warmth.
“My dear sir,” he cried, “I am honoured to see you
again. Th’s, my dear,” he addressed his wife, “is the young
man I was telling you about—in the street car,” he ex-
plained. -
“How very interesting,” said Mrs. Bishop, with evidently
no comprehension and less interest.
Gerald Bishop cast an ironically amused glance across
at Orde. The boy looked up at him quickly, the sullenness
for a moment gone from his face.
Carroll Bishop appeared quite unconscious of an atmos-
phere which seemed to Orde strained, but sank into her
place at the table and unfolded her napkin. The silent butler
drew forward a chair for Orde, and stood looking impas-
sively in Mrs. Bishop's direction.
“You will have some breakfast with us?” she inquired.
“No P A cup of coffee, at least?”
She began to manipulate the coffee pot, without paying
the slightest attention to Orde's disclaimer. The general
148 THE RIVERMAN
puffed out his cheeks, and coughed a bit in embarrass-
1ment.
“A good cup of coffee is never amiss to an old cam-
paigner,” he said to Orde. “It’s as good as a full meal in
a pinch. I remember when I was a major in the Eleventh,
down near the City of Mexico, in '48, the time Hardy's
command was so nearly wiped out by that viaduct—” He
half turned toward Orde, his face lighting up, his fingers
reaching for the fork with which, after the custom of old
soldiers, to trace the chart of his reminiscences.
Mrs. Bishop rattled her cup and saucer with an uncon-
trollably nervous jerk of her slender body. For some mo-
ments she had awaited a chance to get the general’s atten-
tion. “Spare us, father,” she said brusquely. “Will you
have another cup of coffee?”
The old gentleman, arrested in mid-career, swallowed,
looked a trifle bewildered, but subsided meekly.
“No, thank you, my dear,” said he, and went furiously
at his breakfast.
Orde, overwhelmed by embarrassment, discovered that
none of the others had paid the incident the slightest atten-
tion. Only on the lips of Gerald Bishop he surprised a fine,
detached smile.
At this moment the butler entered bearing the mail. Mrs.
Bishop tore hers open rapidly, dropping the mangled en-
velopes at her side. The contents of one seemed to vex
her.
“Oh ſ** she cried aloud. “That miserable Marie! She
promised me to have it done to-day, and now she puts it off
until Monday. It's too provoking !” She turned to Orde
for sympathy. “Do you know anything more aggravating
than to work and slave to the limit of endurance, and
then have everything upset by the stupidity of some one
else?”
Orde murmured an appropriate reply, to which Mrs.
THE RIVERMAN 149
Bishop paid no attention whatever. She started suddenly up
from the table.
“I must see about it!” she cried. “I plainly see I shall
have to do it myself. I will do it myself. I promised it for
Sunday.”
“You mustn't do another stitch, mother,” put in Carroll
Bishop decidedly. “You know what the doctor told you.
You'll have yourself down sick.”
“Well, see for yourself!” cried Mrs. Bishop. “That's
what comes of leaving things to others! If I’d done it my-
self, it would have saved me all this bother and fuss, and it
would have been done. And now I’ve got to do it anyway.”
“My dear,” put in the general, “perhaps Carroll can see
Marie about it. In any case, there's nothing to work your-
self up into such an excitement about.”
“It's very easy for you to talk, isn't it?” cried Mrs.
Bishop, turning on him. “I like the way you all sit around
like lumps and do nothing, and then tell me how I ought
to have done it. John, have the carriage around at once.”
She turned tensely to Orde. “I hope you’ll excuse me,”
she said very briefly ; “I have something very important to
attend to.”
Carroll had also risen. Orde held out his hand.
“I must be going,” said he. -
“Well,” she conceded, “I suppose I’d better see if I
can’t help mother out. But you'll come in again. Come and
dine with us this evening. Mother will be delighted.”
As Mrs. Bishop had departed from the room, Orde had
to take for granted the expression of this delight. He bowed
to the other occupants of the table. The general was eating
nervously. Gerald's eyes were fixed amusedly on Orde.
To Orde's surprise, he was almost immediately joined on
the street by young Mr. Bishop, most correctly appointed.
“Going anywhere in particular?” he inquired. “Let’s
go up the avenue, then. Everybody will be out.”
15o THE RIVERMAN
They turned up the great promenade, a tour of which
was then, even more than now, considered obligatory on
the gracefully idle. Neither said anything—Orde because he
was too absorbed in the emotions this sudden revelation of
Carroll's environment had aroused in him; Gerald, appar-
ently, because he was too indifferent. Nevertheless it was
the young exquisite who finally broke the silence.
“It was an altar cloth,” said he suddenly.
“What?” asked Orde, rather bewildered.
“Mother is probably the most devout woman in New
York,” went on Gerald's even voice. “She is one of the
hardest workers in the church. She keeps all the fast days,
and attends all the services. Although she has no strength to
speak of, she has just completed an elaborate embroidered
altar cloth. The work she accomplished while on her knees.
Often she spent five or six hours a day in that position. It
was very devout, but against the doctor's orders, and she
is at present much pulled down. Finally she gave way to
persuasion to the extent of sending the embroidery out to
be bound and corded. As a result, the altar cloth will not
be done for next Sunday.”
He delivered this statement in a voice absolutely colour-
less, without the faintest trace discernible of either ap-
proval or disapproval, without the slightest irony, yet Orde
felt vaguely uncomfortable.
“It must have been annoying to her,” he said gravely,
“ and I hope she will get it done in time. Perhaps Miss
Bishop will be able to do it.”
“That,” said Gerald, “is Madison Square—or perhaps
you know New York? My sister would, of course, be only
too glad to finish the work, but I fear that my mother's
peculiarly ardent temperament will now insist on her own
accomplishment of the task. But perhaps you do not under-
stand temperaments?”
“Very little, I'm afraid,” confessed Orde.
THE RIVERMAN 151
They walked on for some distance farther.
“Your father was in the Mexican War?” said Orde, to
change the trend of his own thoughts.
“He was a most distinguished officer. I believe he re-
ceived the Medal of Honour for a part in the affair of the
Molina del Rey.”
“What command had he in the Civil War?” asked Orde.
“I fooled around the outskirts of that a little myself.”
“My father resigned from the army in ’54,” replied
Gerald, with his cool, impersonal courtesy.
“That was too bad; just before the chance for more
service,” said Orde.
“Army life was incompatible with my mother's tempera-
ment,” stated Gerald.
Orde said nothing more. It was Gerald's turn to end the
pause.
“You are from Redding, of course,” said he. “My sister
is very enthusiastic about the place. You are in business
there?” --
Orde replied briefly, but, forced by the direct, cold, and
polite cross-questioning of his companion, he gave the latter
a succinct idea of the sort of operations in which he was
interested.
“And you,” he said at last; “I suppose you’re either a
broker or lawyer; most men are down here.”
“I am neither one nor the other,” stated Gerald. “I am
possessed of a sufficient income from a legacy to make
business unnecessary.”
“I don’t believe I’d care to-be idle,” said Orde
vaguely.
“There is plenty to occupy one's time,” replied Gerald.
“I have my clubs, my gymnasium, my horse, and my
friends.”
“Isn't there anything that particularly attracts you?”
*sked Orde.
152 THE RIVERMAN
The young man's languid eyes grew thoughtful, and he
puffed more strongly on his cigarette.
“I should like,” said he slowly, at last, “to enter the
navy.”
“Why don't you?” asked Orde bluntly.
“Certain family reasons make it inexpedient at present,”
said Gerald. “My mother is in a very nervous state; she
depends on us, and any hint of our leaving her is sufficient
to render her condition serious.”
By this time the two young men were well uptown. On
Gerald's initiative, they turned down a side street, and
shortly came to a stop.
“That is my gymnasium,” said Gerald, pointing to a
building across the way. “Won't you come in with me? I
am due now for my practice.”
XVII
RDE'S evening was a disappointment to him. Mrs.
Bishop had, by Carroll’s report, worked feverishly
at the altar cloth all the afternoon. As a conse-
quence, she had gone to bed with a bad headache. This
state of affairs seemed to throw the entire family into a
state of indecision. It was divided in mind as to what to
do, the absolute inutility of any effort balancing strongly
against a sense of what the invalid expected.
“I wonder if mother wouldn't like just a taste of this
beef,” speculated the general, moving fussily in his chair.
“I believe somebody ought to take some up. She might
want it.”
The man departed with the plate, but returned a few
moments later, impassive—but still with the plate.
“Has she got her hot-water bag?” asked the boy un-
expectedly.
“Yes, Master Kendrick,” replied the butler. .
After a preoccupied silence the general again broke out:
“Seems to me somebody ought to be up there with her.”
“You know, father, that she can't stand any one in the
room,” said Carroll equably.
Toward the close of the meal, however, a distant bell
tinkled faintly. Every one jumped as though guilty. Carroll
said a hasty excuse and ran out. After ringing the bell, the
invalid had evidently anticipated its answer by emerging
from her room to the head of the stairs, for Orde caught
the sharp tones of complaint, and overheard something
about “take all night to eat a simple meal, when I'm lying
here suffering.”
I53
154. THE RIVERMAN
At the end of an interval a maid appeared in the doorway
to say that Miss Carroll sent word she would not be down
again for a time, and did not care for any more dinner.
This seemed to relieve the general’s mind of responsibility.
He assumed his little fussy air of cheerfulness, told several
stories of the war, and finally, after Kendrick had left,
brought out some whisky and water. He winked slyly at
Orde.
“Can't do this before the youngsters, you know,” he
chirruped craftily.
Throughout the meal Gerald had sat back silent, a faint
amusement in his eye. After dinner he arose, yawned, con-
Sulted his watch, and departed, pleading an engagement.
Orde lingered some time, listening to the general, in the
hope that Carroll would reappear. She did not, so finally he
took his leave.
He trudged back to his hotel gloomily. The day had
passed in a most unsatisfactory manner, according to his
way of looking at it. Yet he had come more clearly to an
understanding of the girl; her cheerfulness, her unselfish-
ness, and, above all, the sweet, beautiful philosophy of life
that must lie back, to render her so uncomplainingly the
slave of the self-willed woman, yet without the indifferent
cynicism of Gerald, the sullen, yet real, partisanship of Ken-
drick, or the general's week-kneed acquiescence.
The next morning he succeeded in making an arrange-
ment by letter for an excursion to the newly projected Cen-
tral Park. Promptly at two o'clock he was at the Bishops'
house. To his inquiry the butler said that Mrs. Bishop had
recovered from her indisposition, and that Miss Bishop
would be down immediately. Orde had not long to wait for
her. The swish, pat-pat of her joyous descent of the stairs
brought him to his feet. She swept aside the portières, and
stood between their folds, bidding him welcome.
“I'm So Sorry about last night,” said she, “but poor
THE RIVERMAN 155
mother does depend on me so at such times. Isn't it a gor-
geous day to walk? It won't be much like our woods, will
it? But it will be something. Oh, I’m so glad to get out!”
She was in one of her elfish moods, the languid grace of
her sleepy-eyed moments forgotten. With a little cry of
rapture she ran to the piano, and dashed into a gay, tink-
ling air with brilliancy and abandon. Her head, surmounted
by a perky, high-peaked, narrow-brimmed hat, with a flam-
ing red bird in front, glorified by the braid and “water-
fall ” of that day, bent forward and turned to flash an
appeal for sympathy toward Orde.
“There, I feel more able to stay on earth !” she cried,
springing to her feet. “Now I’ll get on my gloves and we'll
start.”
She turned slowly before the mirror, examining quite
frankly the hang of her skirt, the fit of her close-cut waist,
the turn of the adorable round, low-cut collars that were
then the mode.
“It pays to be particular; we are in New York,” she an-
swered, or parried, Orde's glance of admiration.
The gloves finally drawn on and buttoned, Orde held
aside the portières, and she passed fairly under his uplifted
hand. He wanted to drop his arm about her, this slender
girl with her quaint dignity, her bird-like ways, her gentle,
graceful, mysterious, feminine soul. The flame-red bird lent
its colour to her cheeks; her eyes, black and fathomless,
the pupils wide in this dim light, shone with two stars of
delight.
But, as they moved toward the massive front doors, Mrs.
Bishop came down the stairs behind them. She, too, was
dressed for the street. She received Orde's greeting and
congratulation over her improved health in rather an absent
manner. Indeed, as soon as she could hurry this preliminary
over, she plunged into what evidently she considered a
more important matter.
156 THE RIVERMAN
“You aren't thinking of going out, are you?” she asked
Carroll. -
“I told you, mother; don't you remember? Mr. Orde
and I are going to get a little air in the park.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Bishop, with great brevity and
decision, “but I’m going to the rectory to help Mr. Merritt,
and I shall want you to go too, to see about the silver.”
“But, mother,” expostulated Carroll, “wouldn't Marie
do just as well ?”
“You know very well she can't be trusted without direc-
tion.”
“I do so want to go to the park,” said Carroll wistfully.
Mrs. Bishop's thin, nervous figure jerked spasmodically.
“There is very little asked of you from morning until
night,” she said, with some asperity, “and I should think
you’d have some slight consideration for the fact that I’m
just up from a sick bed to spare me all you could. Besides
which, you do very little for the church. I won't insist. Do
exactly as you think best.”
Carroll threw a pathetic glance at Orde.
“How soon are you going?” she asked her mother.
“In about ten minutes,” replied Mrs. Bishop; “as soon
as I’ve seen Honorine about the dinner.” She seemed
abruptly to realise that the amenities demanded something
of her. “I’m sorry we must go so soon,” she said briefly to
Orde, “but of course church business— We shall hope to
see you often.”
Once more Orde held aside the curtains. The flame-bird
drooped from the twilight of the hall into the dimness of
the parlour. All the brightness seemed to have drained from
the day, and all the joy of life seemed to have faded from
the girl's soul. She sank into a chair, and tried pathetically
to smile across at Orde.
“I’m such a baby about disappointments,” said she.
“I know,” he replied, very gently.
THE RIVERMAN 157
“And it's such a blue and gold day.”
“I know,” he repeated.
She twisted her glove in her lap, a bright spot of colour
burning in each cheek.
“Mother is not well, and she has a great deal to try her.
Poor mother l’” she said softly, her head cast down.
“I know,” said Orde in his gentle tones.
After a moment he arose to go. She remained seated,
her head down.
“I’m sorry about this afternoon,” said he cheerfully,
“but it couldn't be helped, could it? Jane used to tell me
about your harp playing. I’m going to come in to hear you
this evening. May I?” -
“Yes,” she said, in a stifled voice, and held out her hand.
She sat quite still until she heard the front door close
after him; then she ran to the curtains and looked after
his sturdy, square figure, as it swung up the street.
“Well done; oh, well done, gentle heart!” she breathed
after him. Then she went back to the piano. -
But Orde's mouth, could she have seen it, was set in
grim lines, and his feet, could she have heard them, rang
on the pavement with quite superfluous vigour. He turned
to the left, and, without pause, walked some ten or twelve
miles.
The evening turned out very well, fortunately; Orde
could not have stood much more. They had the parlour
quite to themselves. Carroll took the cover from the tall
harp, and, leaning her cheek against it, she played dreamily
for a half hour. Her arms were bare, and as her fingers
reached out lingeringly and caressingly to draw the pure,
golden chords from the golden instrument, her soft bosom
pressed against the broad sounding board. There is about
the tones of a harp well played something luminous, like
rich, warm sunlight. When the girl muted the strings at
last, it seemed to Orde as though all at once the room had
158 THE RIVERMAN
perceptibly darkened. He took his leave finally, his spirit
soothed and restored.
Tranquillity was not for long, however. Orde's visits were,
naturally, as frequent as possible. To them almost instantly
Mrs. Bishop opposed the strong and intuitive jealousy of
egotism. She had as yet no fears as to the young man's
intentions, but instinctively she felt an influence that op-
posed her own supreme dominance. In consequence, Orde
had much time to himself. Carroll and the rest of the
family, with the possible exception of Gerald, shared the
belief that the slightest real opposition to Mrs. Bishop
would suffice to throw her into one of her “spells,” a con-
dition of alarming and possibly genuine collapse. “To drive
mother into a spell " was an expression of the worst pos-
sible domestic crime. It accused the perpetrator—through
Mrs. Bishop—of forgetting the state of affairs, of in-
gratitude for care and affection, of common inhumanity,
and of impiety in rendering impossible of performance the
multifarious church duties Mrs. Bishop had invented and
assumed as so many particularly shining virtues. Orde soon
discovered that Carroll went out in society very little for
the simple reason that she could never give an unqualified
acceptance to an invitation. At the last moment, when she
had donned her street wraps and the carriage was at the
door, she was liable to be called back, either to assist at
some religious function, which, by its sacred character, was
supposed to have precedence over everything, or to attend
a nervous crisis, brought on by some member of the house-
hold, or by mere untoward circumstances. The girl always
acquiesced most sweetly in these recurrent disappointments.
And the very fact that she accepted few invitations gave
Orde many more chances to see her, in spite of Mrs. Bish-
op's increasing exactions. He did not realise this fact, how-
ever, but ground his teeth and clung blind-eyed to his
temper whenever the mother cut short his visits or annulled
THE RIVERMAN 1.59
his engagements on some petty excuse of her own. He
could almost believe these interruptions malicious, were it
not that he soon discovered Mrs. Bishop well disposed
toward him personally whenever he showed himself ready
to meet her even quarter way on the topics that interested
her—the church and her health.
In this manner the week passed. Orde saw as much as
he could of Miss Bishop. The remainder of the time he
spent walking the streets and reading in the club rooms to
which Gerald's courtesy had given him access. Gerald
himself seemed to be much occupied. Precisely at eleven
every morning, however, he appeared at the gymnasium
for his practice; and in this Orde dropped into the habit of
joining him. When the young men first stripped in each
other's presence, they eyed each other with a secret surprise.
Gerald's slender and elegant body turned out to be smooth-
ly and gracefully muscled on the long lines of the Flying
Mercury. His bones were small, but his flesh was hard, and
his skin healthy with the flow of blood beneath. Orde, on
the other hand, had earned from the river the torso of an
ancient athlete. The round, full arch of his chest was topped
by a mass of clean-cut muscle; across his back, beneath the
smooth skin, the muscles rippled and ridged and dimpled
with every movement; the beautiful curve of the deltoids,
from the point of the shoulder to the arm, met the other
beautiful curve of the unflexed biceps and that fulness of
the back arm so often lacking in a one-sided development;
the surface of the abdomen showed the peculiar corruga-
tion of the very strong man; the round, columnar neck
arose massive.
“By Jove!” said Gerald, roused at last from his habitual
apathy.
“What's the matter?” asked Orde, looking up from
tying the rubber-soled shoes that Gerald had lent him.
“Murphy,” called Gerald, “come here.”
16o THE RIVERMAN
A very hairy, thick-set, bullet-headed man, the type of
semi-professional “handlers,” emerged from somewhere
across the gymnasium.
“Do you think you could down this fellow?” asked
Cerald.
Murphy looked Orde over critically.
“Who ye ringin' in on me?” he inquired.
“This is a friend of mine,” said Gerald severely.
“Beg your pardon. The gentleman is well put up. How
much experience has he had P”
“Ever box much P” Gerald asked Orde. t
“Box?” Orde laughed. “Never had time for that sort
of thing. Had the gloves on a few times.”
“Where did you get your training, sir?” asked the
handler.
“My training?” repeated Orde, puzzled. “Oh, I see
I was always pretty heavy, and I suppose the work on the
river keeps a man in pretty good shape.”
Gerald's languor had vanished, and a glint had appeared
in his eye that would have reminded Orde of Miss Bishop's
most mischievous mood could he have seen it. -
“Put on the gloves with Murphy,” he suggested, “will
you? I’d like to see you two at it.”
“Surely,” agreed Orde good-naturedly. “I’m not much
good at it, but I’d just as soon try.” He was evidently not
in the least afraid to meet the handler, though as evidently
without much confidence in his own skill. -
“All right; I’ll be with you in a second,” said Gerald,
disappearing. In the anteroom he rung a bell, and to the
boy who leisurely answered its summons he said rapidly:
“Run over to the club and find Mr. Winslow, Mr.
Clark, and whoever else is in the smoking room, and tell
them from me to come over to the gymnasium. Tell them
there’s some fun on.”
Then he returned to the gymnasium floor, where Mur-
f
THE RIVERMAN 161
phy was answering Orde's questions as to the apparatus.
While the two men were pulling on the gloves, Gerald
managed a word apart with the trainer.
“Can you do him, Murph P” he whispered.
“Sure!” said the handler. “Them kind’s always as slow
as dray-horses. They gets muscle-bound.”
“Give it to him,” said Gerald, “but don't kill him. He's
a friend of mine.”
Then he stepped back, the same joy in his soul that in-
spires a riverman when he encounters a high-banker; a
hunter when he takes out a greenhorn, or a cowboy as he
watches the tenderfoot about to climb the bronco.
“Time!” said he.
The first round was sharp. When Gerald called the end,
Orde grinned at him cheerfully.
“Don’t look like I was much at this game, does it?”
said he. “I wouldn't pull down many persimmons out of
that tree. Your confounded man's too lively; I couldn't hit
him with a shotgun.”
Orde had stood like a rock, his feet planted to the floor,
while Murphy had circled around him hitting at will. Orde
hit back, but without landing. Nevertheless Murphy, when
questioned apart, did not seem satisfied.
“The man's pig-iron,” said he. “I punched him plenty
hard enough, and it didn’t seem to jar him.”
The gallery at one end the running track had by now
half filled with interested spectators.
“Time!” called Gerald for round two.
This time Murphy went in more viciously, aiming and
measuring his blows accurately. Orde stood as before, a
humourous smile of self-depreciation on his face, hitting
back at the elusive Murphy, but without much effect, his
feet never stirring in their tracks. The handler used his best
tactics and landed almost at will, but without apparent dam-
age. He grew ugly—finally lost his head.
162 THE RIVERMAN
“Well, if ye will have it!” he muttered, and aimed
what was intended as a knockout blow.
Gerald uttered a half cry of warning as his practised
eye caught Murphy's intention. The blow landed. Orde's
head snapped back, but to the surprise of every one the
punch had no other effect, and a quick exchange of in-
fighting sent Murphy staggering back from the encounter.
The smile had disappeared from Orde's face, and his ey:
had calmed.
“Look here,” he called to Gerald, “I don’t understand
this game very well. At school we used ‘ taps.’ Is a man
supposed to hit hard?”
Gerald hesitafed, then looked beyond Orde to the gal-
lery. To a man it made frantic and silent demonstration.
“Of course you hit,” he replied. “You can't hurt any
one with those big gloves.”
Orde turned back to his antagonist. The latter advanced
once more, his bullet head sunk between his shoulders, his
little eyes twinkling. Evidently Mr. Bishop's friend would
now take the aggressive, and forward movement would
deliver an extra force to the professional's blows.
Orde did not wait for Murphy, however. Like a tiger
he sprang forward, hitting out fiercely, first with one hand
then with the other. Murphy gave ground, blocked, ducked,
exerted all a ring general’s skill either to stop or avoid
the rush. Orde followed him insistent. Several times he
landed, but always when Murphy was on the retreat, so
the blows had not much weight. Several times Murphy
ducked in and planted a number of short-arm jabs at close
range. The round ended almost immediately to a storm of
applause from the galleries.
“What do you think of his being muscle-bound?” Ger-
ald asked Murphy, as the latter flung himself panting on
the wrestling mat for his rest.
“He’s quick as chained lightning,” acknowledged the
THE RIVERMAN 163
other grudgingly. “But I’ll get him. He can't keep that
up; he’ll be winded in half a minute.”
Orde sat down on a roll of mat. His smile had quite
vanished, and he seemed to be awaiting eagerly the begin-
ning of the next round.
“Time!” called Gerald for the third.
Orde immediately sprang at his adversary, repeating the
headlong rush with which the previous round had ended.
Murphy blocked, ducked, and kept away, Occasionally de-
livering a jolt as opportunity offered, awaiting the time
when Orde's weariness would leave him at the other's
mercy. That moment did not come. The young man ham-
mered away tirelessly, insistently, delivering a hurricane
of his two-handed blows, pressing relentlessly in as Mur-
phy shifted and gave ground, his head up, his eyes steady,
oblivious to the return hammering the now desperate hand-
ler opposed to him. Two minutes passed without percep-
tible slackening in this terrific pace. The gallery was in an
uproar, and some of the members were piling down the
stairs to the floor. Perspiration stood out all over Murphy’s
body. His blows failed of their effect, and some of Orde's
were landing. At length, bewildered more by the continu-
ance than the violence of the attack, he dropped his ring
tactics and closed in to straight slugging, blow against
blow, stand up, give and take.
As he saw his opponent stand, Orde uttered a sound of
satisfaction. He dropped slightly his right shoulder behind
his next blow. The glove crashed straight as a pile-driver
through Murphy's upraised hands to his face, which it met
with a smack. The trainer, lifted bodily from the ground,
was hurled through the air, to land doubled up against the
supports of a parallel bars. There he lay quite still, his
palms up, his head sunk forward.
Orde stared at him a moment in astonishment, as though
expecting him to arise. When, however, he perceived that
164 THE RIVERMAN
Murphy was in reality unconscious, he tore off the gloves
and ran forward to kneel by the professional’s side.
“I didn't suppose one punch like that would hurt him,”
he muttered to the men crowding around. “Especially with
the gloves. Do you suppose he's killed?”
But already Murphy's arms were making aimless mo-
tions, and a deep breath raised his chest.
“He’s just knocked out,” reassured one of the men, ex-
amining the prostrate handler with a professional atten-
tion. “He’ll be as good as ever in five minutes. Here,” he
commanded one of the gymnasium rubbers who had ap-
peared, “lend a hand here with some water.”
The clubmen crowded about, all talking at once.
“You’re a wonder, my friend,” said one.
“By Jove, he’s hardly breathing fast after all that rush-
ing,” said a second.
“So you didn't think one punch like that would hurt
him,” quoted another with good-natured sarcasm.
“No,” said Orde, simply. “I’ve hit men that hard before
with my bare fist.”
“Did they survive?”
“Surely.”
“What kind of armour-plates were they, in heaven's
name?”
Orde had recovered his balance and humour.
“Just plain ordinary rivermen,” said he with a laugh.
“Gentlemen,” struck in Gerald, “I want to introduce
you to my friend.” He performed the introductions. It
was necessary for him to explain apart that Orde was in
reality his friend, an amateur, a chance visitor in the city.
All in all, the affair made quite a little stir, and went far
to give Orde a standing with these sport-loving youths.
Finally Gerald and Orde were permitted to finish their
gymnasium practice. Murphy had recovered, and came for-
ward. t
THE RIVERMAN 165
“You have a strong punch, sir, and you're a born natu-
ral fighter, sir,” said he. “If you had a few lessons in
boxing, sir, I’d put you against the best.”
But later, when the young men were resting, each un-
der his sheet after a rub-down, the true significance of
the affair for Orde came out. Since the fight, Gerald's
customary lassitude of manner seemed quite to have left
him. His eye was bright, a colour mounted beneath the
pale olive of his skin, the almost effeminate beauty of his
countenance had animated. He looked across at Orde sev-
eral times, hesitated, and at last decided to speak.
“Look here, Orde,” said he, “I want to confess some-
thing to you. When you first came here three days ago, I
had lots of fun with myself about you. You know your
clothes aren't quite the thing, and I thought your man-
ner was queer, and all that. I was a cad. I want to apolo-
gise. You're a man, and I like you better than any fellow
I’ve met for a long time. And if there's any trouble—in
the future—that is—Oh, hang it, I'm on your side—you
know what I mean l’”
Orde smiled slowly.
“Bishop,” was his unexpected reply, “ you're not near
so much of a dandy as you think you are.”
XVIII
the Bishop residence, where he was cordially re-
ceived by the general, where he gained an occa-
sional half-hour with Carroll, and where he was almost
ignored by Mrs. Bishop in her complete self-absorption.
Indeed, it is to be doubted whether he attained any real
individuality to that lady, who looked on all the world out-
side her family as useful or useless to the church.
In the course of the happy moments he had alone with
Carroll, he arrived at a more intimate plane of conversa-
tion with her. He came to an understanding of her un-
questioning acceptance of Mrs. Bishop's attitude. Carroll
truly believed that none but herself could perform for her
mother the various petty offices that lady demanded from
her next of kin, and that her practical slavery was due by
every consideration of filial affection. To Orde's occasional
tentative suggestion that the service was of a sort better
suited to a paid companion or even a housemaid, she an-
swered quite seriously that it made mother nervous to have
others about her, and that it was better to do these things
than to throw her into a “spell.” Orde chafed at first over
seeing his precious opportunities thus filched from him;
later he fretted because he perceived that Carroll was
forced, however willingly, to labours beyond her strength,
to irksome confinement, and to that intimate and wearing
close association with the abnormal which in the long run
is bound to deaden the spirit. He lost sight of his own
grievance in the matter. With perhaps somewhat of exag-
s FFAIRS went thus for a week. Orde was much at
I66
THE RIVERMAN 167
geration he came mightily to desire for her more of the
open air, both of body and spirit. Often when tramping
back to his hotel he communed savagely with himself, turn-
ing the problem over and over in his mind until, like a
snowball, it had gathered to itself colossal proportions.
And in his hotel room he brooded over the state of af-
fairs until his thoughts took a very gloomy tinge indeed.
To begin with, in spite of his mother's assurance, he had
no faith in his own cause. His acquaintance with Carroll was
but an affair of months, and their actual meetings com-
prised incredibly few days. Orde was naturally humble-
minded. It did not seem conceivable to him that he could
win her without a long courtship. And superadded was the
almost intolerable weight of Carroll's ideas as to her do-
mestic duties. Although Orde held Mrs. Bishop’s exac-
tions in very slight esteem, and was most sceptical in
regard to the disasters that would follow their thwarting,
nevertheless he had to confess to himself that all Carroll’s
training, life, the very purity and sweetness of her dis-
position lent the situation an iron reality for her. He be-
came much discouraged.
Nevertheless, at the very moment when he had made up
his mind that it would be utterly useless even to indulge
in hope for some years to come, he spoke. It came about
suddenly, and entirely without premeditation.
The two had escaped for a breath of air late in the even-
ing. Following the conventions, they merely strolled to the
end of the block and back, always within sight of the
house. Fifth Avenue was gay with illumination and the
prancing of horses returning uptown or down to the Wash-
ington Square district. In contrast the side street, with its
austere rows of brownstone houses, each with its area and
flight of steps, its spaced gas lamps, its deserted roadway,
seemed very still and quiet. Carroll was in a tired and pen-
sive mood. She held her head back, breathing deeply.
168 THE RIVERMAN
“It's only a little strip, but it's the stars,” said she, look-
ing up to the sky between the houses. “They're so quiet
and calm and big.” §. t
She seemed to Orde for the first time like a little girl.
The maturer complexities which we put on with years,
with experience, and with the knowledge of life had for
the moment fallen from her, leaving merely the simple
soul of childhood gazing in its eternal wonder at the stars.
A wave of tenderness lifted Orde from his feet. He leaned
over, his breath coming quickly.
“Carroll!” he said.
She looked up at him, and shrank back.
“No, no! You mustn't,” she cried. She did not pretend
to misunderstand. The preliminaries seemed in some mys-
terious fashion to have been said long ago.
“It’s life or death with me,” he said.
“I must not,” she cried, fluttering like a bird. “I prom-
ised myself long ago that I must always, always take care
of mother.”
“Please, please, dear,” pleaded Orde. He had nothing
more to say than this, just the simple incoherent symbols
of pleading; but in such crises it is rather the soul than
the tongue that speaks. His hand met hers and closed about
it. It did not respond to his grasp, nor did it draw away,
but lay limp and warm and helpless in his own.
She shook her head slowly.
“Don’t you care for me, dear?” asked Orde very gently.
“I have no right to tell you that,” answered she. “I
have tried, oh, so hard, to keep you from saying this, for
I knew I had no right to hear you.”
Orde's heart leaped with a wild exultation.
“You do care for me!” he cried.
They had mounted the steps and stood just within the
vestibule. Orde drew her toward him, but she repulsed him
gently.
THE RIVERMAN 169
“No,” she shook her head. “Please be very good to me.
I’m very weak.”
“Carroll!” cried Orde. “Tell me that you love me!
Tell me that you'll marry me!”
“It would kill mother if I should leave her,” she said
sadly.
“But you must marry me,” pleaded Orde. “We are
made for each other. God meant us for each other.”
“It would have to be after a great many years,” she
said doubtfully.
She pulled the bell, which jangled faintly in the depths
of the house.
“Good-night,” she said. “Come to me to-morrow. No,
you must not come in.” She cut short Orde's insistence
and the eloquence that had just found its life by slipping
inside the half-open door and closing it after her.
Orde stood for a moment uncertain; then turned away
and walked up the street, his eyes so blinded by the greater
glory that he all but ran down an inoffensive passer-by.
At the hotel he wrote a long letter to his mother. The
first part was full of the exultation of his discovery. He
told of his good fortune quite as something just born, ut-
terly forgetting his mother's predictions before he came
East. Then as the first effervescence died, a more gloomy
view of the situation came uppermost. To his heated imagi-
nation the deadlock seemed complete. Carroll's devotion to
what she considered her duty appeared unbreakable. In
the reaction Orde doubted whether he would have it other-
wise. And then his fighting blood surged back to his heart.
All the eloquence, the arguments, the pleadings he should
have commanded earlier in the evening hurried belated to
their posts. After the manner of the young and imagina-
tive when in the white fire of emotion, he began drama-
tising scenes between Carroll and himself. He saw them
plainly. He heard the sound of his own voice as he re-
170 THE RIVERMAN
hearsed the arguments which should break her resolution.
A woman's duty to her own soul; her obligation toward
the man she could make or mar by her love; her self-
respect; the necessity of a break some time; the advantage
of having the crisis over with now rather than later; a
belief in the ultimate good even to Mrs. Bishop of throw-
ing that lady more on her own resources; and so forth
and so on down a list of arguments obvious enough or
trivial enough, but all inspired by the soul of fervour, all
ennobled by the spirit of truth that lies back of the major
premise that a woman should cleave to a man, forsaking
all others. Orde sat back in his chair, his eyes vacant, his
pen all but falling from his hand. He did not finish the
letter to his mother. After a while he went upstairs to his
OW11 TOO111.
The fever of the argument coursed through his veins all
that long night. Over and over again he rehearsed it in
wearisome repetition until it had assumed a certain and
almost invariable form. And when he had reached the end
of his pleading he began it over again, until the daylight
found him weary and fevered. He arose and dressed him-
self. He could eat no breakfast. By a tremendous effort
of the will he restrained himself from going over to Ninth
Street until the middle of the morning. -
He entered the drawing-room to find her seated at the
piano. His heart bounded, and for an instant he stood still,
summoning his forces to the struggle for which he had
so painfully gathered his ammunition. She did not look up
as he approached until he stood almost at her shoulder.
Then she turned to him and held out both her hands.
“It is no use, Jack,” she said. “I care for you too much.
I will marry you whenever you say.”
XIX
RDE left that evening early. This was at Carroll’s
O request. She preferred herself to inform her fam-
ily of the news.
“I don’t know yet how mother is going to get along,”
said she. “Come back to-morrow afternoon and see them
all.”
The next morning Orde, having at last finished and de-
spatched the letter to his mother, drifted up the avenue and
into the club. As he passed the smoking room he caught
sight of Gerald seated in an armchair by the window. He
entered the room and took a seat opposite the young fellow.
Gerald held out his hand silently, which the other took.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Gerald at last. “Very glad.
I told you I was on your side.” He hesitated, then went
on gravely: “Poor Carroll is having a hard time, though.
I think it’s worse than she expected. It's no worse than
I expected. You are to be one of the family, so I am going
to give you a piece of advice. It's something, naturally, I
wouldn't speak of otherwise. But Carroll is my only sister,
and I want her to be happy. I think you are the man to
make her so, but I want you to avoid one mistake. Fight
it out right now, and never give back the ground you
win.”
“I feel that,” replied Orde quietly.
“Mother made father resign from the army; and while
he's a dear old boy, he's never done anything since. She
holds me—although I see through her—possibly because
I'm weak or indifferent, possibly because I have a silly
I7I
172 THE RIVERMAN
idea I can make a bad situation better by hanging around.
She is rapidly turning Kendrick into a sullen little prig,
because he believes implicitly all the grievances against the
world and the individual she pours out to him. You see,
I have no illusions concerning my family. Only Carroll has
held to her freedom of soul, because that's the joyous, free,
sweet nature of her, bless her | For the first time she's
pitted her will against mother's, and it’s a bad clash.”
“Your mother objected?” asked Orde.
Gerald laughed a little bitterly. “It was very bad,” said
he. “You’ve grown horns, hoofs, and a tail overnight.
There's nothing too criminal to have escaped your notice.
I have been forbidden to consort with you. So has the
general. The battle of last night had to do with your com-
ing to the house at all. As it is not Carroll's house, naturally
she has no right to insist.”
“I shall not be permitted to see her?” cried Orde.
“I did not say that. Carroll announced then quite openly
that she would see you outside. I fancy that was the crux
of the matter. Don't you see? The whole affair shifted
ground. Carroll has offered direct disobedience. Oh, she's
a bully little fighter!” he finished in admiring accents.
“You can’t quite realise what she's doing for your sake;
she's not only fighting mother, but her own heart.”
Orde found a note at the hotel, asking him to be in
Washington Square at half-past two.
Carroll met him with a bright smile.
“Things aren’t quite right at home,” she said. “It is a
great shock to poor mother at first, and she feels very
strongly. Oh, it isn't you, dear; it's the notion that I can
care for anybody but her. You see, she's been used to the
other idea so long that I suppose it seemed a part of the
universe to her. She'll get used to it after a little, but it
takes time.”
Orde examined her face anxiously. Two bright red spots
THE RIVERMAN 173
burned on her cheeks; her eyes flashed with a nervous
animation, and a faint shade had sketched itself beneath
them.
“You had a hard time,” he murmured, “ you poor dear!”
She smiled up at him.
“We have to pay for the good things in life, don't we,
dear? And they are worth it. Things will come right after
a little. We must not be too impatient. Now, let's enjoy
the day. The park isn’t so bad, is it?”
At five o’clock Orde took her back to her doorstep,
where he left her.
This went on for several days.
At the end of that time Orde could not conceal from
himself that the strain was beginning to tell. Carroll’s wor-
ried expression grew from day to day, while the animation
that characterised her manner when freed from the re-
straint became more and more forced. She was as though
dominated by some inner tensity, which she dared not re-
lax even for a moment. To Orde's questionings she replied
as evasively as she could, assuring him always that matters
were going as well as she had expected; that mother was
very difficult; that Orde must have patience, for things
would surely come all right. She begged him to remain
quiescent until she gave him the word; and she implored
it so earnestly that Orde, though he chafed, was forced to
await the turn of events. Every afternoon she met him,
from two to five. The situation gave little opportunity for
lovers’ demonstrations. She seemed entirely absorbed by the
inner stress of the struggle she was going through, so that
hardly did she seem able to follow coherently even plans for
the future. She appeared, however, to gain a mysterious
refreshment from Orde's mere proximity; so gradually he,
with that streak of almost feminine intuition which is the
especial gift to lovers, came to the point of sitting quite
silent with her, clasping her hand out of sight of the chance
174 THE RIVERMAN
passer-by. When the time came to return, they arose and
walked back to Ninth Street, still in silence. At the door
they said good-bye. He kissed her quite soberly.
“I wish I could help, sweetheart,” said he.
She shook her head at him.
“You do help,” she replied.
From Gerald at the club, Orde sought more intimate
news of what was going on. For several days, however,
the young man absented himself from his usual haunts. It
was only at the end of the week that Orde succeeded in
finding him.
“No,” Gerald answered his greeting, “I haven't been
around much. I’ve been sticking pretty close home.”
Little by little, Orde's eager questions drew out the truth
of the situation. Mrs. Bishop had shut herself up in a blind
and incredible obstinacy, whence she sallied with floods
of complaints, tears, accusations, despairs, reproaches,
vows, hysterics—all the battery of the woman misunder-
stood, but in which she refused to listen to a consecutive
conversation. If Carroll undertook to say anything, the
third word would start her mother off into one of her long
and hysterical tirades. It was very wearing, and there
seemed to be nothing gained from day to day. Her child
had disobeyed her. And as a climax, she had assumed
the impregnable position of a complete prostration, wherein
she demanded the minute care of an invalid in the crisis
of a disorder. She could bear no faintest ray of illumina-
tion, no lightest footfall. In a hushed twilight she lay, her
eyes swathed, moaning feebly that her early dissolution at
the hands of ingratitude was imminent. Thus she estab-
lished a deadlock which was likely to continue indefinitely.
The mere mention of the subject nearest Carroll's heart
brought the feeble complaint:
“Do you want to kill me?”
The only scrap of victory to be snatched from this
THE RIVERMAN 175
stricken field was the fact that Carroll insisted on going
to meet her lover every afternoon. The invalid demanded
every moment of her time, either for personal attendance
or in fulfilment of numerous and exacting church duties.
An attempt, however, to encroach thus on the afternoon
hours met a stone wall of resolution on Carroll's part.
This was the situation Orde gathered from his talk with
Gerald. Though he fretted under the tyranny exacted, he
could see nothing which could relieve the situation save
his own withdrawal. He had already long over-stayed hist
visit; important affairs connected with his work demanded
his attention, he had the comfort of Carroll’s love assured;
and the lapse of time alone could be depended on to change
Mrs. Bishop’s attitude, a consummation on which Carroll
seemed set. Although Orde felt all the lively dissatisfaction
natural to a newly accepted lover who had gained slight
opportunity for favours, for confidences, even for the mak-
ing of plans, nevertheless he could see for the present noth-
ing else to do.
The morning after he had reached this conclusion he
again met Gerald at the gymnasium. That young man, while
as imperturbable and languid in movement as ever, con-
cealed an excitement. He explained nothing until the two,
after a shower and rub-down, were clothing themselves
leisurely in the empty couch-room.
“Orde,” said Gerald suddenly, “I’m worried about Car-
roll.”
Orde straightened his back and looked steadily at Ger-
ald, but said nothing.
“Mother has commenced bothering her again. It wasn't
so bad as long as she stuck to daytime, but now she's taken
to prowling in a dozen times a night. I hear their voices
for an hour or so at a time. I'm afraid it’s beginning to
wear on Carroll more than you realise.”
“Thank you,” said Orde briefly.
176 THE RIVERMAN
That afternoon with Carroll he took the affair firmly in
hand.
“This thing has come to the point where it must stop,”
said he, “and I’m going to stop it. I have some rights
in the matter of the health and comfort of the girl I
love.”
“What do you intend to do?” asked Carroll, fright-
ened.
“I shall have it out with your mother,” replied Orde.
“You mustn't do that,” implored Carroll. “It would do
absolutely no good, and would just result in a quarrel that
could never be patched up.”
“I don't know as I care particularly,” said Orde.
“But I do. Think—she is my mother.”
Orde stirred uneasily with a mental reservation as to
selfishness, but said nothing.
“And think what it means to a girl to be married and
go away from home finally without her parent's consent.
It's the most beautiful and sacred thing in her life, and
she wants it to be perfect. It’s worth waiting and fighting
a little for. After all, we are both young, and we have
known each other such a very short time.”
So she pleaded with him, bringing forward all the un-
answerable arguments built by the long average experience
of the world—arguments which Orde could not refute, but
whose falsity to the situation he felt most keenly. He could
not specify without betraying Gerald's confidence. Raging
inwardly, he consented to a further armistice.
At his hotel he found a telegram. He did not open it
until he had reached his own room. It was from home,
urging his immediate return for the acceptance of some
contracted work.
“To hell with the contracted work | * he muttered sav-
agely, and calling a bell-boy, sent an answer very much to
that effect. Then he plunged his hands into his pockets,
THE RIVERMAN 177
stretched out his legs, and fell into a deep and gloomy
meditation. -
He was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in l’ he called, without turning his head.
He heard the door open and shut. After a moment he
looked around. Kendrick Bishop stood watching him.
Orde lit the gas.
“Hello, Kendrick | ?” said he, “Sit down.”
The boy made no reply. Orde looked at him curiously,
and saw that he was suffering from an intense excitement.
His frame trembled convulsively, his lips were white, his
face went red and pale by turns. Evidently he had some-
thing to say, but could not yet trust his voice. Orde sat
down and waited. -
“You’ve got to let my mother alone,” he managed to
say finally.
“I have done nothing to your mother, Kendrick,” said
Orde kindly.
“You’ve brought her to the point of death,” asserted
Kendrick violently. “You’re hounding her to her grave.
You're turning those she loves best against her.” -
Orde thought to catch the echo of quotation in these
words.
“Did your mother send you to me?” he asked.
“If we had any one else worth the name of man in the
family, I wouldn’t have to come,” said Kendrick, almost
in the manner of one repeating a lesson.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Orde after a
moment of thought.
“Go away,” cried Kendrick. “Stop this unmanly con-
test against a defenceless woman.” -
“I cannot do that,” replied Orde quietly.
Kendrick's face assumed a livid pallor, and his eyes
seemed to turn black with excitement. Trembling in every
limb, but without hesitation, he advanced on Orde, drew a
178 THE RIVERMAN
short riding-whip from beneath his coat, and slashed the
young man across the face. Orde made an involuntary
movement to arise, but sank back, and looked steadily at
the boy. Once again Kendrick hit; raised his arm for the
third time; hesitated. His lips writhed, and then, with a
sob, he cast the little whip from him and burst from the
TOO111.
Orde sat without moving, while two red lines slowly
defined themselves across his face. The theatrical quality
of the scene and the turgid rhetorical bathos of the boy’s
speeches attested his youth and the unformed violence of
his emotions. Did they also indicate a rehearsal, or had the
boy merely been goaded to vague action by implicit belief
in a woman's vagaries? Orde did not know, but the inci-
dent brought home to him, as nothing else could, the tur-
moil of that household.
“Poor youngster!” he concluded his reverie, and went
to wash his face in hot water.
He had left Carroll that afternoon in a comparatively
philosophical and hopeful frame of mind. The next day she
came to him with hurried, nervous steps, her usually pale
cheeks mounting danger signals of flaming red, her eyes
swimming. When she greeted him she choked, and two of
the tears overflowed. Quite unmindful of the nursemaids
across the square, Orde put his arm comfortingly about her
shoulder. She hid her face against his sleeve and began
softly to cry.
Orde did not attempt as yet to draw from her the cause
of this unusual agitation. A park bench stood between two
dense bushes, screened from all directions save one. To
this he led her. He comforted her as one comforts a child,
stroking clumsily her hair, murmuring trivialities without
meaning, letting her emotion relieve itself. After awhile she
recovered somewhat her control of herself and sat up away
from him, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief damp-
THE RIVERMAN 179
ened into a tiny wad. But even after she had shaken her
head vigorously at last, and smiled up at him rather tremu-
lously in token that the storm was over, she would not tell
him that anything definite had happened to bring on the
outburst.
“I just needed you,” she said, “that's all. It's just
nothing but being a woman, I think. You'll get used to
little things like that.”
“This thing has got to quit!” said he grimly.
She said nothing, but reached up shyly and touched his
face where Kendrick's whip had stung, and her eyes be-
came very tender. A carriage rolled around Washington
Arch, and, coming to a stand, discharged its single pas-
senger on the pavement.
“Why, it's Gerald !” cried Carroll, surprised.
The young man, catching sight of them, picked his way
daintily and leisurely toward them. He was, as usual,
dressed with metriculous nicety, the carnation in his button-
hole, the gloss on his hat and shoes, the freshness on his
gloves, the correct angle on his stick. His dark, long face
with its romantic moustache, and its almost effeminate soft
eyes, was as unemotional and wearied as ever. As he ap-
proached, he raised his stick slightly by way of salutation.
“I have brought,” said he, “a carriage, and I wish you
would both do me the favour to accompany me on a short
excursion.”
Taking their consent for granted, he signalled the vehi-
cle, which rapidly approached.
The three—Carroll and Orde somewhat bewildered—
took their seats. During a brief drive, Gerald made con-
versation on different topics, apparently quite indifferent
as to whether or not his companions replied. After an
interval the carriage drew up opposite a brown-stone dwell-
ing on a side street. Gerald rang the bell, and a moment
later the three were ushered by a discreet and elderly maid
18O THE RIVERMAN
into a little square reception-room immediately off the hall.
The maid withdrew.
Gerald carefully deposited his top hat on the floor, placed
in it his gloves, and leaned his stick against its brim.
“I have brought you here, among other purposes, to
hear from me a little brief wisdom drawn from experience
and the observation of life,” he began, addressing his ex-
pectant and curious guests. “That wisdom is briefly this:
there comes a time in the affairs of every household when
a man must assert himself as the ruler. In all the details
he may depend on the woman’s judgment, experience, and
knowledge, but when it comes to the big crises, where life
is deflected into one channel or the other, then, unless the
man does the deciding, he is lost for ever, and his happi-
ness, and the happiness of those who depend on him. This
is abstruse, but I come to the particular application shortly.
“But moments of decision are always clouded by many
considerations. The decision is sure to cut across much
that is expedient, much that seems to be necessary, much
that is dear. Carroll remembers the case of our own father.
The general would have made a name for himself in the
army; his wife demanded his retirement; he retired, and
his career ended. That was the moment of his decision.
It is very easy to say, in view of that simple statement,
that the general was weak in yielding to his wife, but a
consideration of the circumstances—”
“Why do you say all this?” interrupted Orde.
Gerald raised his hand.
“Believe me, it is necessary, as you will agree when you
have heard me through. Mrs. Bishop was in poor health;
the general in poor financial circumstances. The doctors
said the Riviera. Mrs. Bishop's parents, who were wealthy,
furnished the money for her sojourn in that climate. She
could not bear to be separated from her husband. A refusal
to resign then, a refusal to accept the financial aid offered,
THE RIVERMAN 181
would have been cast against him as a reproach—he did
not love his wife enough to sacrifice his pride, his ambi-
tion, his what-you-will. Nevertheless, that was his moment
of decision.
“I could multiply instances, yet it would only accumu-
late needless proof. My point is that in these great mo-
ments a man can afford to take into consideration only
the affair itself. Never must he think of anything but the
simple elements of the problem—he must ignore whose toes
are trodden upon, whose feelings are hurt, whose happiness
is apparently marred. For note this: if a man does fear-
lessly the right thing, I am convinced that in the readjust-
ment all these conflicting interests find themselves bettered
instead of injured. You want a concrete instance? I believe
firmly that if the general had kept to his army life, and
made his wife conform to it, after the storm had passed she
would have settled down to a happy existence. I cannot
prove it—I believe it.” -
“This may be all very true, Gerald,” said Orde, “but
I fail to see why you have brought us to this strange
house to tell it.” -
“In a moment,” replied Gerald. “Have patience. Believ-
ing that thoroughly, I have come in the last twenty-four
hours to a decision. That this happens not to affect my
own immediate fortunes does not seem to me to invalidate
my philosophy.”
He carefully unbuttoned his frock coat, crossed his legs,
produced a paper and a package from his inside pocket,
and eyed the two before him.
“I have here,” he went on suddenly, “marriage papers
duly made out; in this package is a plain gold ring; in the
next room is waiting, by prearrangement, a very good
friend of mine in the clergy. Personally I am at your dis-
posal.”
He looked at them expectantly.
182 THE RIVERMAN
“The very thing!” “Oh, no!” cried Orde and Carroll
in unison.
Nevertheless, in spite of this divergence of opinion, ten
minutes later the three passed through the door into the
back apartment—Carroll still hesitant, Orde in triumph,
Gerald as correct and unemotional as ever.
In this back room they found waiting a young clergy-
man conversing easily with two young girls. At the sight
of Carroll, these latter rushed forward and overwhelmed
her with endearments. Carroll broke into a quickly sup-
pressed sob and clasped them close to her.
“Oh, you dears!” she cried, “I’m so glad you’re here!”
She flashed a grateful look in Gerald's direction, and a
moment later took occasion to press his arm and whisper:
“You’ve thought of everything! You're the dearest
brother in the world !”
Gerald received this calmly, and set about organising the
ceremony. In fifteen minutes the little party separated at
the front door, amid a chatter of congratulations and good
wishes. Mr. and Mrs. Orde entered the cab and drove
away.
XX
H, it is the best way, dear, after all !” cried Carroll,
O pressing close to her husband. “A few minutes
ago I was all doubts and fears, but now I feel so
safe and settled,” she laughed happily. “It is as though I
had belonged to you always, you old Rock of Gibraltar !
and anything that happens now will come from the out-
side, and not from the inside, won’t it, dear?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” said Orde.
“Poor mother | I wonder how she'll take it.”
“We’ll soon know, anyway,” replied Orde, a little
grimly.
In the hallway of the Bishop house Orde kissed her.
“Be brave, sweetheart,” said he, “but remember that
now you're my wife.”
She nodded at him gravely and disappeared.
Orde sat in the dim parlour for what seemed to be an
interminable period. Occasionally the sounds of distant
voices rose to his ear and died away again. The front
door opened to admit some one, but Orde could not see
who it was. Twice a scurrying of feet overhead seemed to
indicate the bustle of excitement. The afternoon waned. A
faint whiff of cooking, escaping through some carelessly
open door, was borne to his nostrils. It grew dark, but the
lamps remained unlighted. Finally he heard the rustle of
the portières, and turned to see the dim form of the gen-
eral standing there.
“Bad business! bad business!” muttered the old man.
“It’s very hard on me. Perhaps you did the right thing—
183
184 THE RIVERMAN
you must be good to her—but I cannot countenance this
affair. It was most high-handed, sir!” -
The portières fell again, and he disappeared.
Finally, after another interval, Carroll returned. She
went immediately to the gas-fixture, which she lit. Orde
then saw that she was sobbing violently. She came to him,
and for a moment hid her face against his breast. He patted
her hair, waiting for her to speak. After a little she con-
trolled herself.
“How was it?” asked Orde, then.
She shivered.
“I never knew people could be so cruel,” she com-
plained in almost a bewildered manner. “Jack, we must go
to-night. She—she has ordered me out of the house, and
says she never wants to see my face again.” She broke
down for a second. “Oh, Jack! she can't mean that. I’ve
always been a good daughter to her. And she's very bitter
against Gerald. Oh! I told her it wasn't his fault, but she
won’t listen. She sent for that odious Mr. Merritt—her rec-
tor, you know—and he supported her. I believe he's angry
because we did not go to him. Could you believe such a
thing! And she's shut herself up in her air of high virtue,
and underneath it she's, oh, so angry !”
“Well, it's natural she should be upset,” comforted Orde.
“Don’t think too much of what she does now. Later she'll
get over it.” -
Carroll shivered again.
“You don’t know, dear, and I’m not going to tell you.
Why,” she cried, “she told me that you and I were in a
conspiracy to drive her to her grave so we could get her
money !”
“She must be a little crazy,” said Orde, still pacifically.
“Come, help me,” said Carroll. “I must get my things.”
“Can't you just pack a bag and leave the rest until to-
morrow? It's about hungry time.”
5
She Came to Him and for a Moment Hid Her Face Against
His Breast


THE RIVERMAN 185
“She says I must take every stitch belonging to me to-
night.”
They packed trunks until late that night, quite alone. Ger-
ald had departed promptly after breaking the news, prob-
ably without realising to what a pass affairs would come.
A frightened servant, evidently in disobedience of orders
and in fear of destruction, brought them a tray of food,
which she put down on a small table and hastily fled. In
a room down the hall they could hear the murmur of voices
where Mrs. Bishop received spiritual consolation from her
adviser. When the trunks were packed, Orde sent for a
baggage waggon. Carroll went silently from place to place,
saying farewell to such of her treasures as she had made
up her mind to leave. Orde scribbled a note to Gerald,
requesting him to pack up the miscellanies and send them
to Michigan by freight. The baggage man and Orde car-
ried the trunks downstairs. No one appeared. Carroll and
Orde walked together to the hotel. Next morning an inter-
view with Gerald confirmed them in their resolution of im-
mediate departure.
“She is set in her opposition now, and at present she
believes firmly that her influence will separate you. Such a
state of mind cannot be changed in an hour.”
“And you?” asked Carroll.
“Oh, I,” he shrugged, “will go on as usual. I have my
interests.”
“I wish you would come out in our part of the country,”
ventured Orde.
Gerald smiled his fine smile.
“Good-bye,” said he. “Going to a train is useless, and a
bore to everybody.” w
Carroll threw herself on his neck in an access of passion-
ate weeping.
“You will write and tell me of everything, won't you?”
she begged.
}
186 THE RIVERMAN
“Of course. There now, good-bye.”
Orde followed him into the hall.
“It would be quite useless to attempt another inter-
view P” he inquired.
Gerald made a little mouth.
“I am in the same predicament as yourselves,” said he,
“ and have since nine this morning taken up my quarters
at the club. Please do not tell Carroll; it would only pain
her.”
At the station, just before they passed in to the train,
the general appeared.
“There, there!” he fussed. “If your mother should hear
of my being here, it would be a very bad business, very
bad. This is very sad; but—well, good-bye, dear; and you,
sir, be good to her. And write your daddy, Carroll. He'll
be lonesome for you.” He blew his nose very loudly and
wiped his glasses. “Now, run along, run along,” he hur-
ried them. “Let us not have any scenes. Here, my dear,
open this envelope when you are well started. It may help
cheer the journey. Not a word ' "
He hurried them through the gate, paying no heed to
what they were trying to say. Then he steamed away and
bustled into a cab without once looking back.
When the train had passed the Harlem River and was
swaying its uneven way across the open country, Carroll
opened the envelope. It contained a check for a thousand
dollars.
“Dear old daddy!” she murmured. “Our only wedding
present l”
“You are the capitalist of the family,” said Orde. “You
don’t know how poor a man you’ve married. I haven't
much more than the proverbial silver watch and bad
nickel.”
She reached out to press his hand in reassurance. He
compared it humorously with his own.
THE RIVERMAN 187
“What a homely, knotted, tanned old thing it is by
yours,” said he.
“It’s a strong hand,” she replied soberly, “it’s a dear
hand.” Suddenly she snatched it up and pressed it for a
fleeting instant against her cheek, looking at him half
ashamed.
XXI
HE winter months were spent at Monrovia, where
| Orde and his wife lived for a time at the hotel. This
was somewhat expensive, but Orde was not quite
ready to decide on a home, and he developed unexpected
opposition to living at Redding in the Orde homestead.
“No, I've been thinking about it,” he told Grandma
Orde. “A young couple should start out on their own re-
sponsibility. I know you’d be glad to have us, but I think
it's better the other way. Besides, I must be at Monrovia
a good deal of the time, and I want Carroll with me.
She can make you a good long visit in the spring, when
I have to go up river.”
To this Grandma Orde, being a wise old lady, had to
nod her assent, although she would much have liked her
son near her.
At Monrovia, then, they took up their quarters. Carroll
soon became acquainted with the life of the place. Mon-
rovia, like most towns of its sort and size, consisted of
an upper stratum of mill owners and lumber operators,
possessed of considerable wealth, some cultivation, and defi-
nite social ideas; a gawky, countrified, middle estate of
storekeepers, catering both to the farm and local trade;
and the lumber mill operatives, generally of Holland ex-
traction, who dwelt in simple unpainted board shanties.
The class first mentioned comprised a small coterie, among
whom Carroll soon found two or three congenials—Edith
Fuller, wife of the young cashier in the bank; Valerie
Cathcart, whose husband had been killed in the Civil War;
I88
THE RIVERMAN 189
Clara Taylor, wife of the leading young lawyer of the
village; and, strangely enough, Mina Heinzman, the six-
teen-year-old daughter of old Heinzman, the lumberman.
Nothing was more indicative of the absolute divorce of
business and social life than the unbroken evenness of Car-
roll's friendship for the younger girl. Though later the
old German and Orde locked in serious struggle on the
river, they continued to meet socially quite as usual; and
the daughter of one and the wife of the other never sus-
pected anything out of the ordinary. This impersonality of
struggle has always been characteristic of the pioneer busi-
ness man's good-nature.
Newmark received the news of his partner's sudden mar-
riage without evincing any surprise, but with a sardonic
gleam in one corner of his eye. He called promptly, con-
versed politely for a half hour, and then took his leave.
“How do you like him?” asked Orde, when he had
gone.
“He looks like a very shrewd man,” replied Carroll,
picking her words for fear of saying the wrong thing.
Orde laughed.
“You don’t like him,” he stated.
“I don't dislike him,” said Carroll. “I’ve not a thing
against him. But we could never be in the slightest degree
sympathetic. He and I don't—don' 33
“Don’t jibe,” Orde finished for her. “I didn't much
think you would. Joe never was much of a society bug.”
It was on the tip of Carroll’s tongue to reply that “so-
ciety bugs” were not the only sort she could appreciate,
but she refrained. She had begun to realise the extent of
her influence over her husband's opinion.
Newmark did not live at the hotel. Early in the fall he
had rented a small one-story house situated just off Main
Street, set well back from the sidewalk among clumps of
oleanders. Into this he retired as a snail into its shell. At
190 - THE RIVERMAN
first he took his meals at the hotel, but later he imported
an impassive, secretive man-servant, who took charge of
him completely. Neither master nor man made any friends,
and in fact rebuffed all advances. One Sunday, Carroll and
Orde, out for a walk, passed this quaint little place, with
its picket fence.
“Let’s go in and return Joe's call,” suggested Orde.
Their knock at the door brought the calm valet.
“Mr. Newmark is h’out, sir,” said he. “Yes, sir, I’ll tell
him that you called.”
They turned away. As they sauntered down the little
brick-laid walk, Carroll suddenly pressed close to her hus-
band's arm.
“Jack,” she begged, “I want a little house like that,
for our very own.”
“We can’t afford it, sweetheart.”
“Not to own,” she explained, “just to rent. It will be
next best to having a home of our own.”
“We’d have to have a girl, dear,” said Orde, “and we
can’t even afford that, yet.”
“A girl!” cried Carroll indignantly. “For us two l’’
“You couldn’t do the housework and the cooking,” said
Orde. “You’ve never done such a thing in your life, and
I won’t have my little girl slaving.”
“It won't be slaving, it will be fun—just like play-
housekeeping,” protested Carroll. “And I’ve got to learn
some time. I was brought up most absurdly, and I realise
it now.”
“We'll see,” said Orde vaguely.
The subject was dropped for the time being. Later Car-
roll brought it up again. She was armed with several sheets
of hotel stationery, covered with figures showing how much
cheaper it would be to keep house than to board.
“You certainly make out a strong case—on paper,”
laughed Orde. “If you buy a rooster and a hen, and she
THE RIVERMAN 191
raises two broods, at the end of a year you’ll have twenty-
six; and if they all breed—even allowing half roosters—
you’ll have over three hundred; and if they all breed, you’ll
have about thirty-five hundred; and if 3 5.
“Stop! stop !” cried Carroll, covering her ears.
“All right,” agreed Orde equably, “but that's the way
it figures. Funny the earth isn't overrun with chickens,
isn’t it?”
She thrust her tables of figures into her desk drawer.
“You’re just making fun of me always,” she said re-
proachfully.
Two days later Orde took her one block up the street
to look at a tiny little house tucked on a fifty-foot lot
beneath the shadow of the church.
“It’s mighty little,” said he. “I’ll have to go out in the
hall to change my collar, and we couldn't have more than
two people at a time to call on us.”
“It’s a dear!” said she, “and I’m not so e-nor-mous
myself, whatever you may be.” *
They ended by renting the little house, and Carroll took
charge of it delightedly. What difficulties she overcame,
and what laughable and cryable mistakes she made only
those who have encountered a like situation could realise.
She learned fast, however, and took a real pride in her
tiny box of a home. A piano was, of course, out of the
question, but the great golden harp occupied one corner,
or rather one side, of the parlour. Standing thus en-
shrouded in its covering, it rather resembled an august
and tremendous veiled deity. To Carroll's great delight,
Orde used solemnly to go down on all fours and knock
his forehead thrice on the floor before it when he entered
the house at evening. When the very cold weather came
and they had to light the base-burner stove, which Orde
stoutly maintained occupied all the other half of the par-
lour, the harp's delicate constitution necessitated its stand-
192 THE RIVERMAN
ing in the hall. Nevertheless, Carroll had great comfort
from it. While Orde was away at the office, she whispered
through its mellow strings her great happiness, the dreams
for her young motherhood which would come in the sum-
mer, the vague and lingering pain over the hapless but
beloved ones she had left behind her in her other life. Then
she arose refreshed, and went about the simple duties of
her tiny domain.
The winter was severe. All the world was white. The
piles of snow along the sidewalks grew until Carroll could
hardly look over them. Great fierce winds swept in from
the lake. Sometimes Orde and his wife drove two miles
to the top of the sand hills, where first they had met in
this their present home, and looked out beyond the tumbled
shore ice to the steel-gray, angry waters. The wind pricked
their faces, and, going home, the sleigh-bells jingled, the
snowballs from the horses’ hoofs hit against the dash, the
cold air seared the inside of their nostrils. When Orde
helped Carroll from beneath the warm buffalo robes, she
held up to him a face glowing with colour, framed in the
soft fluffy fur of a hood.
“You darling !” he cried, and stooped to kiss her smoºth,
cold cheek.
When he had returned from the stable around the cor-
ner, he found the lit lamp throwing its modified light and
shade over the little round table. He shook down the base-
burner vigorously, thrust several billets of wood in its
door, and turned to meet her eyes across the table,
“Kind of fun being married, isn't it?” said he.
“Pºind of,” she admitted, nodding gravely.
The business of the firm was by now about in shape.
All the boom arrangements had been made; the two tugs
were in the water and their machinery installed; supplies
and equipments were stored away; the foremen of the crews
engaged, and the crews themselves pretty well picked out.
And Looked Out Beyond the Tumbled Shore Ice to the Steel-Gray
Angry Waters


THE RIVERMAN 193
Only there needed to build the wanigan, and to cart in
the supplies for the upper river works before the spring
break-up and the almost complete disappearance of the
roads. Therefore, Orde had the good fortune of unusual
leisure to enjoy these first months with his bride. They
entered together the Unexplored Country, and found it
more wonderful than they had dreamed. Almost before
they knew it, January and February had flown.
“We must pack up, sweetheart,” said Orde.
“It’s only yesterday that we came,” she cried regret-
fully.
They took the train for Redding, were installed in the
gable room, explored together for three days the delights
of the old-fashioned house, the spicy joys of Grandma
Orde's and Amanda's cookery, the almost adoring adula-
tion of the old folks. Then Orde packed his “turkey,”
assumed his woods clothes, and marched off down the street
carrying his bag on his back.
“He looks like an old tramp in that rig,” said Grandma
Orde, closing the storm door.
“He looks like a conqueror of wildernesses 1’’ cried Car-
roll, straining her eyes after his vanishing figure. Suddenly
she darted after him, calling in her high, bird-like tones.
He turned and came back to her. She clasped him by the
shoulders, reluctant to let him go.
“Good-bye,” she said at last. “You’ll take better care
of my sweetheart than you ever did of Jack Orde, won't
you, dear?”
XXII
RDE had reconnoitred the river as a general re-
O connoitres his antagonist, and had made his dis-
positions as the general disposes of his army, his
commissary, his reserves. At this point five men could keep
the river clear; at that rapid it would require twenty; there
a dozen would suffice for ordinary contingencies, and yet
an emergency might call for thirty—those thirty must not
be beyond reach. In his mind’s eye he apportioned the
sections of the upper river. Among the remoter wildernesses
every section must have its driving camp. The crews of each,
whether few or many, would be expected to keep clear
and running their own “beats" on the river. As fast as the
rear crew should overtake these divisions, either it would
absorb them or the members of them would be thrown
forward beyond the lowermost beat, to take charge of a
new division down stream. When the settled farm country
or the little towns were reached, many of the driving
camps would become unnecessary; the men could be
boarded out at farms lying in their beats. A continual
advance would progress toward the Lake, the drive crews
passing and repassing each other like pigeons in the sown
fields. Each of these sections would be in charge of a fore-
man, whose responsibility ceased with the delivery of the
logs to the men next below. A walking boss would trudge
continually the river trail, or ride the logs down stream,
holding the correlation of these many units. Orde himself
would drive up and down the river, overseeing the whole
plan of campaign, throwing the camps forward, concen-
I94
THE RIVERMAN 195
trating his forces here, spreading them elsewhere, keeping
accurately in mind the entire situation so that he could say
with full confidence: “Open Dam Number One for three
hours at nine o'clock; Dam Number Two for two hours
and a half at ten thirty,” and so on down the line; sure
that the flood waters thus released would arrive at the
right moment, would supplement each other, and would so
space themselves as to accomplish the most work with the
least waste. In that one point more than in any other
showed the expert. The water was his ammunition, a defi-
nite and limited quantity of it. To “get the logs out with
the water ’’ was the last word of praise to be said for the
river driver. The more logs, the greater the glory.
Thus it can readily be seen, this matter was rather a
campaign than a mere labour, requiring the . Yen, the muni-
tions, the organisation, the tactical ability, the strategy, the
resourcefulness, the boldness, and the executive genius of
a military commander.
To all these things, and to the distribution of supplies
and implements among the various camps, Orde had at-
tended. The wanigan for the rear crew was built. The fore-
men and walking boss had been picked out. Everything
was in readiness. Orde was satisfied with the situation ex-
cept that he found himself rather short-handed. He had
counted on three hundred men for his crews, but scrape
and Scratch as he would, he was unable to gather over
two hundred and fifty. This matter was not so serious,
however, as later, when the woods camps should break up,
he would be able to pick up more workmen.
“They won't be rivermen like my old crew, though,”
said Orde regretfully to Tom North, the walking boss.
“I’d like to steal a few from some of those Muskegon
outfits.”
Until the logs should be well adrift, Orde had resolved
to boss the rear crew himself.
196 THE RIVERMAN
As the rear was naturally the farthest up stream, Orde
had taken also the contract to break the rollways belong-
ing to Carlin, which in the season's work would be piled
up on the bank. Thus he could get to work immediately at
the break-up, and without waiting for some one else. The
seven or eight million feet of lumber comprised in Carlin's
drive would keep the men below busy until the other own-
ers, farther down and up the tributaries, should also have
put their season's cut afloat.
The ice went out early, to Orde's satisfaction. As soon
as the river ran clear in its lower reaches he took his rear
crew in to Carlin's rollways.
This crew was forty in number, and had been picked
from the best—a hard-bitten, tough band of veterans,
weather beaten, scarred in numerous fights or by the back-
woods scourge of small-pox, compact, muscular, fearless,
loyal, cynically aloof from those not of their cult, out-
spoken and free to criticise—in short, men to do great
things under the strong leader, and to mutiny at the end
of three days under the weak. They piled off the train at
Sawyer's, stamped their feet on the board platform of the
station, shouldered their “turkeys,” and straggled off down
the tote-road. It was an eighteen-mile walk in. The ground
had loosened its frost. The footing was ankle-deep in mud
and snow-water.
Next morning, bright and early, the breaking of the roll-
ways began. During the winter the logs had been hauled
down ice roads to the river, where they were “banked ”
in piles twenty, and even thirty, feet in height. The bed
of the stream itself was filled with them for a mile, save
in a narrow channel left down through the middle to
allow for some flow of water; the banks were piled with
them, side on, ready to roll down at the urging of the
IIle11.
First of all, the entire crew set itself, by means of its
THE RIVERMAN 197
peavies, to rolling the lower logs into the current, where
they were rapidly borne away. As the waters were now
at flood, this was a quick and easy labour. Occasionally
some tiers would be stuck together by ice, in which case
considerable prying and heaving was necessary in order
to crack them apart. But forty men, all busily at work,
soon had the river full. Orde detailed some six or eight
to drop below in order that the river might run clear to
the next section, where the next crew would take up the
task. These men, quite simply, walked to the edges of the
rollway, rolled a log apiece into the water, stepped aboard,
leaned against their peavies, and were swept away by the
swift current. The logs on which they stood whirled in
the eddies, caromed against other timbers, slackened speed,
shot away; never did the riders alter their poses of easy
equilibrium. From time to time one propelled his craft
ashore by hooking to and pushing against other logs. There
he stood on some prominent point, leaning his chin con-
templatively against the thick shaft of his peavy, watching
the endless procession of the logs drifting by. Apparently
he was idle, but in reality his eyes missed no shift of the
ordered ranks. When a slight hitch or pause, a subtle
change in the pattern of the brown carpet caught his at-
tention, he sprang into life. Balancing his peavy across his
body, he made his way by short dashes to the point of
threatened congestion. There, working vigorously, swept
down stream with the mass, he pulled, hauled, and heaved,
forcing the heavy, reluctant timbers from the cohesion that
threatened trouble later. Oblivious to his surroundings, he
wrenched and pried desperately. The banks of the river
drifted by. Point succeeded point, as though withdrawn
up stream by some invisible manipulator. The river ap-
peared stationary, the banks in motion. Finally he heard
at his elbow the voice of the man stationed below him,
who had run out from his own point.
198 THE RIVERMAN
“Hullo, Bill,” he replied to this man, “you old slough
hogſ Tie into this l’”
“All the time!” agreed Bill cheerfully.
In a few moments the danger was averted, the logs ran
free. The rivermen thereupon made their uncertain way
back to shore, where they took the river trail up stream
again to the respective posts.
At noon they ate lunches they had brought with them
in little canvas bags, snatched before they left the roll-
ways from a supply handy by the cook. In the meantime
the main crew were squatting in the lea of the brush, de-
vouring a hot meal which had been carried to them in
wooden boxes strapped to the backs of the chore boys.
Down the river and up its tributaries other crews, both
in the employ of Newmark & Orde and of others, were
also pausing from their cold and dangerous toil. The river,
refreshed after its long winter, bent its mighty back to the
great annual burden laid upon it.
* By the end of the second day the logs actually in the
bed of the stream had been shaken loose, and a large pro-
portion of them had floated entirely from sight. It now
became necessary to break down the rollways piled along
the tops of the banks.
The evening of this day, however, Orde received a visit
from Jim Denning, the foreman of the next section below,
bringing with him Charlie, the cook of Daly’s last year's
drive. Leaving him by the larger fire, Jim Denning drew
his principal one side.
“This fellow drifted in to-night two days late after a
drunk, and he tells an almighty queer story,” said he.
“He says a crew of bad men from the Saginaw, sixty
strong, have been sent in by Heinzman. He says Heinz-
man hired them to come over not to work, but just to
fight and annoy us.”
“That so?” said Orde. “Well, where are they?”
Leaned Against Their Peavies and Were Swept Away by the
Swift Current
---
º
of
º */
-

THE RIVERMAN 199
“Don’t know. But he sticks by his story, and tells it
pretty straight.”
“Bring him over, and let's hear it,” said Orde.
“Hullo, Charlie!” he greeted the cook when the latter
stood before him. “What's this yarn Jim's telling me?”
“It’s straight, Mr. Orde,” said the cook. “There's a big
crew brought in from the Saginaw waters to do yo.: up.
They’re supposed to be over here to run his drive, but
really they’re goin' to fight and raise hell. For why would
he want sixty men to break out them little rollways of his’n
up at the headwaters?”
“Is that where they’ve gone?” asked Orde like a flash.
“Yes, sir. And he only owns a ‘forty’ up there, and it
ain't more'n half cut, anyway.”
“I didn’t know he owned any.”
“Yes, sir. He bought that little Johnson piece last win-
ter. I been workin' up there with a little two-horse crew
since January. We didn't put up more'n a couple hundred
thousand.”
“Is he breaking out his rollways below P” Orde asked
Denning.
“No, sir,” struck in Charlie, “he ain’t.”
“How do you happen to be so wise?” inquired Orde,
“Seems to me you know about as much as old man Solo-
mon.”
“Well,” explained Charlie, “you see it's like this. When
I got back from the woods last week, I just sort of hap-
pened into McNeill’s place. I wasn't drinkin' a drop l’ he
cried virtuously, in answer to Orde's smile.
“Of course not,” said Orde. “I was just thinking of the
last time we were in there together.”
“That's just it!” cried Charlie. “They was always sore
at you about that. Well, I was lyin’ on one of those there
benches back of the 'Merican flags in the dance hall 'cause
I was very sleepy, when in blew old man Heinzman and
2OO THE RIVERMAN
McNeill himself. I just lay low for black ducks and heard
their talk. They took a look around, but didn’t see no one,
so they opened her up wide.” -
“What did you hear?” asked Orde.
“Well, McNeill he agreed to get a gang of bad ones
from the Saginaw to run in on the river, and I heard
Heinzman tell him to send 'em in to headwaters. And Mc-
Neill said, ‘That's all right about the cash, Mr. Heinzman,
but I been figgerin’ on gettin' even with Orde for some
myself.’”
“Is that all?” inquired Orde.
“That’s about all,” confessed Charlie.
“How do you know he didn't hire them to carry down
his drive for him? He'd need sixty men for his lower
rollways, and maybe they weren't all to go to headwaters?”
asked Orde by way of testing Charlie's beliefs.
“He’s payin' them four dollars a day,” replied Charlie
simply. “Now, who'd pay that fer just river work?”
Orde nodded at Jim Denning.
“Hold on, Charlie,” said he. “Why are you giving all
this away if you were working for Heinzman P”
“I’m working for you now,” replied Charlie with dig-
nity. “And, besides, you helped me out once your-
self.”
“I guess it's a straight tip all right,” said Orde to
Denning, when the cook had resumed his place by the
fire.
“That's what I thought. That's why I brought him up.”
“If that crew’s been sent in there, it means only one
thing at that end of the line,” said Orde.
“Sure. They're sent up to waste out the water in the
reservoir and hang this end of the drive,” replied Denning.
“Correct,” said Orde. “The old skunk knows his own
rollways are so far down stream that he's safe, flood water
or no flood water.” - -
THE RIVERMAN 2O1
A pause ensued, during which the two smoked vigor-
ously.
“What are you going to do about it?” asked Denning
at last.
“What would you do?” countered Orde.
“Well,” said Denning slowly, and with a certain grim
joy, “I don't bet those Saginaw river-pigs are any more
two-fisted than the boys on this river. I’d go up and clean
'em out.”
“Won't do,” negatived Orde briefly. “In the first place,
as you know very well, we're short-handed now, and we
can't spare the men from the work. In the second place,
we'd hang up sure, then ; to go up in that wilderness, fifty
miles from civilisation, would mean a first-class row of
too big a size to handle. Won’t do l’’
“Suppose you get a lawyer,” suggested Denning sar-
castically.
Orde laughed with great good-humour.
“Where'd our water be by the time he got an injunc-
tion for us?”
He fell into a brown study, during which his pipe went
Out.
“Jim,” he said finally, “it isn't a fair game. I don't
know what to do. Delay will hang us; taking men
off the work will hang us. I’ve just got to go up
there myself and see what can be done by talking to
them.”
“Talking to them l’” Denning snorted. “You might as
well whistle down the draught-pipe of hell! If they’re just
up there for a row, there'll be whisky in camp; and you
can bet McNeill’s got some of 'em instructed on your ac-
count. They'll kill you, sure!”
“I agree with you it's risky,” replied Orde. “I’m scared;
I'm willing to admit it. But I don’t see what else to do.
Of course he's got no rights, but what the hell good does
2O2 THE RIVERMAN
that do us after our water is gone? And Jim, my son,
if we hang this drive, I’ll be buried so deep I never will
dig out. No; I’ve got to go. You can stay up here in
charge of the rear until I get back. Send word by Charlie
who's to boss your division while you’re gone.”
XXIII
hitched into the light buckboard the excellent team
with which later, when the drive should spread out,
he would make his longest jumps, and drove to head-
waters. He arrived in sight of the dam about three o'clock.
At the edge of the clearing he pulled up to survey the
SCC116.
A group of three small log-cabins marked the Johnson,
and later the Heinzman, camp. From the chimneys a smoke
arose. Twenty or thirty rivermen lounged about the sunny
side of the largest structure. They had evidently just ar-
rived, for some of their “turkeys * were still piled outside
the door. Orde clucked to his horses, and the spidery
wheels of the buckboard swung lightly over the wet hum-
mocks of the clearing, to come to a stop opposite the men.
Orde leaned forward against his knees.
“Hullo, boys | * said he cheerfully.
No one replied, though two or three nodded surlily. Orde
looked them over with some interest.
They were a dirty, unkempt, unshaven, hard-looking lot,
with bloodshot eyes, a flicker of the dare-devil in expres–
sion, beyond the first youth, hardened into an enduring
toughness of fibre—bad men from the Saginaw, in truth,
and, unless Orde was mistaken, men just off a drunk, and
therefore especially dangerous; men eager to fight at the
drop of the hat, or sooner, to be accommodating, and ready
to employ in their assaults all the formidable and terrifying
weapons of the rough-and-tumble; reckless, hard, irrever-
2 O p
fe →
Oº tramped back to Sawyer's early next morning,
*
2O4. THE RIVERMAN
ent, blasphemous, to be gained over by no words, fair or
foul; absolutely Scornful of any and all institutions im-
posed on them by any other but the few men whom they
acknowledged as their leaders. And to master these men's
respect there needed either superlative strength, superlative
recklessness, or superlative skill.
“Who’s your boss?” asked Orde.
“The Rough Red,” growled one of the men without
moving. *
Orde had heard of this man, of his personality and his
deeds. Like Silver Jack of the Muskegon, his exploits had
been celebrated in Song. A big, broad-faced man, with a
red beard, they had told him, with little, flickering eyes, a
huge voice that bellowed through the woods in a torrent
of commands and imprecations, strong as a bull, and sav-
age as a wild beast. A hint of his quality will suffice from
the many stories circulated about him. It was said that
while jobbing for Morrison & Daly, in some of that firm's
Saginaw Valley holdings, the Rough Red had discovered
that a horse had gone lame. He called the driver of that
team before him, seized an iron starting bar, and with it
broke the man's leg. “Try th’ lameness yourself, Barney
Mallan,” said he. To appeal to the charity of such a man
would be utterly useless. Orde saw this point. He picked
up his reins and spoke to his team. •
But before the horses had taken three steps, a huge
riverman had planted himself squarely in the way. The
others rising, slowly surrounded the rig.
“I don't know what you’re up here for,” growled the
man at the horses’ heads, “but you wanted to see the
boss, and I guess you’d better see him.”
“I intend to see him,” said Orde sharply. “Get out of
the way and let me hitch my team.”
He drove deliberately ahead, forcing the man to step
aside, and stopped his horses by a stub. He tied them there
THE RIVERMAN 2O5
and descended, to lean his back also against the log walls
of the little house.
After a few moments a huge form appeared above the
river bank at some forty rods’ distance.
“Yonder he comes now,” vouchsafed the man nearest
Orde.
Orde made out the great square figure of the boss, his
soft hat, his flaming red beard, his dingy mackinaw coat,
his dingy black-and-white checked flannel shirt, his dingy
blue trousers tucked into high socks, and, instead of driv-
ing boots, his ordinary lumberman's rubbers. As a spot of
colour, he wore a flaming red knit sash, with tassels. Be-
fore he had approached near enough to be plainly distin-
guishable, he began to bellow at the men, commanding
them, with a mighty array of oaths, to wake up and get
the sluice-gate open. In a moment or so he had disappeared
behind some bushes that intervened in his approach to the
house. His course through them could be traced by the top
of his cap, which just showed above them. In a moment
he thrust through the brush and stood before Orde.
For a moment he stared at the young man, and then,
with a wild Irish yell, leaped upon him. Orde, caught un-
awares and in an awkward position, was hardly able even
to struggle against the gigantic riverman. Indeed, before
he had recovered his faculties to the point of offering
determined resistance, he was pinned back against the wall
by his shoulders, and the Rough Red's face was within
two feet of his own.
“And how are ye, ye ould darlint?” shouted the latter,
with a roll of oaths.
“Why, Jimmy Bourke l’ cried Orde, and burst into a
laugh.
The Rough Red jerked him to his feet, delivered a bear
hug that nearly crushed his ribs, and pounded him might-
ily on the back. -
2O6 THE RIVERMAN
“You ould snoozerl” he bellowed. “Where the blankety
blank in blank did you come from ? Byes,” he shouted to
the men, “it’s me ould boss on th’ Au Sable six year back—
that time, ye mind, whin we had th' ice jam! Glory bel
but I’m glad to see ye!”
Orde was still laughing.
“I didn't know you'd turned into the Rough Red,
Jimmy,” said he. “I don't believe we were either of us
old enough for whiskers then, were we?”
The Rough Red grinned.
“Thrue for ye!” said he. “And what have ye been
doing all these years?”
“That's just it, Jimmy,” said Orde, drawing the giant
one side, out of ear-shot. “All my eggs are in one basket,
and it's a mean trick of you to hire out for filthy lucre to
kick that basket.”
“What do ye mane?” asked the Rough Red, fixing his
twinkling little eyes on Orde.
“You don’t mean to tell me,” countered Orde, glancing
down at the other's rubber-shod feet, “that this crew has
been sent up here just to break out those measly little
rollways?”
“Thim?” said the Rough Red. “Thim? Hell, no! Thim's
my bodyguard. They can lick their weight in wild cats, and
I’d loike well to see the gang of highbankers that infists
this river thry to pry thim out. We weren't sint here to
wurrk; we were sint here to foight.”
“Fight? Why?” asked Orde.
“Oh, I dunno,” replied the Rough Red easily. “Me boss
and the blank of a blank blanked blank that's attimptin'
to droive this river has some sort of a row.”
“Jimmy,” said Orde, “didn't you know that I am the
gentleman last mentioned?” .
“What!”
“I’m driving this river, and that's my dam-keeper you've

THE RIVERMAN 2O7
got hid away somewhere here, and that's my water you're
planning to wastel ”
“What?” repeated the Rough Red, but in a different
tone of voice.
“That's right,” said Orde.
In a tone of vast astonishment, the Rough Red men-
tioned his probable deserts in the future life.
“Luk here, Jack,” said he after a moment, “here's a
crew of white-water birlers that ye can’t beat nowheres.
What do you want us to do? We're now gettin' four dol-
lars a day an’ board from that murderin’ ould villain,
Heinzman, so we can afford to wurrk for you cheap.”
Orde hesitated.
“Oh, please do now, darlint! ” wheedled the Rough
Red, his little eyes agleam with mischief. “Sind us some
oakum and pitch and we'll caulk yure wanigan for ye. Or
maybe some more peavies, and we'll hilp ye on yure roll-
ways. And till us, afore ye go, how ye want this dam,
and that's the way she’ll be. Come, now, dear! and ain’t
ye short-handed now P’’
Orde slapped his knee and laughed.
“This is sure one hell of a joke l’’ he cried.
“And ain't it now P’’ said the Rough Red, smiling with
as much ingratiation as he was able.
“I’ll take you boys on,” said Orde at last, “at the usual
wages—dollar and a half for the jam, three for the rear.
I doubt if you’ll see much of Heinzman's money when this
leaks out.”
XXIV
favours men engaged in large enterprises, not only
frustrated a plan likely to bring failure to his in-
terests, but filled up his crews. It may be remarked here,
as well as later, that the “terrors of the Saginaw " stayed
with the drive to its finish, and proved reliable and tract-
able in every particular. Orde scattered them judiciously,
so there was no friction with the local men. The Rough
Red he retained on the rear.
Here the breaking of the rollways had reached a stage
more exciting both to onlooker and participant than the
mere opening of the river channel. Huge stacks of logs
piled sidewise to the bank lined the stream for miles. When
the lowermost log on the river side was teased and pried
out, the upper tiers were apt to cascade down with a roar,
a crash, and a splash. The man who had done the prying
had to be very quick-eyed, very cool, and very agile to
avoid being buried under the tons of timber that rushed
down on him. Only the most reliable men were permitted
at this initial breaking down. Afterwards the crew rolled
in what logs remained.
The Rough Red's enormous strength, dare-devil spirit,
and nimbleness of body made him invaluable at this dan-
gerous work. Orde, too, often took a hand in some of the
more ticklish situations. In old days, before he had at-
tained the position of responsibility that raised the value
of his time beyond manual work, he had been one of the
best men on the river at breaking bank rollways. A slim,
- 208 t
Tº: Orde, by the sheer good luck that sometimes
THE RIVERMAN 209
graceful, handsome boy of twenty, known as “Rollway
Charlie,” also distinguished himself by the quickness and
certainty of his work. Often the men standing near lost
sight of him entirely in the spray, the confusion, the blur
of the breaking rollways, until it seemed certain he must
have perished. Nevertheless, always he appeared at right
or left, sometimes even on a log astream, nonchalant,
smiling, escaped easily from the destructive power he had
loosed. Once in the stream the logs ran their appointed
course, watched by the men who herded them on their
way. And below, from the tributaries, from the other
rollways a never-ending procession of recruits joined
this great brown army on its way to the lake, until
for miles and miles the river was almost a solid mass
of logs.
The crews on the various beats now had their hands
full to keep the logs running. The slightest check at any
one point meant a jam, for there was no way of stopping
the unending procession. The logs behind floated gently
against the obstruction and came to rest. The brown mass
thickened. As far as the eye could reach the surface of the
water was concealed. And then, as the slow pressure de-
veloped from the three or four miles of logs forced against
each other by the pushing of the current, the breast of
the jam began to rise. Timbers up-ended, crossed, inter-
locked, slid one over the other, mounted higher and higher
in the formidable game of jack-straws the loss of which
spelled death to the players.
Immediately, and with feverish activity, the men nearest
at hand attacked the work. Logs on top they tumbled and
rolled into the current below. Men beneath the breast
tugged and pried in search of the key logs causing all the
trouble. Others “flattened out the wings,” hoping to get a
“draw " around the ends. As the stoppage of the drive indi-
cated to the men up and down stream that a jam had formed,
21 O THE RIVERMAN
they gathered at the scene—those from above over the logs,
those from below up the river trail.
Rarely, unless in case of unusual complications, did it
take more than a few hours at most to break the jam. The
breast of it went out with a rush. More slowly the wings
sucked in. Reluctantly the mass floating on the surface for
miles up stream stirred, silently moved forward. For a few
minutes it was necessary to watch carefully until the flow
onward steadied itself, until the congestion had spaced and
ordered as before. Then the men moved back to their posts;
the drive was resumed. At night the river was necessarily
left to its own devices. Rivermen, with the touch of super-
stition inseparably connected with such affairs, believe
implicitly that “ logs run free at night.” Certainly, though
it might be expected that each morning would reveal a
big jam to break, such was rarely the case. The logs had
usually stopped, to be sure, but generally in so peaceful a
situation as easily to be started on by a few minutes' work.
Probably this was because they tended to come to rest in
the slow, still reaches of the river, through which, in day-
time, they would be urged by the rivermen.
Jams on the river, contrary to general belief, are of very
common occurrence. Throughout the length of the drive
there were probably three or four hang-ups a day. Each
of these had to be broken, and in the breaking was danger.
The smallest misstep, the least slowness in reading the signs
of the break, the slightest lack of promptness in acting on
the hint or of agility in leaping from one to the other of the
plunging timbers, the faintest flicker from rigid attention to
the antagonist crouching on the spring, would mean instant
death to the delinquent. Thus it was literally true that each
one of these men was called upon almost daily to wager his
personal skill against his destruction.
In the meantime the rear was “ sacking ” its way as fast
as possible, moving camp with the wanigan whenever nec-
THE RIVERMAN 2 I 1
essary, working very hard and very cold and very long.
In its work, however, beyond the breaking of the rollways,
was little of the spectacular.
Orde, after the rear was well started, patrolled the length
of the drive in his light buckboard. He had a first-class
team of young horses—high-spirited, somewhat fractious,
but capable on a pinch of their hundred miles in a day.
He handled them well over the rough corduroys and swamp
roads. From jam to rear and back again he travelled, paus-
ing on the river banks to converse earnestly with one of
the foremen, surveying the situation with the bird’s-eye
view of the general. At times he remained at one camp for
several days watching the trend of the work. The improve-
ments made during the preceding summer gave him the
greatest satisfaction, especially the apron at the falls.
“We'd have had a dozen bad jams here before now with
all these logs in the river,” said he to Tim Nolan, who was
in charge of that beat.
“And as it is,” said Tim, “we’ve had but the one little
wing jam.”
The piers to define the channel along certain shallows
also saved the rear crew much labour in the matter of
stranded logs. Everything was very satisfactory. Even old
man Reed held to his chastened attitude, and made no
trouble. In fact, he seemed glad to turn an honest
penny by boarding the small crew in charge of sluicing
the logs.
No trouble was experienced until Heinzman's rollways
were reached. Here Orde had, as he had promised his part-
ner, boomed a free channel to prevent Heinzman from fill-
ing up the entire river-bed with his rollways. When the
jam of the drive had descended the river as far as this,
Orde found that Heinzman had not yet begun to break
out. Hardly had Orde's first crew passed, however, when
Heinzman's men began to break down the logs into the
2 I2 THE RIVERMAN
drive. Long before the rear had caught up, all Heinzman's
drive was in the water, inextricably mingled with the sixty
or eighty million feet Orde had in charge.
The situation was plain. All Heinzman now had to do
was to retain a small crew, which should follow after the
rear in order to sack what logs the latter should leave
stranded. This amounted practically to nothing. As it was
impossible in so great a mass of timbers, and in the haste
of a pressing labour, to distinguish or discriminate against
any single brand, Heinzman was in a fair way to get his
logs sent down stream with practically no expense.
“Vell, my boy,” remarked the German quite frankly to
Orde as they met on the road one day, “looks like I got
you dis time, eh?”
Orde laughed, also with entire good-humour.
“If you mean your logs are going down with ours, why
I guess you have. But you paste this in your hat: you're
going to keep awful busy, and it’s going to cost you some-
thing yet to get ’em down.”
To Newmark, on one of his occasional visits to the
camps, Orde detailed the situation.
“It doesn't amount to much,” said he, “except that it
complicates matters. We'll make him scratch gravel, if we
have to sit up nights and work overtime to do it. We
can’t injure him or leave his logs, but we can annoy him
a lot.”
The state of affairs was perfectly well known to the
men, and the entire river entered into the spirit of the
contest. The drivers kept a sharp lookout for (H) logs, and
whenever possible thrust them aside into eddies and back-
waters. This, of course, merely made work for the sackers
Heinzman had left above the rear. Soon they were in
charge of a very fair little drive of their own. Their lot
was not enviable. Indeed, only the pressure of work pre-
vented some of the more aggressive of Orde's rear—among
THE RIVERMAN 213
whom could be numbered the Rough Red—from going
back and “cleaning out ’’ this impertinent band of hang-
ers-on. One day two of the latter, conducting the jam of
the miniature drive astern, came within reach of the Rough
Red. The latter had lingered in hopes of rescuing his peavy,
which had gone overboard. To lose one's peavy is, among
rivermen, the most mortifying disgrace. Consequently, the
Rough Red was in a fit mood for trouble. He attacked
the two single-handed. A desperate battle ensued, which
lasted upward of an hour. The two rivermen punched,
kicked, and battered the Rough Red in a manner to tear
his clothes, deprive him to some extent of red whiskers,
bloody his face, cut his shoulder, and knock loose two
teeth. The Rough Red, more than the equal of either man
singly, had reciprocated in kind. Orde, driving in toward
the rear from a detour to avoid a swamp, heard, and de-
scended from his buckboard. Tying his horses to trees, he
made his way through the brush to the scene of conflict.
So winded and wearied were the belligerents by now that
he had no difficulty in separating them. He surveyed their
wrecks with a sardonic half smile. -
“I call this a draw,” said he finally. His attitude became
threatening as the two up-river men, recovering somewhat,
showed ugly symptoms. “Git!” he commanded. “Scat!
I guess you don't know me. I’m Jack Orde. Jimmy and I
together could do a dozen of you.” He menaced them un-
til, muttering, they had turned away.
“Well, Jimmy,” said he humorously, “you look as if
you’d been run through a thrashing machine.”
“Those fellers make me sick l’ growled the Rough Red.
Orde looked him over again.
“You look sick,” said he. -
When the buckboard drew into camp, Orde sent Bourke
away to repair damages while he called the cookee to help
unpack several heavy boxes of hardware. They proved to
214. THE RIVERMAN
contain about thirty small hatchets, well sharpened, and
each with a leather guard. When the rear crew had come
in that night, Orde distributed the hatchets.
“Boys,” said he, “while you're on the work, I want
you all to keep a watch-out for these (5) logs, and when-
ever you strike one I want you to blaze it plainly, so there
won't be any mistake about it.”
“What for?” asked one of the Saginaw men as he re-
ceived his hatchet.
But the riverman who squatted next nudged him with
his elbow. a'
“The less questions you ask Jack, the more answers
you'll get. Just do what you’re told to on this river and
you’ll see fun sure.”
Three days later the rear crew ran into the head of the
pond above Reed's dam. To every one's surprise, Orde
called a halt on the work and announced a holiday.
Now, holidays are unknown on drive. Barely is time
allowed for eating and sleeping. Nevertheless, all that day
the men lay about in complete idleness, Smoking, talking,
sleeping in the warm sun. The river, silenced by the closed
sluice-gates, slept also. The pond filled with logs. From
above, the current, aided by a fair wind, was driving down
still other logs—the forerunners of the little drive astern.
At sight of these, some of the men grumbled. “We’re
losin’ what we made,” said they. “We left them logs, and
sorted 'em out once already.”
Orde sent a couple of axe-men to blaze the newcomers.
A little before sundown he ordered the sluice-gates of the
dam opened.
“Night work,” said the men to one another. They knew,
of course, that in sluicing logs, the gate must be open a
couple of hours before the sluicing begins in order to fill
the river-bed below. Logs run ahead faster than the water
spreads.
THE RIVERMAN 215
Sure enough, after supper Orde suddenly appeared
among them, the well-known devil of mischief dancing in
his eyes and broadening his good-natured face.
“Get organised, boys,” said he briskly. “We’ve got to
get this pond all sluiced before morning, and there's enough
of us here to hustle it right along.”
The men took their places. Orde moved here and there,
giving his directions.
“Sluice through everything but the (B) logs,” he com-
manded. “Work them off to the left and leave them.”
Twilight, then dark, fell. After a few moments the
moon, then just past its full, rose behind the new-bud-
ding trees. The sluicing, under the impetus of a big crew,
went rapidly.
“I bet there’s mighty near a million an hour going
through there,” speculated Orde, watching the Smooth,
swift, but burdened waters of the chute.
And in this work the men distinguished easily the new
white blaze-marks on Heinzman's logs; so they were able
without hesitation to shunt them one side into the smoother
water, as Orde had commanded.
About two o'clock the last log shot through.
“Now, boys,” said Orde, “tear out the booms.”
The chute to the dam was approached, as has been ear-
lier explained, by two rows of booms arranged in a V, or
funnel, the apex of which emptied into the sluice-way, and
the wide, projecting arms of which embraced the width
of the stream. The logs, floating down the pond, were thus
concentrated toward the sluice. Also, the rivermen, walk-
ing back and forth the length of the booms, were able
easily to keep the drive moving.
Now, however, Orde unchained these boom logs. The
men pushed them ashore. There as many as could find room
on either side the boom-poles clamped in their peavies, and,
using these implements as handles, carried the booms some
216 THE RIVERMAN
distance back into the woods. Then everybody tramped
back and forth, round and about, to confuse the trail. Orde
was like a mischievous boy at a school prank. When the
last timber had been concealed, he lifted up his deep voice
in a roar of joy, in which the crew joined.
“Now let's turn in for a little sleep,” said he.
This situation, perhaps a little cloudy in the reader's
mind, would have cleared could he have looked out over
the dam pond the following morning. The blazed logs be-
longing to Heinzman, drifting slowly, had sucked down
into the corner toward the power canal where, caught
against the grating, they had jammed. These logs would
have to be floated singly, and pushed one by one against
the current across the pond and into the influence of the
sluice-gate. Some of them would be hard to come at.
“I guess that will keep them busy for a day or two,”
commented Orde, as he followed the rear down to where
it was sacking below the dam.
This, as Orde had said, would be sufficiently annoying
to Heinzman, but would have little real effect on the main
issue, which was that the German was getting down his
logs with a crew of less than a dozen men. Nevertheless,
Orde, in a vast spirit of fun, took delight in inventing and
executing practical jokes of the general sort just described.
For instance, at one spot where he had boomed the deeper
channel from the rocks on either side, he shunted as many
of Heinzman's logs as came by handily through an open-
ing he had made in the booms. There they grounded on the
shallows—more work for the men following. Many of the
iogs in charge of the latter, however, catching the free
current, overtook the rear, so that the number of the (H)
logs in the drive was not materially diminished.
At first, as has been hinted, these various tactics had little
effect. One day, however, the chore boy, who had been over
to Spruce Rapids after mail, reported that an additional
THE RIVERMAN 217
crew of twenty had been sent in to Heinzman's drive. This
was gratifying.
“We’re making him scratch gravel, boys, anyway,” said
Orde.
The men entered into the spirit of the thing. In fact,
their enthusiasm was almost too exuberant. Orde had con-
stantly to negative new and ingenious Schemes.
“No, boys,” said he, “I want to keep on the right side
of the law. We may need it later.”
Meanwhile the entire length of the river was busy and
excited. Heinzman's logs were all blazed inside a week.
The men passed the hatchets along the line, and slim
chance did a marked log have of rescue once the poor
thing fell into difficulties. With the strange and interesting
tendency rivermen and woodsmen have of personifying the
elements of their daily work, the men addressed the help-
less timbers in tones of contempt.
“Thought you’d ride that rock, you *
said they, “and got left, did you? Well, lie there an
be to you!”
And if chance offered, and time was not pressing, the
riverman would give his helpless victim a jerk or so into
a more difficult position. Times of rising water—when the
sluice-gates above had been opened—were the most prolific
of opportunities. Logs rarely jam on rising water, for the
simple reason that constantly the surface area of the river
is increasing, thus tending to separate the logs. On the
other hand, falling water, tending to crowd the drive closer
together, is especially prolific of trouble. Therefore, on
flood water the watchers scattered along the stretches of
the river had little to do—save strand Heinzman's logs for
him. And when flood water had passed, some of those logs
were certainly high and dry.
Up to a certain point this was all very well. Orde took
pains not to countenance it officially, and caused word to
218 THE RIVERMAN
be passed about, that while he did not expect his men to
help drive Heinzman's logs, they must not go out of their
way to strand them.
“If things get too bad, he'll have spies down here to
collect evidence on us,” said Orde, “and he'll jug some
of us for interference with his property. We don't own
the river.”
“How about them booms?” asked the Rough Red.
“I did own them,” explained Orde, “and I had a right
to take them up when I had finished with them.”
This hint was enough. The men did not cease from a
labour that tickled them mightily, but they adopted a code
of signals. Strangers were not uncommon. Spectators came
out often from the little towns and from the farms round-
about. When one of these appeared the riverman nearest
raised a long falsetto cry. This was taken up by his next
neighbour and passed on. In a few minutes all that section
of the drive knew that it would be wise to “lie low.” And
inside of two weeks Orde had the great satisfaction of
learning that Heinzman was working—and working hard
—a crew of fifty men.
“A pretty fair crew, even if he was taking out his whole
drive,” commented Orde.
The gods of luck seemed to be with the new enterprise.
Although Orde had, of course, taken the utmost pains to
foresee every contingency possible to guard against, never-
theless, as always when dealing with Nature's larger forces,
he anticipated some of those gigantic obstacles which con-
tinually render uncertain wilderness work. Nothing of the
kind happened. There formed none of the tremendous
white-water jams that pile up several million feet of logs,
tax every resource of men, horses, and explosives, and re-
quire a week or so to break. No men were killed, and only
two injured. No unexpected floods swept away works on
which the drive depended. The water held out to carry the
THE RIVERMAN 219
last stick of timber over the shallowest rapids. Weather
conditions were phenomenal—and perfect. All up and down
the river the work went with that vim and dash that is in
itself an assurance of success. The Heinzman affair, which
under auspices of evil augury might have become a serious
menace to the success of the young undertaking, now
served merely to add a spice of humour to the situation.
Among the men gained currency a half-affectionate belief
in “Orde’s luck.”
After this happy fashion the drive went, until at last it
entered the broad, deep, and navigable stretches of the river
from Redding to the lake. Here, barring the accident of
an extraordinary flood, the troubles were over. On the
broad, placid bosom of the stream the logs would float.
A crew, following, would do the easy work of sacking
what logs would strand or eddy in the lazy current; would
roll into the faster waters the component parts of what
were by courtesy called jams, but which were in reality
pile-ups of a few hundred logs on sand bars mid-stream;
and in the growing tepid warmth of summer would tramp
pleasantly along the river trail. Of course, a dry year would
make necessary a larger crew and more labour; of course,
a big flood might sweep the logs past all defences into the
lake for an irretrievable loss. But such floods come once
in a century, and even the dryest of dry years could not
now hang the drive. As Orde sat in his buckboard, ready
to go into town for a first glimpse of Carroll in more than
two months, he gazed with an immense satisfaction over
the broad river moving brown and glacier-like as though
the logs that covered it were viscid and composed all its
substance. The enterprise was practically assured of suc-
C6-SS.
For a while now Orde was to have a breathing spell.
A large number of men were here laid off. The remainder,
under the direction of Jim Denning, would require little
22O THE RIVERMAN
or no actual supervision. Until the jam should have reached
the distributing booms above Monrovia, the affair was very
simple. Before he left, however, he called Denning to him.
“Jim,” said he, “I’ll be down to see you through the
sluiceways at Redding, of course. But now that you have
a good, still stretch of river, I want you to have the boys
let up on sacking out those (B) logs. And I want you to
include in our drive all the Heinzman logs from above
you possibly can. If you can fix it, let their drive drift
down into ours.” º
“Then we’ll have to drive their logs for them,” objected
Denning.
“Sure,” rejoined Orde, “but it's easy driving; and if
that crew of his hasn’t much to do, perhaps he'll lay most
of them off here at Redding.”
Denning looked at his principal for a moment, then a
slow grin overspread his face. Without comment he turned
back to camp, and Orde took up his reins.
XXV
O': I’m so glad to get you back!” cried Carroll over
and over again, as she clung to him. “I don’t live
while you’re away. And every drop of rain that
patters on the roof chills my heart, because I think of it
as chilling you; and every creak of this old house at night
brings me up broad awake, because I hear in it the crash
of those cruel great timbers. Oh, oh, oh! I’m so glad to
get you! You're the light of my life; you're my whole
life itself!”—she smiled at him from her perch on his knee
—“I’m silly, am I not?” she said. “Dear heart, don't
leave me again.”
“I’ve got to support an extravagant wife, you know,”
Orde reminded her gravely.
“I know, of course,” she breathed, bending lightly to
him. “You have your work in the world to do, and I
would not have it otherwise. It is great work—wonderful
work—I’ve been asking questions.”
Orde laughed.
“It’s work, just like any other. And it's hard work,”
said he. -
She shook her head at him slowly, a mysterious smile on
her lips. Without explaining her thought, she slipped from
his knee and glided across to the tall golden harp, which
had been brought from Monrovia. The light and diapha-
nous silk of her loose peignoir floated about her, definin º, ºxº~~
—the maturing grace of her figure. Abruptly she struck a pº t
great crashing chord. -
Then, with an abandon of ecstasy she plunged into one

22I
222 THE RIVERMAN
of those wild and sea-blown saga-like rhapsodies of the
Hungarians, full of the wind in rigging, the storm in the
pines, of shrieking, vast forces hurtling unchained through
a resounding and infinite space, as though deep down in
primeval nature the powers of the world had been loosed.
Back and forth, here and there, erratic and swift and sud-
den as lightning the theme played breathless. It fell.
“What is that?” gasped Orde, surprised to find himself
tense, his blood rioting, his soul stirred.
She ran to him to hide her face in his neck.
“Oh, it's you, you, you!” she cried.
He held her to him closely until her excitement had died.
“Do you think it is good to get quite so nervous, sweet-
heart?” he asked gently, then. “Remember—”
“Oh, I do, I do !” she broke in earnestly. “Every mo-
ment of my waking and sleeping hours I remember him.
Always I keep his little soul before me as a light on a
shrine. But to-night—oh ! to-night I could laugh and shout
aloud like the people in the Bible, with clapping of hands.”
She snuggled herself close to Orde with a little murmur
of happiness. “I think of all the beautiful things,” she
whispered, “ and of the noble things, and of the great
things. He is going to be sturdy, like his father; a won-
derful boy, a boy all of fire 35
“Like his mother,” said Orde.
She smiled up at him. “I want him just like you, dear,”
she pleaded.
XXVI
HREE days later the jam of the drive reached the
| dam at Redding. Orde took Carroll downtown in
the buckboard. There a seat by the dam-watcher's
little house was given her, back of the brick factory build-
ings next the power canal, whence for hours she watched
the slow onward movement of the sullen brown timbers,
the smooth, polished-steel rush of the waters through the
chute, the graceful certain movements of the rivermen.
Some of the latter were brought up by Orde and intro-
duced. They were very awkward, and somewhat embar-
rassed, but they all looked her straight in the eye, and
Carroll felt somehow that back of their diffidence they were
quite dispassionately appraising her. After a few gracious
speeches on her part and monosyllabic responses on theirs,
they blundered away. In spite of the scant communication,
these interviews left something of a friendly feeling on
both sides.
“I like your Jim Denning,” she told Orde; “he’s a nice,
clean-cut fellow. And Mr. Bourke,” she laughed. “Isn’t
he funny with his fierce red beard and his little eyes? But
he simply adores you.”
Orde laughed at the idea of the Rough Red’s adoring
anybody. -
“It’s so,” she insisted, “and I like him for it—only I
wish he were a little cleaner.”
She thought the feats of “ log-riding ” little less than
wonderful, and you may be sure the knowledge of her
presence did not discourage spectacular display. Finally,
223
224. THE RIVERMAN
Johnny Challan, uttering a loud whoop, leaped aboard a
log and went through the chute standing bolt upright. By
a marvel of agility, he kept his balance through the white-
water below, and emerged finally into the lower waters
still proudly upright, and dry above the knees.
Carroll had arisen, the better to see.
“Why,” she cried aloud, “it’s marvellous! Circus riding
is nothing to it!”
“No, ma'am,” replied a gigantic riverman who was
working near at hand, “that ain't nothin'. Ordinary, how-
ever, we travel that way on the river. At night we have the
cookee pass us out each a goose-ha’r piller, and lay down
for the night.”
Carroll looked at him in reproof. He grinned slowly.
“Don’t git worried about me, ma'am,” said he, “I’m
hopeless. For twenty year now I been wearin’ crape on my
hat in memory of my departed virtues.”
After the rear had dropped down river from Redding,
Carroll and Orde returned to their deserted little box of a
house at Monrovia. * - -
Orde breathed deep of a new satisfaction in walking
again the streets of this little sandy, sawdust-paved, shanty-
fied town, with its yellow hills and its wide blue river and
its glimpse of the lake far in the offing. It had never meant
anything to him before. Now he enjoyed every brick and
board of it; he trod the broken, aromatic shingles of the
roadway with pleasure; he tramped up the broad stairs
and down the dark hall of the block with anticipation; he
breathed the compounded office odour of ledgers, cocoa
matting, and old cigar smoke in a long, reminiscent whiff;
he took his seat at his roll-top desk, enchanted to be again
in these homely though familiar surroundings.
“Hanged if I know what's struck me,” he mused.
“Never experienced any remarkable joy before in getting
back to this sort of truck.”
THE RIVERMAN 225
Then, with a warm glow at the heart, the realisation
was brought to him. This was home, and over yonder,
under the shadow of the heaven-pointing spire, a slip of
a girl was waiting for him.
He tried to tell her this when next he saw her.
“I felt that I ought to make you a little shrine, and
burn candles to you, the way the Catholics do—”
“To the Mater Dolorosa P” she mocked.
He looked at her dark eyes so full of the sweetness of
content, at her sensitive lips with the quaintly upturned
corners, and he thought of what her home life had been
and of the real sorrow that even yet must Smoulder some-
where down in the deeps of her being.
“No,” said he slowly, “not that. I think my shrine will
be dedicated to Our Lady of the Joyous Soul.”
The rest of the week Orde was absent up the river, super-
intending in a general way the latter progress of the drive,
looking into the needs of the crews, arranging for supplies.
The mills were all working now, busily cutting into the
residue of last season's logs. Soon they would need more.
At the booms everything was in readiness to receive the
jam. The long swing arm slanting across the river channel
was attached to its winch which would operate it. When
shut it would close the main channel and shunt into the
booms the logs floating in the river. There, penned at last
by the piles driven in a row and held together at the top
by bolted timbers, they would lie quiet. Men armed with
pike-poles would then take up the work of distribution ac-
cording to the brands stamped on the ends. Each brand
had its own separate “sorting pens,” the lower end leading
again into the open river. From these each owner's prop-
erty was rafted and towed to his private booms at his
mill below.
Orde spent the day before the jam appeared in construct-
ing what he called a “boomerang.”
226 THE RIVERMAN
“Invention of my own,” he explained to Newmark.
“Secret invention just yet. I’m going to hold up the drive
in the main river until we have things bunched, then I’m
going to throw a big crew down here by the swing. Heinz-
man anticipates, of course, that I’ll run the entire drive
into the booms and do all my sorting there. Naturally, if
I turn his logs loose into the river as fast as I run across
them, he will be able to pick them up one at a time, for
he'll only get them occasionally. If I keep them until every-
thing else is sorted, only Heinzman's logs will remain; and
as we have no right to hold logs, we'll have to turn them
loose through the lower sorting booms, where he can be
ready to raft them. In that way he gets them all right
without paying us a cent. See?”
“Yes, I see,” said Newmark.
“Well,” said Orde, with a laugh, “here is where I fool
him. I’m going to rush the drive into the booms all at
once, but I’m going to sort out Heinzman's logs at these
openings near the entrance and turn them into the main
channel.”
“What good will that do?” asked Newmark sceptically.
“He gets them sorted just the same, doesn't he?”
“The current's fairly strong,” Orde pointed out, “ and
the river's almighty wide. When you spring seven or eight
million feet on a man, all at once and unexpected, and
he with no crew to handle them, he's going to keep al-
mighty busy. And if he don’t stop them this side his mill,
he'll have to raft and tow them back; and if he don’t stop
'em this side the lake, he may as well kiss them all good-
bye—except those that drift into the bayous and inlets and
marshes, and other ungodly places.”
“I see,” said Newmark drily.
“But don't say a word anywhere,” warned Orde. “Se-
crecy is the watchword of success with this merry little
joke.” -
THE RIVERMAN 227
The boomerang worked like a charm. The men had been
grumbling at an apparently peaceful yielding of the point
at issue, and would have sacked out many of the blazed logs
if Orde had not held them rigidly to it. Now their spirits
flamed into joy again. The sorting went like clockwork.
Orde, in personal charge, watched that through the differ-
ent openings in his “boomerang’ the (B) logs were shunted
into the river. Shortly the channel was full of logs float-
ing merrily away down the little blue wavelets. After a
while Orde handed over his job to Tom North.
“Can't stand it any longer, boys,” said he. “I’ve got
to go down and see how the Dutchman is making it.”
“Come back and tell us!” yelled one of the crew.
“You bet I will !” Orde shouted back.
He drove the team and buckboard down the marsh road
to Heinzman’s mill. There he found evidences of the wild-
est excitement. The mill had been closed down, and all
the men turned in to rescue logs. Boats plied in all direc-
tions. A tug darted back and forth. Constantly the num-
ber of floating logs augmented, however. Many had al-
ready gone by.
“If you think you're busy now,” said Orde to himself
with a chuckle, “just wait until you begin to get logs.”
He watched for a few moments in silence.
“What's he doing with that tug P” thought he. “O-hol
He's stringing booms across the river to hold the whole
outfit.”
He laughed aloud, turned his team about, and drove fran-
tically back to the booms. Every few moments he chuckled.
His eyes danced. Hardly could he wait to get there. Once
at the camp, he leaped from the buckboard, with a shout
to the stableman, and ran rapidly out over the booms to
where the sorting of (H) logs was going merrily forward.
“He’s shut down his mill,” shouted Orde, “and he's got
all that gang of highbankers out, and every old rum-blos-
228 THE RIVERMAN
som in Monrovia, and I bet if you say ‘logs’ to him, he'd
chase his tail in circles.”
“Want this job?” North asked him.
“No,” said Orde, suddenly fallen solemn, “haven't time.
I’m going to take Marsh and the Sprite and go to town.
Old Heinzman,” he added as an afterthought, “is string-
ing booms across the river—obstructing navigation.”
He ran down the length of the whole boom to where
lay the two tugs.
“Marsh,” he called when still some distance away, “got
up steam?” .
There appeared a short, square, blue-clad man, with hard
brown cheeks, a heavy bleached flaxen moustache, and eyes
steady, unwavering, and as blue as the sky.
“ Up in two minutes,” he answered, and descended from
the pilot house to shout down a low door leading from the
deck into the engine room.
“Harvey,” he commanded, “fire her up!”
A tall, good-natured negro reached the upper half of his
body from the low door to seize an armful of the slabs
piled along the narrow deck. Ten minutes later the Sprite,
a cloud of white smoke pouring from her funnel, was
careening down the stretch of the river.
Captain Marsh guided his energetic charge among the
logs floating in the stream with the marvellous second
instinct of the expert tugboat man. A whirl of the wheel
to the right, a turn to the left—the craft heeled strongly
under the forcing of her powerful rudder to avoid by an
arm's-length some timbers fairly flung aside by the wash.
The displacement of the rapid running seemed almost to
press the water above the level of the deck on either side
and about ten feet from the gunwale. As the low marshes
and cat-tails flew past, Orde noted with satisfaction that
many of the logs, urged one side by the breeze, had found
lodgment among the reeds and in the bayous and inlets.
THE RIVERMAN 229
One at a time, and painfully, these would have to be sal-
vaged.
In a short time the mills' tall smokestacks loomed in
sight. The logs thickened until it was with difficulty that
Captain Marsh could thread his way among them at all.
Shortly Orde, standing by the wheel in the pilot-house,
could see down the stretches of the river a crowd of men
working antlike.
“They’ve got 'em stopped,” commented Orde. “Look at
that gang working from boats! They haven’t a dozen ‘ cork
boots' among ‘em.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Captain Marsh.
“This is a navigable river, isn’t it?” replied Orde. “Run
through l’”
Marsh rang for half-speed and began to nose his way
gently through the loosely floating logs. Soon the tug had
reached the scene of activity, and headed straight for the
slender line of booms hitched end to end and stretching
quite across the river.
“I’m afraid we'll just ride over them if we hit them
too slow,” suggested Marsh.
Orde looked at his watch.
“We'll be late for the mail unless we hurry,” said he.
Marsh whirled the spokes of his wheel over and rang
the engine-room bell. The water churned white behind, the
tug careened.
“Vat you do Stop!” cried Heinzman from one of the
boats.
Orde stuck his head from the pilot-house door.
“You’re obstructing navigation 1’’ he yelled. “I’ve got
to go to town to buy a postage-stamp.”
The prow of the tug, accurately aimed by Marsh, hit
square in the junction of two of the booms. Immediately
the water was agitated on both sides and for a hundred
feet or so by the pressure of the long poles sidewise. There
23O THE RIVERMAN
ensued a moment of strain; then the links snapped, and the
Sprite plunged joyously through the opening. The booms,
swept aside by the current, floated to either shore. The
river was open.
Orde, his head still out the door, looked back.
“Slow down, Marsh,” said he. “Let’s see the show.”
Already the logs caught by the booms had taken their
motion and had swept past the opening. Although the lone-
some tug Heinzman had on the work immediately picked
up one end of the broken boom, and with it started out
into the river, she found difficulty in making headway
against the Sweep of the logs. After a long struggle she
reached the middle of the river, where she was able to hold
her own.
“Wonder what next?” speculated Orde. “How are they
going to get the other end of the booms out from the
Other bank?”
Captain Marsh had reversed the Sprite. The tug lay
nearly motionless amidstream, her propeller slowly revolv-
1ng.
Up river all the small boats gathered in a line, connected
one to the other by a rope. The tug passed over to them
the cable attached to the boom. Evidently the combined
efforts of the rowboats were counted on to hold the half-
boom across the current while the tug brought out the
other half. When the tug dropped the cable, Orde laughed.
“Nobody but a Dutchman would have thought of that!”
he cried. “Now for the fun ”
Immediately the weight fell on the small boats, they were
dragged irresistibly backward. Even from a distance the
three men on the Sprite could make out the white-water
as the oars splashed and churned and frantically caught
crabs in a vain effort to hold their own. Marsh lowered
his telescope, the tears streaming down his face.
“It’s better than a goat fight,” said he.
THE RIVERMAN 231
Futilely protesting, the rowboats were dragged back-
ward, turned as a whip is snapped, and strung out along
the bank below. -
“They’ll have to have two tugs before they can close
the break that way,” commented Orde.
“Sure thing,” replied Captain Marsh.
But at that moment a black smoke rolled up over the
marshes, and shortly around the bend from above came the
Lucy Belle.
The Lucy Belle was the main excuse for calling the river
navigable. She made trips as often as she could between
Redding and Monrovia. In luck, she could cover the forty
miles in a day. It was no unusual thing, however, for the
Lucy Belle to hang up indefinitely on some one of the
numerous shifting sand bars. For that reason she carried
more imperishable freight than passengers. In appearance
she was two-storied, with twin smokestacks, an iron In-
dian on her top, and a “splutter-behind ’’ paddle-wheel.
“There comes his help,” said Orde. “Old Simpson
would stop to pick up a bogus three-cent piece.”
Sure enough, on hail from one of the rowboats, the Lucy
Belle slowed down and stopped. After a short conference,
she steamed clumsily over to get hold of one end of the
booms. The tug took the other. In time, and by dint of
much splashing, some collisions, and several attempts, the
ends of the booms were united.
By this time, however, nearly all the logs had escaped.
The tug, towing a string of rowboats, set out in pursuit.
The Sprite continued on her way until beyond sight.
Then she slowed down again. The Lucy Belle churned
around the bend, and turned in toward the tug.
“She’s going to speak us,” marvelled Orde. “I wonder
what the dickens she wants.” -
“Tug ahoy!” bellowed a red-faced individual from the
upper deck. He was dressed in blue and brass buttons,
232 THE RIVERMAN
carried a telescope in one hand, and was liberally festooned
with gold braid and embroidered anchors.
“Answer him,” Orde commanded Marsh.
“Hullo there, commodore! what is it?” replied the tug
captain.
The red-faced figure glared down for a moment.
“They want a tug up there at Heinzman's. Can you
go? 55
“Sure!” cried Marsh, choking.
The Lucy Belle sheered off magnificently.
“What do you think of that?” Marsh asked Orde.
“The commodore always acts as if that old raft was
a sixty-gun frigate,” was Orde's non-committal answer.
“Head up stream again.”
Heinzman saw the Sprite coming, and rowed out fran-
tically, splashing at every stroke and yelling with every
breath.
“Don’t you go through there ! Vait a minute! Stop, I
tell you!” *
“Hold up!” said Orde to Marsh.
Heinzman rowed alongside, dropped his oars and mopped
his brow.
“Vat you do?” he demanded heatedly.
“I forgot the money to buy my stamp with,” said Orde
sweetly. “I’m going back to get it.”
“Not through my pooms ” cried Heinzman.
“Mr. Heinzman,” said Orde severely, “you are obstruct-
ing a navigable stream. I am doing business, and I cannot
be interfered with.”
“But my logs!” cried the unhappy mill man.
“I have nothing to do with your logs. You are driving
your own logs,” Orde reminded him.
Heinzman vituperated and pounded the gunwale.
“Go ahead, Marsh !” said Orde.
The tug gathered way. Soon Heinzman was forced to
THE RIVERMAN 233
let go. For a second time the chains were snapped. Orde
arid Marsh looked back over the churning wake left by
the Sprite. The severed ends of the booms were swinging
back toward either shore. Between them floated a rowboat.
In the rowboat gesticulated a pudgy man. The river was
well sprinkled with logs. Evidently the sorting was going
on well.
“May as well go back to the works,” said Orde. “He
won't string them together again to-day—not if he waits
for that tug he sent Simpson for.”
Accordingly, they returned to the booms, where work
was suspended while Orde detailed to an appreciative au-
dience the happenings below. This tickled the men im-
mensely.
“Why, we hain’t sorted out more'n a million feet of his
logs,” cried Rollway Charlie. “He hain't seen no logs yet!”
They turned with new enthusiasm to the work of shunt-
ing (B) logs into the channel.
In ten minutes, however, the stableman picked his way
out over the booms with a message for Orde.
“Mr. Heinzman's ashore, and wants to see you,” said he.
Orde and Jim Denning exchanged glances.
“’Coon's come down,” said the latter.
Orde found the mill man pacing restlessly up and down
before a steaming pair of horses. Newmark, perched on a
stump, was surveying him sardonically and chewing the
end of an unlighted cigar.
“Here you poth are l’” burst out Heinzman, when Orde
stepped ashore. “Now, this must stop. I must not lose my
logs l Vat is your probosition?”
Newmark broke in quickly before Orde could speak.
“I’ve told Mr. Heinzman,” said he, “that we would
sort and deliver the rest of his logs for two dollars a
thousand.”
“That will be about it,” agreed Orde.
234 THE RIVERMAN
“But,” exploded Heinzman, “that is as much as you
agreet to drive and deliffer my whole cut!”
“Precisely,” said Newmark.
“Put I haf all the eggspence of driving the logs my-
self. Why shoult I pay you for doing what I haſ alretty
paid to haſ done?”
Orde chuckled.
“Heinzman,” said he, “I told you I'd make you scratch
gravel. Now it's time to talk business. You thought you
were boring with a mighty auger, but it's time to revise.
We aren't forced to bother with your logs, and you’re lucky
to get out so easy. If I turn your whole drive into the
river, you’ll lose more than half of it outright, and it'll cost
you a heap to salvage the rest. And what's more, I'll turn
'em in before you can get hold of a pile-driver. I’ll sort
night and day,” he bluffed, “and by to-morrow morning
you won’t have a stick of timber above my booms.” He
laughed again. “You want to get down to business al-
mighty sudden.” -
When finally Heinzman had driven sadly away, and the
whole drive, (5) logs included, was pouring into the main
boom, Orde stretched his arms over his head in a luxury
of satisfaction.
“That just about settles that campaign,” he said to New-
mark.
“Oh, no, it doesn’t,” replied the latter decidedly.
“Why?” asked Orde, surprised. “You don't imagine
he'll do anything more?”
“No, but I will,” said Newmark.
XXVII
be a boy. Orde, nervous as a cat after the ordeal of
doing nothing, tiptoed into the darkened room. He
found his wife weak and pale, her dark hair framing her
face, a new look of rapt inner contemplation rendering
even more mysterious her always fathomless eyes. To Orde
she seemed fragile, aloof, enshrined among her laces and
dainty ribbons. Hardly dared he touch her when she held
her hand out to him weakly, but fell on his knees beside
the bed and buried his face in the clothes. She placed a
gentle hand caressingly on his head.
So they remained for some time. Finally he raised his
eyes. She held her lips to him. He kissed them.
“It seems sort of make-believe even yet, sweetheart,”
she smiled at him whimsically, “that we have a real, live
baby all of our own.”
“Like other people,” said Orde.
“Not like other people at all !” she disclaimed, with a
show of indignation.
Grandma Orde brought the newcomer in for Orde's in-
spection. He looked gravely down on the puckered, discol-
oured bit of humanity with some feeling of disappointment,
and perhaps a faint uneasiness. After a moment he voiced
the latter.
“Is—do you think—that is—” he hesitated, “does the
doctor say he’s going to be all right?”
“All right!” cried Grandma Orde indignantly. “I’d like
to know if he isn’t all right now ! What in the world do
you expect of a new-born baby?”
| . in the fall the baby was born. It proved to
235
236 THE RIVERMAN
But Carroll was laughing softly to herself on the bed.
She held out her arms for the baby, and cuddled it close
to her breast.
“He’s a little darling,” she crooned, “and he's going to
grow up big and strong, just like his daddy.” She put
her cheek against the sleeping babe's and looked up side-
wise at the two standing above her. “But I know how
you feel,” she said to her husband. “When they first
showed him to me, I thought he looked like a peanut a
thousand years old.”
Grandma Orde fairly snorted with indignation.
“Come to your old grandmother, who appreciates you!”
she cried, possessing herself of the infant. “He’s a beauti-
ful baby; one of the best-looking new-born babies I ever
saw ”
Orde escaped to the open air. He had to go to the office
to attend to some details of the business. With every step
his elation increased. At the office he threw open his desk
with a slam. Newmark jumped nervously and frowned.
Orde's big, open, and brusque manners bothered him as
they would have bothered a cat.
“Got a son and heir over at my place,” called Orde in his
big voice. “This old firm's got to rustle now, I tell you.”
“Congratulate you, I’m sure,” said Newmark rather
shortly. “Mrs. Orde is doing well, I hope?”
“Fine, fine!” cried Orde.
Newmark dropped the subject and plunged into a busi-
ness matter. Orde's attention, however, was flighty. After
a little while he closed his desk with another bang.
“No use !” said he. “Got to make it a vacation. I’m
going to run over to see how the family is.”
Strangely enough, the young couple had not discussed
before the question of a name. One evening at twilight,
when Orde was perched at the foot of the bed, Carroll
brought up the subject.
THE RIVERMAN 237
“He ought to be named for you,” she began timidly.
“I know that, Jack, and I’d love to have another Jack
Orde in the family; but, dear, I’ve been thinking about
father. He's a poor, forlorn old man, who doesn’t get much
out of life. And it would please him so—oh, more than
you can imagine such a thing could please anybody l’”
She looked up at him doubtfully. Orde said nothing, but
walked around the bed to where the baby lay in his little
cradle. He leaned over and took the infant up in his gin-
gerly awkward fashion. * *
“How are you to-day, Bobby Orde?” he inquired of
the blinking mite.
XXVIII
HE first season of the Boom Company was most
successful. Its prospects for the future were bright.
The drive had been delivered to its various owners
at a price below what it had cost them severally, and with-
out the necessary attendant bother. Therefore, the loggers
were only too willing to renew their contracts for another
year. This did not satisfy Newmark, however.
“What we want,” he told Orde, “is a charter giving us
exclusive rights on the river, and authorising us to ask
toll. I’m going to try and get one out of the legislature.”
He departed for Lansing as soon as the Assembly
opened, and almost immediately became lost in one of those
fierce struggles of politics not less bitter because concealed.
Heinzman was already on the ground.
Newmark had the shadow of right on his side, for he
applied for the charter on the basis of the river improve-
ments already put in by his firm. Heinzman, however, pos-
sessed much political influence, a deep knowledge of the
subterranean workings of plot and counterplot, and a
“barrel.” Although armed with an apparently incontest-
able legal right, Newmark soon found himself fighting on
the defensive. Heinzman wanted the improvements already
existing condemned and sold as a public utility to the high-
est bidder. He offered further guarantees as to future im-
provements. In addition were other and more potent argu-
ments proffered behind closed doors. Many cases resolved
themselves into a bald question of cash. Others demanded
diplomacy. Jobs, fat contracts, business favours, influence
238
THE RIVERMAN 239
were all flung out freely—bribes as absolute as though
stamped with the dollar mark. Newspapers all over the
State were pressed into service. These, bought up by Heinz-
man and his prospective partners in a lucrative business,
spoke virtuously of private piracy of what are now called
public utilities, the exploiting of the people's natural
wealths, and all the rest of a specious reasoning the more con-
vincing in that it was in many other cases only too true.
The independent journals, uninformed of the rights of the
case, either remained silent on the matter, or groped in a
puzzled and undecided manner on both sides.
Against this secret but effective organisation Newmark
most unexpectedly found himself pitted. He had antici-
pated being absent but a week; he became involved in an
affair of months.
With decision he applied himself to the problem. He
took rooms at the hotel, sent for Orde, and began at once to
set in motion the machinery of opposition. The refreshed
resources of the company were strained to the breaking-
point in order to raise money for this new campaign open-
ing before it. Orde, returning to Lansing after a trip de-
voted to the carrying out of Newmark's directions as to
finances, was dismayed at the tangle of strategy and cross-
strategy, innuendo, vague and formless cobweb forces by
which he was surrounded. He could make nothing of them.
They brushed his face, he felt their influence, yet he could
place his finger on no tangible and comprehensible solidity.
Among these delicate and complicated cross-currents New-
mark moved silent, cold, secret. He seemed to understand
them, to play with them, to manipulate them as elements
of the game. Above them was the hollow shock of the
Ostensible battle—the speeches, the loud talk in lobbies, the
newspaper virtue, indignation, accusations; but the real
struggle was here in the furtive ways, in whispered words
delivered hastily aside, in hotel halls on the way to and
240 THE RIVERMAN
from the stairs, behind closed doors of rooms without open
tranSOIIlS.
Orde in comic despair acknowledged that it was all “too
deep for him.” Nevertheless, it was soon borne in on him
that the new company was struggling for its very right
to existence. It had been doing that from the first; but
now, to Orde the fight, the existence, had a new impor-
tance. The company up to this point had been a scheme
merely, an experiment that might win or lose. Now, with
the history of a drive behind it, it had become a living
entity. Orde would have fought against its dissolution as
he would have fought against a murder. Yet he had prac-
tically to stand one side, watching Newmark's slender,
gray-clad, tense figure gliding here and there, more silent,
more reserved, more watchful every day.
The fight endured through most of the first half of the
session. When finally it became evident to Heinzman that
Newmark would win, he made the issue of toll rates the
ditch of his last resistance, trying to force legal charges
so low as to eat up the profits. At the last, however, the
bill passed the board. The company had its charter.
At what price only Newmark could have told. He had
fought with the tense earnestness of the nervous tempera-
ment that fights to win without count of the cost. The firm
was established, but it was as heavily in debt as its credit
would stand. Newmark himself, though as calm and re-
served and precise as ever, seemed to have turned gray,
and one of his eyelids had acquired a slight nervous twitch
which persisted for some months. He took his seat at the
desk, however, as calmly as ever. In three days the scan-
dalised howls of bribery and corruption had given place
in the newspapers to some other sensation.
“Joe,” said Orde to his partner, “how about all this
talk? Is there really anything in it? You haven’t gone in
for that business, have you?” s
THE RIVERMAN 241
Newmark stretched his arms wearily.
“Press bought up,” he replied. “I know for a fact that
old Stanford got five hundred dollars from some of the
Heinzman interests. I could have swung him back for an
extra hundred, but it wasn’t worth while. They howl brib-
ery at us to distract attention from their own perform-
ances.” - -
With this evasive reply Orde contented himself. Whether
it satisfied him or whether he was loath to pursue the sub-
ject further it would be impossible to say.
“It’s cost us plenty, anyway,” he said, after a moment.
“The proposition's got a load on it. It will take us a long
time to get out of debt. The river driving won't pay quite
so big as we thought it would,” he concluded, with a rue-
ful little laugh.
“It will pay plenty well enough,” replied Newmark de-
cidedly, “and it gives us a vantage point to work from.
You don't suppose we are going to quit at river driving,
do you? We want to look around for some timber of our
own; there's where the big money is. And perhaps we can
buy a schooner or two and go into the carrying trade—
the country's alive with opportunity. Newmark & Orde
means something to these fellows now. We can have any-
thing we want, if we just reach out for it.” -
His thin figure, ordinarily slightly askew, had straight-
ened; his steel-gray, impersonal eyes had lit up behind the
bowed glasses and were seeing things beyond the wall at
which they gazed. Orde looked up at him with a sudden
admiration.
“You’re the brains of this concern,” said he.
“We'll get on,” replied Newmark, the fire dying from
his eyes.
XXIX
N the course of the next eight years Newmark & Orde
floated high on that flood of apparent prosperity that
attends a business well conceived and passably well
managed. The Boom and Driving Company made money,
of course, for with the margin of fifty per cent or there-
abouts necessitated by the temporary value of the improve-
ments, good years could hardly fail to bring Ood returns.
This, it will be remembered, was a stock company. With
the profits from that business the two men embarked on a
separate copartnership. They made money at this, too, but
, the burden of debt necessitated by new ventures, constantly
weighted by the heavy interest demanded at that time, kept
affairs on the ragged edge.
In addition, both Orde and Newmark were more in-
clined to extension of interests than to “playing safe.” The
assets gained in one venture were promptly pledged to an-
other. The ramifications of debt, property, mortgages, and
expectations overlapped each other in a cobweb of in-
terests.
Orde lived at ease in a new house of some size sur-
rounded by grounds. He kept two servants: a blooded team
of horses drew the successor to the original buckboard.
Newmark owned a sail yacht of five or six tons, in which,
quite solitary, he took his only pleasure. Both were con-
sidered men of substance and property, as indeed they were.
Only, they risked dollars to gain thousands. A succession
of bad years, a panic-contraction of money markets, any
one of a dozen possible, though not probable, contingencies
242
THE RIVERMAN 243
would render it difficult to meet the obligations which, con-
stantly came due, and which Newmark kept busy devising
ways and means of meeting. If things went well—and
it may be remarked that legitimately they should—New-
mark & Orde would some day be rated among the mil-
lionaire firms. If things went ill, bankruptcy could not be
avoided. There was no middle ground. Nor were Orde
and his partner unique in this; practically every firm then
developing or exploiting the natural resources of the coun-
try found itself in the same case.
Immediately after the granting of the charter to drive
the river the partners had offered them an opportunity of
acquiring about thirty million feet of timber remaining
from Morrison & Daly's original holdings. That firm was
very anxious to begin development on a large scale of its
Beeson Lake properties in the Saginaw waters. Daly pro-
posed to Orde that he take over the remnant, and having
confidence in the young man's abilities, agreed to let him
have it on long-time notes. After several consultations with
Newmark, Orde finally completed the purchase. Below the
booms they erected a mill, the machinery for which they
had also bought of Daly, at Redding. The following win-
ter Orde spent in the woods. By spring he had banked,
ready to drive, about six million feet.
For some years these two sorts of activity gave the
partners about all they could attend to. As soon as the drive
had passed Redding, Orde left it in charge of one of his
foremen while he divided his time between the booms and
the mill. Late in the year his woods trips began, the tours
of inspection, of surveying for new roads, the inevitable
preparation for the long winter campaigns in the forest.*
As soon as the spring thaws began, once more the drive
demanded his attention. And in marketing the lumber,
manipulating the firm’s financial affairs, collecting its dues,
*See The Blazed Trail for descriptions of woods work.
244. THE RIVERMAN
paying its bills, making its purchases, and keeping oiled
the intricate bearing points of its office machinery, New-
mark was busy—and invaluable.
At the end of the fifth year the opportunity came,
through a combination of a bad debt and a man's death,
to get possession of two lake schooners. Orde at once sug-
gested the contract for a steam barge. Towing was then
in its infancy. The bulk of lake traffic was by means of
individual sailing ships—a method uncertain as to time.
Orde thought that a steam barge could be built powerful
enough not only to carry its own hold and deck loads,
but to tow after it the two schooners. In this manner
the crews could be reduced, and an approximate date
of delivery could be guaranteed. Newmark agreed with
him. Thus the firm, in accordance with his prophecy,
went into the carrying trade, for the vessels more than
sufficed for its own needs. The freighting of lumber
added much to the income, and the carrying of machin-
ery and other heavy freight on the return trip grew every
year.
But by far the most important acquisition was that of
the northern peninsula timber. Most operators called the
white pine along and back from the river inexhaustible.
Orde did not believe this. He saw the time, not far distant,
when the world would be compelled to look elsewhere for
its lumber supply, and he turned his eyes to the almost
unknown North. After a long investigation through agents,
and a month's land-looking on his own account, he located
and purchased three hundred million feet. This was to be
paid for, as usual, mostly by the firm’s notes secured by
its other property. It would become available only in the
future, but Orde believed, as indeed the event justified, this
future would prove to be not so distant as most people
supposed.
As these interests widened, Orde became more and more
THE RIVERMAN 245
day, and more than the bulk of every year. Nevertheless,
his home life did not suffer for it. --~~~~
To Carroll he was always the same big, hearty, whole-
souled boy she had first learned to love. She had all his
confidence. If this did not extend into business affairs, it
was because Orde had always tried to get away from them
when at home. At first Carroll had attempted to keep in
the current of her husband’s activities, but as the latter
broadened in scope and became more complex, she per-
ceived that their explanation wearied him. She grew out
of the habit of asking him about them. Soon their rapid
advance had carried them quite beyond her horizon. To her,
also, as to most women, the word “business * connoted
nothing but a turmoil and a mystery.
In all other things they were to each other what they
had been from the first. No more children had come to
them. Bobby, however, had turned out a sturdy, honest
little fellow, with more than a streak of his mother's charm
and intuition. His future was the subject of all Orde's
plans.
“I want to give him all the chance there is,” he ex-
plained to Carroll. “A boy ought to start where his
father left off, and not have to do the same thing all
over again. But being a rich man's son isn't much of
a job.”
“Why don’t you let him continue your business?”
smiled Carroll, secretly amused at the idea of the small
person before them ever doing anything.
“By the time Bobby's grown up this business will all
be closed out,” replied Orde seriously.
He continued to look at his minute son with puckered
brow, until Carroll smoothed out the wrinkles with the
tips of her fingers. -
“Of course, having only a few minutes to decide,” she
immersed in them. He was forced to be away all of every) º º
...~".
246 THE RIVERMAN
mocked, “perhaps we'd better make up our minds right
now to have him a street-car driver.” -
“Yes!” agreed Bobby unexpectedly, and with em-
phasis.
Three years after this conversation, which would have
made Bobby just eight, Orde came back before six of a
summer evening, his face alight with satisfaction.
“Hullo, bubl” he cried to Bobby, tossing him to his
shoulder. “How's the kid?”
They went out together, while awaiting dinner, to see
the new setter puppy in the woodshed.
“Named him yet?” asked Orde.
“Duke,” said Bobby.
Orde surveyed the animal gravely.
“Seems like a good name,” said he.
After dinner the two adjourned to the library, where
they sat together in the “big chair,” and Bobby, squirmed
a little sidewise in order the better to see, watched the
smoke from his father's cigar as it eddied and curled in
the air.
“Tell a story,” he commanded finally.
“Well,” acquiesced Orde, “there was once a man who
had a cow 53
“Once upon a time,” corrected Bobby.
He listened for a moment or so.
“I don't like that story,” he then announced. “Tell the
story about the bears.”
“But this is a new story,” protested Orde, “and you’ve
heard about the bears so many times.”
“Bears,” insisted Bobby.
“Well, once upon a time there were three bears—a big
bear and a middle-sized bear and a little bear—” began
Orde obediently.
Bobby, with a sigh of rapture and content, curled up
in a snug, warm little ball. The twilight darkened.
y
THE RIVERMAN 247
“Blind-man’s holiday!” warned Carroll behind them so
suddenly that they both jumped. “And the sand man's been
at somebody, I know !”
She bore him away to bed. Orde sat smoking in the
darkness, staring straight ahead of him into the future.
He believed he had found the opportunity—twenty years
distant—for which he had been looking so long.
XXX
FTER a time Carroll descended the stairs, chuckling.
A “Jack,” she called into the sitting-room, “come
out on the porch. What do you suppose the young
man did to-night?”
“Give it up,” replied Orde promptly. “No good guess-
ing when it’s a question of that youngster's performances.
What was it?”
“He said his ‘Now I lay me,’ and asked blessings on you
and me, and the grandpas and grandmas, and Auntie Kate,
as usual. Then he stopped. “What else?' I reminded him.
“And,’ he finished with a rush, “make-Bobby-a-good-boy-
and-give-him-plenty-of-bread-ºn-butter-ºn-apple-sauce!'”
They laughed delightedly over this, clinging together like
two children. Then they stepped out on the little porch
and looked into the fathomless night. The sky was full of
stars, aloof and calm, but waiting breathless on the edge
of action, attending the word of command or the celestial
vision, or whatever it is for which stars seem to wait.
Along the street the dense velvet shade of the maples threw
the sidewalks into impenetrable blackness. Sounds carried
clearly. From the Welton's, down the street, came the
tinkle of a mandolin and an occasional low laugh from
the group of young people that nightly frequented the front
steps. Tree toads chirped in unison or fell abruptly silent
as though by signal. All up and down the rows of houses
whirred the low monotone of the lawn sprinklers, and the
aroma of their wetness was borne cool and refreshing
through the tepid air,
248
THE RIVERMAN 249
Orde and his wife sat together on the top step. He
slipped his arm about her. They said nothing, but breathed
deep of the quiet happiness that filled their lives.
The gate latch clicked and two shadowy figures defined
themselves approaching up the concrete walk.
“Hullo!” called Orde cheerfully into the darkness.
“Hullo!” a man's voice instantly responded.
“Taylor and Clara,” said Orde to Carroll with satisfac-
tion. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
The lawyer and his wife mounted the steps. He was a
quick, energetic, spare man, with lean cheeks, a bristling,
clipped moustache, and a slight stoop to his shoulders. She
was small, piquant, almost child-like, with a dainty up-
turned nose, a large and lustrous eye, a constant, bird-like
animation of manner—the Folly of artists, the adorable,
lovable, harmless Folly standing tiptoe on a complaisant
world. -
“Just the man I wanted to see,” repeated Orde, as the
two approached.
Clara Taylor stopped short and considered him for a
moment.
“Let us away,” she said seriously to Carroll. “My pro-
phetic soul tells me they are going to talk business, and
if any more business is talked in my presence, I shall
expire l’”
Both men laughed, but Orde explained apologetically:
“Well, you know, Mrs. Taylor, these are my especially
busy days for the firm, and I have to work my private
affairs in when I can.”
“I thought Frank was very solicitous about my getting
out in the air,” cried Clara. “Come, Carroll, let's wander
down the street and see Mina Heinzman.”
The two interlocked arms and sauntered along the walk.
Both men lit cigars and sat on the top step of the porch.
“Look here, Taylor,” broke in Orde abruptly, “you told
5
25o THE RIVERMAN
me the other day you had fifteen or twenty thousand you
wanted to place somewhere.”
“Yes,” replied Taylor.
“Well, I believe I have just the proposition.”
“What is it?”
“California pine,” replied Orde.
“California pine?” repeated Taylor, after a slight pause.
“Why California? That's a long way off. And there's
no market, is there? Why way out there?”
“It’s cheap,” replied Orde succinctly. “I don't say it
will be good for immediate returns, nor even for returns
in the near future, but in twenty or thirty years it ought
to pay big on a small investment made now.”
Taylor shook his head doubtfully. *
“I don't see how you figure it,” he objected. “We have
more timber than we can use in the East. Why should we
go several thousand miles west for the same thing?”
“When our timber gives out, then we’ll have to go
west,” said Orde.
Taylor laughed.
“Laugh all you please,” rejoined Orde, “but I tell you
Michigan and Wisconsin pine is doomed. Twenty or thirty
years from now there won’t be any white pine for sale.”
“Nonsense !” objected Taylor. “You’re talking wild.
We haven’t even begun on the upper peninsula. After that
there's Minnesota. And I haven't observed that we’re quite
out of timber on the river, or the Muskegon, or the Sagi-
naw, or the Grand, or the Cheboygan—why, Great Scott!
man, our children's children's children may be thinking
of investing in California timber, but that’s about soon
enough.”
“All right,” said Orde quietly. “Well, what do you
think of Indiana as a good field for timber investment?”
“Indiana l’ cried Taylor, amazed. “Why, there’s no
timber there; it's a prairie.”
THE RIVERMAN 251
“There used to be. And all the southern Michigan farm
belt was timbered, and around here. We have our stumps
to show for it, but there are no evidences at all farther
south. You’d have hard work, for instance, to persuade a
stranger that Van Buren County was once forest.”
“Was it?” asked Taylor doubtfully.
“It was. You take your map and see how much area
has been cut already, and how much remains. That’ll open
your eyes. And remember all that has been done by crude
methods for a relatively small demand. The demand in-
creases as the country grows and methods improve. It
would not surprise me if some day thirty or forty millions
would constitute an average cut.* “Michigan pine exhaust-
less l’—those fellows make me sick | *
“Sounds a little more reasonable,” said Taylor
slowly.
“It’ll sound a lot more reasonable in five or ten years,”
insisted Orde, “and then you’ll see the big men rushing
out into that Oregon and California country. But now a
man can get practically the pick of the coast. There are
only a few big concerns out there.”
“Why is it that no one 3 y
“Because,” Orde cut him short, “the big things are for
the fellow who can see far enough ahead.”
“What kind of a proposition have you?” asked Taylor
after a pause.
“I can get ten thousand acres at an average price of
eight dollars an acre,” replied Orde.
“Acres? What does that mean in timber?”
“On this particular tract it means about four hundred
million feet.”
“That's about twenty cents a thousand.”
Orde nodded.
“And of course you couldn't operate for a long time?”
*At the present day some firms cut as high as 150,000,ooo feet.
252 THE RIVERMAN
“Not for twenty, maybe thirty, years,” replied Orde
calmly.
“There's your interest on your money, and taxes, and
the risk of fire an 99
“Of course, of course,” agreed Orde impatiently, “but
you’re getting your stumpage for twenty cents or a little
more, and in thirty years it will be worth as high as a
dollar and a half.” +
“What!” cried Taylor.
“That is my opinion,” said Orde.
Taylor relapsed into thought.
“Look here, Orde,” he broke out finally, “how old are
you?”
“Thirty-eight. Why?”
“How much timber have you in Michigan?”
“About ten million that we’ve picked up on the river
since the Daly purchase and three hundred million in the
northern peninsula.”
“Which will take you twenty years to cut, and make
you a million dollars or so?”
“Hope so.”
“Then why this investment thirty years ahead?”
“It’s for Bobby,” explained Orde simply. “A man likes
to have his son continue on in his business. I can’t do it
here, but there I can. It would take fifty years to cut that
pine, and that will give Bobby a steady income and a
steady business.”
“Bobby will be well enough off, anyway. He won't have
to go into business.”
Orde's brow puckered. ſº
“I know a man—Bobby is going to work. A man is
not a success in life unless he does something, and Bobby
is going to be a success. Why, Taylor,” he chuckled, “the
* At the present time (1908) sugar pine such as Orde described would
cost $3.5o to $4.
THE RIVERMAN 253
little rascal fills the wood-box for a cent a time, and that's
all the pocket-money he gets. He's saving now to buy a
thousand-dollar boat. I’ve agreed to pool in half. At his
present rate of income, I’m safe for about sixty years
yet.”
“How soon are you going to close this deal?” asked
Taylor, rising as he caught sight of two figures coming up
the walk. -
“I have an option until November 1,” replied Orde.
“If you can’t make it, I guess I can swing it myself. By
the way, keep this dark.”
Taylor nodded, and the two turned to defend themselves
as best they could against Clara's laughing attack.
XXXI
RDE had said nothing to Newmark concerning this
O purposed new investment, nor did he intend do-
ing so.
“It is for Bobby,” he told himself, “and I want Bobby,
and no one else, to run it. Joe would want to take charge,
naturally. Taylor won’t. He knows nothing of the busi-
ness.” .
He walked downtown next morning busily formulating
his scheme. At the office he found Newmark already seated
at his desk, a pile of letters in front of him. Upon Orde's
boisterous greeting his nerves crisped slightly, but of this
there was no outward sign beyond a tightening of his
hands on the letter he was reading. Behind his eye-glasses
his blue, cynical eyes twinkled like frost crystals. As al-
ways, he was immaculately dressed in neat gray clothes,
and carried in one corner of his mouth an unlighted cigar.
“Joe,” said Orde, spinning a chair to Newmark's roll-
top desk and speaking in a low tone, “just how do we
stand on that upper peninsula stumpage?”
“What do you mean? How much of it is there? You
know that as well as I do—about three hundred million.”
“No, I mean financially.”
“We’ve made two payments of seventy-five thousand
each, and have still two to make of the same amount.”
“What could we borrow on it?”
“We don’t want to borrow anything on it,” returned
Newmark in a flash.
“Perhaps not; but if we should?”
254
THE RIVERMAN 255
“We might raise fifty or seventy-five thousand, I sup-
pose.”
“Joe,” said Orde, “I want to raise about seventy-five
thousand dollars on my share in this concern, if it can
be done.”
“What's up?” inquired Newmark keenly.
“It’s a private matter.”
Newmark said nothing, but for some time thought bus-
ily, his light blue eyes narrowed to a slit.
“I’ll have to figure on it a while,” said he at last, and
turned back to his mail. All day he worked hard, with
only a fifteen-minute intermission for a lunch which was
brought up from the hotel below. At six o'clock he slammed
shut the desk. He descended the stairs with Orde, from
whom he parted at their foot, and walked precisely away,
his tall, thin figure held rigid and slightly askew, his pale
eyes slitted behind his eye-glasses, the unlighted cigar in
One corner of his straight lips. To the occasional passerby
he bowed coldly and with formality. At the corner below
he bore to the left, and after a short walk entered the
small one-story house set well back from the sidewalk
among the clumps of oleanders. Here he turned into a
study, quietly and richly furnished ten years in advance
of the taste then prevalent in Monrovia, where he sank
into a deep-cushioned chair and lit the much-chewed cigar.
For some moments he lay back with his eyes shut. Then
he opened them to look with approval on the dark walnut
book-cases, the framed prints and etchings, the bronzed
student's lamp on the square table desk, the rugs on the
polished floor. He picked up a magazine, into which he
dipped for ten minutes.
The door opened noiselessly behind him.
“Mr. Newmark, sir,” came a respectful voice, “it is
just short of seven.”
“Very well,” replied Newmark, without looking around
256 THE RIVERMAN
The man withdrew as softly as he had come. After a .
moment, Newmark replaced the magazine on the table,
yawned, threw aside the cigar, of which he had smoked
but an inch, and passed from his study into his bedroom
across the hall. This contained an exquisite Colonial four-
poster, with a lowboy and dresser to match, and was pa-
pered and carpeted in accordance with these, its chief
ornaments. Newmark bathed in the adjoining bathroom,
shaved carefully between the two wax lights which were
his whim, and dressed in what were then known as “swal-
low-tail” clothes. Probably he was the only man in Mon-
rovia at that moment so apparelled. Then calmly, and with
all the deliberation of one under fire of a hundred eyes,
he proceeded to the dining-room, where waited the man
who had a short time before reminded him of the hour. He
was a solemn, dignified man, whose like was not to be
found elsewhere this side the city. He, too, wore the
“swallow-tail,” but its buttons were of gilt.
Newmark seated himself in a leather-upholstered mahog-
any chair before a small, round, mahogany table. The room
was illuminated only by four wax candles with red shades.
They threw into relief the polish of mahogany, the glitter
of glass, the shine of silver, but into darkness the detail
of massive sideboard, dull panelling, and the two or three
dark-toned sporting prints on the wall. -
“You may serve dinner, Mallock,” said Newmark.
He ate deliberately and with enjoyment the meal, ex-
quisitely prepared and exquisitely presented to him. With
it he drank a single glass of Burgundy—a deed that would,
in the eyes of Monrovia, have condemned him as certainly
as driving a horse on Sunday or playing cards for a stake.
Afterward he returned to the study, whither Mallock
brought coffee. He lit another cigar, opened a drawer in
his desk, extracted therefrom some bank-books and small
personal account books. From these he figured all the
THE RIVERMAN 257
evening. His cigar went out, but he did not notice that,
and chewed away quite contentedly on the dead butt.
When he had finished, his cold eye exhibited a gleam of
satisfaction. He had resolved on a course of action. At ten
o'clock he went to bed.
Next morning Mallock closed the door behind him
promptly upon the stroke of eight. It was strange that not
one living soul but Mallock had ever entered Newmark's
abode. Curiosity had at first brought a few callers; but
these were always met by the imperturbable servant with
so plausible a reason for his master's absence that the
visitors had departed without a suspicion that they had
been deliberately excluded. And as Newmark made no
friends and excited little interest, the attempts to cultivate
him gradually ceased. -
“Orde,” said Newmark, as the former entered the of
fice, “I think I can arrange this matter.”
Orde drew up a chair.
“I talked last evening with a man from Detroit named
Thayer, who thinks he may advance seventy-five thousand
dollars on a mortgage on our northern peninsula stumpage.
For that, of course, we will give the firm's note with in-
terest at ten per cent. I will turn this over to you.”
“That's—” began Orde.
“Hold on,” interrupted Newmark. “As collateral secu-
rity you will deposit for me your stock in the Boom Com-
pany, indorsed in blank. If you do not pay the full amount
of the firm’s note to Thayer, then the stock will be turned
in to me.” -
“I see,” said Orde.
“Now, don't misunderstand me,” said Newmark drily.
“This is your own affair, and I do not urge it on you.
If we raise as much as seventy-five thousand dollars on
that upper peninsula stumpage, it will be all it can stand,
for next year we must make a third payment on it. If you
258 THE RIVERMAN
take that money, it is of course proper that you pay the
interest on it.”
“Certainly,” said Orde.
“And if there's any possibility of the foreclosure of the
mortgage, it is only right that you run all the risk of loss
—not myself.”
“Certainly,” repeated Orde.
“From another point of view,” went on Newmark, “you
are practically mortgaging your interest in the Boom Com-
pany for seventy-five thousand dollars. That would make,
on the usual basis of a mortgage, your share worth above
two hundred thousand—and four hundred thousand is a
high valuation of our property.”
“That looks more than decent on your part,” said Orde.
“Of course, it’s none of my business what you intend
to do with this,” went on Newmark, “but unless you're
sure you can meet these notes, I should strongly advise
against it.”
“The same remark applies to any mortgage,” rejoined
Orde.
“Exactly.”
“For how long a time could I get this?” asked Orde
at length.
“I couldn't promise it for longer than five years,” re-
plied Newmark. g t
“That would make about fifteen thousand a year?”
“And interest.”
“Certainly—and interest. Well, I don't see why I can't
carry that easily on our present showing and prospects.”
“If nothing untoward happens,” insisted Newmark, de-
termined to put forward all objections possible.
“It’s not much risk,” said Orde hopefully. “There's
nothing surer than lumber. We’ll pay the notes easily
enough as we cut, and the Boom Company’s on velvet
now. What do our earnings figure, anyway?”
THE RIVERMAN 259
“We’re driving one hundred and fifty million at a profit
of about sixty cents a thousand,” said Newmark.
“That's ninety thousand dollars—in five years, four hun-
dred and fifty thousand,” said Orde, sucking his pencil.
“We ought to clean up five dollars a thousand on our
mill.”
“That's about a hundred thousand on what we’ve got
left.”
“And that little barge business nets us about twelve or
fifteen thousand a year.”
“For the five years about sixty thousand more. Let's
see—that's a total of say six hundred thousand dollars in
five years.”
“We will have to take up in that time,” said Newmark,
who seemed to have the statistics at his finger-tips, “the
two payments on our timber, the note on the First Na-
tional, the Commercial note, the remaining liabilities on the
Boom Company—about three hundred thousand all told,
counting the interest.”
Orde crumpled the paper and threw it into the waste
basket.
“Correct,” said he. “Good enough. I ought to get along
on a margin like that.”
He went over to his own desk, where he again set to
figuring on his pad. The results he eyed a little doubtfully.
Each year he must pay in interest the sum of seven thousand
five hundred dollars. Each year he would have to count on
a proportionate saving of fifteen thousand dollars toward
payment of the notes. In addition, he must live.
“The Orde family is going to be mighty hard up,” said
he, whistling humorously.
But Orde was by nature and training sanguine and fond
of big risks.
“Never mind; it's for Bobby,” said he to himself. “And
maybe the rate of interest will go down. And I’ll be able
26o THE RIVERMAN
to borrow on the California tract if anything does go
wrong.”
He put on his hat, thrust a bundle of papers into his
pocket, and stepped across the hall into Taylor's office.
The lawyer he found tipped back in his revolving chair,
reading a printed brief.
“Frank,” began Orde immediately, “I came to see you
about that California timber matter.”
Taylor laid down the brief and removed his eye-glasses,
with which he began immediately to tap the fingers of his
left hand. - :
“Sit down, Jack,” said he. “I’m glad you came in. I
was going to try to see you some time to-day. I've been
thinking the matter over very carefully since the other
day, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it is too steep
for me. I don’t doubt the investment a bit, but the returns
are too far off. Fifteen thousand means a lot more to me
than it does to you, and I’ve got to think of the imme-
diate future. I hope you weren't counting on me 5 y
“Oh, that’s all right,” broke in Orde. “As I told you,
I can swing the thing myself, and only mentioned it to
you on the off chance you might want to invest. Now,
what I want is this—” he proceeded to outline carefully
the agreement between himself and Newmark while the
lawyer took motes and occasionally interjected a question.
“All right,” said the latter, when the details had been
mastered. “I’ll draw the necessary notes and papers.”
“Now,” went on Orde, producing the bundle of papers
from his pocket, “here's the abstract of title. I wish you'd
look it over. It’s a long one, but not complicated, as near
as I can make out. Trace seems to have acquired this tract
mostly from the original homesteaders and the like, who,
of course, take title direct from the government. But natu-
rally there are a heap of them, and I want you to look it
over to be sure everything's shipshape.”
THE RIVERMAN 261
“All right,” agreed Taylor, reaching for the papers.
“One other thing,” concluded Orde, uncrossing his legs.
“I want this investment to get no further than the office
door. You see, this is for Bobby, and I’ve given a lot of
thought to that sort of thing; and nothing spoils a man
sooner than to imagine the thing's all cut and dried for
him, and nothing keeps him going like the thought that
he's got to rustle his own opportunities. You and I know
that. Bobby's going to have the best education possible;
he's going to learn to be a lumberman by practical experi-
ence, and that practical experience he'll get with other peo-
ple. No working for his dad in Bobby's, I can tell you.
When he gets through college, I’ll get him a little job
clerking with some good firm, and he’ll have a chance to
show what is in him and to learn the business from the
ground up, the way a man ought to. Of course, I’ll make
arrangements that he has a real chance. Then, when he’s
worked into the harness a little, the old man will take him
out and show him the fine big sugar pine and say to him,
‘There, my boy, there's your opportunity, and you’ve earned
it. How does Orde & Son sound to you?' What do you
think of it, Frank?”
Taylor nodded several times.
“I believe you're on the right track, and I’ll help you
all I can,” said he briefly.
“So, of course, I want to keep the thing dead secret,”
continued Orde. “You’re the only man who knows any-
thing about it. I’m not even going to buy directly under
my own name. I’m going to incorporate myself,” he said,
with a grin. “You know how those things will get out,
and how they always get back to the wrong people.”
“Count on me,” Taylor assured him.
As Orde walked home that evening, after a hot day, his
mind was full of speculation as to the immediate future.
He had a local reputation for wealth, and no one knew
262 THE RIVERMAN
better than himself how important it is for a man in debt
to keep up appearances. Nevertheless, decided retrenchment
would be necessary. After Bobby had gone to bed, he ex-
plained this to his wife.
“What's the matter?” she asked quickly. “Is the firm
losing money?”
“No,” replied Orde, “it’s a matter of reinvestment.” He
hesitated. “It’s a dead secret, which I don’t want to get
out, but I’m thinking of buying some western timber for
Bobby when he grows up.”
Carroll laughed softly. -
“You so relieve my mind,” she smiled at him. “I was
afraid you’d decided on the street-car-driver idea. Why,
sweetheart, you know perfectly well we could go back to
the little house next the church and be as happy as larks.”
XXXII
N the meantime Newmark had closed his desk, picked
I his hat from the nail, and marched precisely down the
street to Heinzman's office. He found the little German
in. Newmark demanded a private interview, and without
preliminary plunged into the business that had brought
him. He had long since taken Heinzman's measure, as, in-
deed, he had taken the measure of every other man with
whom he did or was likely to do business.
“Heinzman,” said he abruptly, “my partner wants to
raise seventy-five thousand dollars for his personal use.
I have agreed to get him that money from the firm.”
Heinzman sat immovable, his round eyes blinking behind
his big spectacles.
“Proceed,” said he shrewdly.
“As security in case he cannot pay the notes the firm
will have to give, he has signed an agreement to turn over
to me his undivided one-half interest in our enterprises.”
“Well? You want to borrow dot money of me?” asked
Heinzman. “I could not raise it.”
“I know that perfectly well,” replied Newmark coolly.
“You are going to have difficulty meeting your July notes,
as it is.” te
Heinzman hardly seemed to breathe, but a flicker of red
blazed in his eye.
“Proceed,” he repeated non-committally, after a moment.
“I intend,” went on Newmark, “to furnish this money
myself. It must, however, seem to be loaned by another.
I want you to lend this money on mortgage.”
263
264 THE RIVERMAN
“What for P’’ asked Heinzman.
“For a one tenth of Orde's share in case he does not
meet those notes.”
“But he vill meet the notes,” objected Heinzman. “You
are a prosperous concern. I know somethings of your busi-
ness, also.” -
“He thinks he will,” rejoined Newmark grimly. “I will
merely point out to you that his entire income is from the
firm, and that from this income he must save twenty-odd
thousand a year.”
“If the firm has hard luck—” said Heinzman.
“Exactly,” finished Newmark.
“Vy you come to me?” demanded Heinzman at length.
“Well, I’m offering you a chance to get even with Orde.
I don't imagine you love him?”
“Vat's de matter mit my gettin' efen with you, too?”
cried Heinzman. “Ain’t you beat me out at Lansing?”
Newmark smiled coldly under his clipped moustache.
“I’m offering you the chance of making anywhere from
thirty to fifty thousand dollars.”
“Perhaps. And suppose this liddle scheme don’t work
Out P’’
“And,” pursued Newmark calmly, “I’ll carry you over
in your present obligations.” He suddenly hit the arm of
his chair with his clenched fist. “Heinzman, if you don’t
make those July payments, what's to become of you?
Where's your timber and your mills and your new house
—and that pretty daughter of yours?”
Heinzman winced visibly.
“I vill get an extension of time,” said he feebly.
“Will you?” countered Newmark.
The two men looked each other in the eye for a mo-
ment.
“Well, maybe,” laughed Heinzman uneasily. “It looks
to me like a winner.”
THE RIVERMAN 265
“All right, then,” said Newmark briskly. “I’ll make out
a mortgage at ten per cent for you, and you’ll lend the
money on it. At the proper time, if things happen that way,
you will foreclose. That's all you have to do with it. Then,
when the timber land comes to you under the foreclose,
you will reconvey an undivided nine-tenths’ interest—for
proper consideration, of course, and without recording the
deed.”
Heinzman laughed with assumed lightness.
“Suppose I fool you,” said he. “I guess I joost keep
it for mineself.”
Newmark looked at him coldly.
“I wouldn’t,” he advised. “You may remember the
member from Lapeer County in that charter fight? And
the five hundred dollars for his vote? Try it on, and see
how much evidence I can bring up. It's called bribery in
this State, and means penitentiary usually.”
“You don’t take a joke,” complained Heinzman.
Newmark arose. -
“It’s understood, then?” he asked.
“How so I know you play fair?” asked the German.
“Your don’t. It’s a case where we have to depend more
or less on each other. But I don’t see what you stand to
lose—and anyway you’ll get carried over those July pay-
ments,” Newmark reminded him.
Heinzman was plainly uneasy and slightly afraid of these
new waters in which he swam.
“If you reduce the firm's profits, he iss going to sus-
pect,” he admonished.
“Who said anything about reducing the firm's profits?”
said Newmark impatiently. “If it does work out that way,
we'll win a big thing; if it does not, we'll lose nothing.”
He nodded to Heinzman and left the office. His de-
meanour was as dry and precise as ever. No expression
illuminated his impassive countenance. If he felt the slight-
266 THE RIVERMAN
est uneasiness over having practically delivered his inten-
tions to the keeping of another, he did not show it. For
one thing, an accomplice was absolutely essential. And,
too, he held the German by his strongest passions—his
avarice, his dread of bankruptcy, his pride, and his fear of
the penitentiary. As he entered the office of his own firm,
his eye fell on Orde's bulky form seated at the desk. He
paused involuntarily, and a slight shiver shook his frame
from head to foot—the dainty, instinctive repulsion of a
cat for a large robustious dog. Instantly controlling him-
self, he stepped forward.
“I’ve made the loan,” he announced.
Orde looked up with interest. -
“The banks wouldn’t touch northern peninsula,” said
Newmark steadily, “so I had to go to private individuals.”
“So you said. Don’t care who deals it out,” laughed
Orde.
“Thayer backed out, so finally I got the whole amount
from Heinzman,” Newmark announced.
“Didn't know the old Dutchman was that well off,”
said Orde, after a slight pause.
“Can't tell about those secretive old fellows,” said New-
mark.
Orde hesitated.
“I didn't know he was friendly enough to lend us
money.”
“Business is business,” replied Newmark.
XXXIII
wishing to rid himself of a courtier, armed the man
and shut him in a dark room. The victim knew
he was to fight something, but whence it was to come,
when, or of what nature he was unable to guess. In the
event, while groping tense for an enemy, he fell under
the fatal fumes of noxious gases.
From the moment Orde completed the secret purchase
of the California timber lands from Trace, he became an
unwitting participant in one of the strangest duels known
to business history. Newmark opposed to him all the
subtleties, all the ruses and expedients to which his posi-
tion lent itself. Orde, sublimely unconscious, deployed the
magnificent resources of strength, energy, organisation, and
combative spirit that animated his pioneer's soul. The occult
manoeuvrings of Newmark called out fresh exertions on
the part of Orde.
Newmark worked under this disadvantage: he had care-
fully to avoid the slightest appearance of an attitude in-
imical to the firm’s very best prosperity. A breath of sus-
picion would destroy his plans. If the smallest untoward
incident should ever bring it clearly before Orde that New-
mark might have an interest in reducing profits, he could
not fail to tread out the logic of the latter’s devious ways.
For this reason Newmark could not as yet fight even in
the twilight. He did not dare make bad sales, awkward
transactions. In spite of his best efforts, he could not suc-
ceed, without the aid of chance, in striking a blow from
Tº: exists the legend of an eastern despot who,
207
268 THE RIVERMAN
which Orde could not recover. The profits of the first year
were not quite up to the usual standard, but they sufficed,
Newmark's finesse cut in two the firm’s income of the sec-
ond year. Orde roused himself. With his old-time energy
of resource, he hurried the woods work until an especially
big cut gave promise of recouping the losses of the year
before. Newmark found himself struggling against a force
greater than he had imagined it to be. Blinded and bound,
it nevertheless made head against his policy. Newmark was
forced to a temporary quiescence. He held himself watch-
ful, intent, awaiting the opportunity which chance should
bring. -
Chance seemed by no means in haste. The end of the
fourth year found Newmark puzzled. Orde had paid regu-
larly the interest on his notes. How much he had been
able to save toward the redemption of the notes themselves
his partner was unable to decide. It depended entirely on
how much the Ordes had disbursed in living expenses,
whether or not Orde had any private debts, and whether
or not he had private resources. In the meantime New-
mark contented himself with tying up the firm’s assets in
such a manner as to render it impossible to raise money on
its property when the time should come.
What Orde regarded as a series of petty annoyances
had made the problem of paying for the California timber
a matter of greater difficulty than he had supposed it would
be. A pressure whose points of support he could not place
was closing slowly on him. Against this pressure he ex-
erted himself. It made him a trifle uneasy, but it did not
worry him. The margin of safety was not as broad as he
had reckoned, but it existed. And in any case, if worse
came to worst, he could always mortgage the California
timber for enough to make up the difference—and more.
Against this expedient, however, he opposed a sentimental
obstinacy. It was Bobby's, and he objected to encumbering
THE RIVERMAN 269
it. In fact, Orde was capable of a prolonged and bitter
struggle to avoid doing so. Nevertheless, it was there—an
asset. A loan on its security would, with what he had set
aside, more than pay the notes on the northern peninsula
stumpage. Orde felt perfectly easy in his mind. He was in
the position of many of our rich men's sons who, quite
sincerely and earnestly, go penniless to the city to make
their way. They live on their nine dollars a week, and go
hungry when they lose their jobs. They stand on their own
feet, and yet—in case of severe illness or actual starvation
—the old man is there ! It gives them a courage to be con-
tented on nothing. So Orde would have gone to almost any
lengths to keep free “Bobby's tract,” but it stood always
between himself and disaster. And a loan on western tim-
ber could be paid off just as easily as a loan on eastern
timber, when you came right down to that. Even could he
have known his partner's intentions, they would, on this
account, have caused him no uneasiness, however angry
they would have made him, or however determined to break
the partnership. Even though Newmark destroyed utterly
the firm's profits for the remaining year and a half the
notes had to run, he could not thereby ruin Orde's chances.
A loan on the California timber would solve all problems
now. In this reasoning Orde would have committed the
mistake of all large and generous temperaments when called
upon to measure natures more subtle than their own. He
would have underestimated both Newmark's resources and
his own grasp of situations.”
* The author has considered it useless to burden the course of the narra-
tive with a detailed account of Newmark’s financial manoeuvres. Realising,
however, that a large class of his readers might be interested in the exact
particulars, he herewith gives a sketch of the transactions.
It will be remembered that at the time—1878–Orde first came in need of
money for the purpose of buying the California timber, the firm, Newmark
& Orde, owned in the northern peninsula 3oo,ooo, ooo feet of pine. On
this they had paid $150,000, and owed still a like amount. They borrowed
$75,000 on it, giving a note secured by mortgage due in 1883. Orde took
270 THE RIVERMAN
Affairs stood thus in the autumn before the year the
notes would come due. The weather had been beautiful.
A perpetual summer seemed to have embalmed the world
in its forgetfulness of times and seasons. Navigation re-
mained open through October and into November. No se-
vere storms had as yet swept the lakes. The barge and her
two tows had made one more trip than had been thought
possible. It had been the intention to lay them up for the
this, giving in return his note secured by the Boom Company's stock. In
1879 and 1880 they made the two final payments on the timber; so that by
the latter date they owned the land free of encumbrance save for the mort-
gage of $75,000. Since Newmark's plan had always contemplated the
eventual foreclosure of this mortgage, it now became necessary further to
encumber the property. Otherwise, since a property worth considerably
above $300,000 carried only a $75,000 mortgage, it would be possible, when
the latter came due, to borrow a further sum on a second mortgage with
which to meet the obligations of the first. Therefore Newmark, in 1881,
approached Orde with the request that the firm raise $70,000 by means of a
second mortgage on the timber. This $70,000 he proposed to borrow
personally, giving his note due in 1885 and putting up the same collateral as
Orde had—that is to say, his stock in the Boom Company. To this Orde
could hardly in reason oppose an objection, as it nearly duplicated his own
transaction of 1878. Newmark therefore, through Heinzman, lent this su
to himself. -
It may now be permitted to forecast events in the line of Newmark's
reasoning.
If his plans should work out, this is what would happen: in 1883 the
firm’s note for $75,000 would come due. Orde would be unable to pay it.
Therefore at once his stock in the Boom Company would become the property
of Newmark & Orde. Newmark would profess himself unable to raise
enough from the firm to pay the mortgage. The second mortgage from
which he had drawn his personal loan would render it impossible for the
firm to raise more money on the land. A foreclosure would follow. Through
Heinzman, Newmark would buy in. As he had himself loaned the money
to himself—again through Heinzman—on the second mortgage, the latter
would occasion him no loss.
The net results of the whole transaction would be: first, that Newmark
would have acquired personally the 3oo,ooo,000 feet of northern peninsula
timber; and, Second, that Orde's personal share in the stock company would
now be held in partnership by the two. Thus, in order to gain so large a
stake, it would pay Newmark to suffer considerable loss jointly with Orde
in the induced misfortunes of the firm.
Incidentally it might be remarked that Newmark, of course, purposed
paying his own note to the firm when it should fall due in 1885, thus saving
for himself the Boom Company stock which he had put up as collateral.
THE RIVERMAN 271
winter, but the weather continued so mild that Orde sug-
gested they be laden with a consignment for Jones &
Mabley, of Chicago.
“Did intend to ship by rail,” said he. “They're all ‘up-
pers,” so it would pay all right. But we can save all kinds
of money by water, and they ought to skip over there in
twelve to fifteen hours.”
Accordingly, the three vessels were laid alongside the
wharves at the mill, and as fast as possible the selected
lumber was passed into their holds. Orde departed for the
woods to start the cutting as soon as the first belated snow
should fall.
This condition seemed, however, to delay. During each
night it grew cold. The leaves, after their blaze and riot
of colour, turned crisp and crackly and brown. Some of the
little, still puddles were filmed with what was almost, but
not quite ice. A sheen of frost whitened the house roofs
and silvered each separate blade of grass on the lawns.
But by noon the sun, rising red in the veil of smoke that
hung low in the snappy air, had mellowed the atmosphere
until it lay on the cheek like a caress. No breath of wind
stirred. Sounds came clearly from a distance. Long V-
shaped flights of geese swept athwart the sky, very high
up, but their honking came faintly to the ear. And yet,
when the sun, swollen to the great dimensions of the rising
moon, dipped blood-red through the haze, the first pre-
monitory tingle of cold warned one that the grateful
warmth of the day had been but an illusion of a season
that had gone. This was not summer, but, in the quaint
old phrase, Indian summer, and its end would be as though
the necromancer had waved his wand.
To Newmark, sitting at his desk, reported Captain Floyd
of the steam barge North Star.
“All loaded by noon, sir,” he said.
Newmark looked up in surprise.
272 THE RIVERMAN
“Well, why do you tell me?” he inquired.
“I want your orders.”
“My orders? Why?” -
“This is a bad time of year,” explained Captain Floyd,
“ and the storm signal’s up. All the signs are right for
a blow.” -
Newmark whirled in his chair. -
“A blow !” he cried. “What of it? You don’t come in
every time it blows, do you?”
“You don’t know the lakes, sir, at this time of year,”
insisted Captain Floyd.
“Are you afraid P” sneered Newmark.
Captain Floyd’s countenance burned a dark red.
“I only want your orders,” was all he said. “I thought
we might wait to see.”
“Then go,” snapped Newmark. “That lumber must get
to the market. You heard Mr. Orde's orders to sail as
soon as you were loaded.”
Captain Floyd nodded curtly and went out without fur-
ther comment.
Newmark arose and looked out of the window. The
sun shone as balmily soft as ever. English sparrows twit–
tered and fought outside. The warm smell of pine shingles
rose from the street. Only close down to the horizon lurked
cold, flat, greasy-looking clouds; and in the direction of
the Government flag-pole he caught the flash of red from
the lazily floating signal. He was little weatherwise, and
he shook his head sceptically. Nevertheless it was a chance,
and he took it, as he had taken a great many others.
XXXIV
O Carroll's delight, Orde returned unexpectedly
from the woods late that night. He was so busy
these days that she welcomed any chance to see him.
Much to his disappointment, Bobby had been taken duck-
hunting by his old friend, Mr. Kincaid. Next morning,
however, Orde told Carroll his stay would be short and
that his day would be occupied.
“I’d take old Prince and get some air,” he advised.
“You’re too much indoors. Get some friend and drive
around. It’s fine and blowy out, and you’ll get some colour
in your cheeks.”
After breakfast Carroll accompanied her husband to the
front door. When they opened it a blast of air rushed in,
whirling some dead leaves with it.
“I guess the fine weather's over,” said Orde, looking up
at the sky.
A dull lead colour had succeeded the soft gray of the
preceding balmy days. The heavens seemed to have settled
down closer to the earth. A rising wind whistled through
the branches of the big maple trees, snatching the remain-
ing leaves in handfuls and tossing them into the air. The
tops swayed like whips. Whirlwinds scurried among the
piles of dead leaves on the lawns, scattering them, chasing
them madly around and around in circles.
“B-r-r-r!” shivered Carroll. “Winter's coming.”
She kept herself busy about the house all the morning;
ate her lunch in solitude. Outside, the fierce wind, rising in
a crescendo shriek, howled around the eaves. The day
273
274. THE RIVERMAN
darkened, but no rain fell. At last Carroll resolved to take
her husband's advice. She stopped for Mina Heinzman,
and the two walked around to the stable, where the men
harnessed old Prince into the phaeton.
They drove, the wind at their backs, across the draw-
bridge, past the ship-yards, and out beyond the mills to
the Marsh Road. There, on either side the causeway, miles
and miles of cat-tails and reeds bent and recovered under
the Snatches of the wind. Here and there showed glimpses
of ponds or little inlets, the surface of the water ruffled
and dark blue. Occasionally one of these bayous swung in
across the road. Then the two girls could see plainly the
fan-like cat's-paws skittering here and there as though
panic-stricken by the swooping, invisible monster that pur-
sued them.
Carroll and Mina Heinzman had a good time. They
liked each other very much, and always saw a great deal
to laugh at in the things about them and in the subjects
about which they talked. When, however, they turned
toward home, they were forced silent by the mighty power
of the wind against them. The tears ran from their eyes
as though they were crying; they had to lower their heads.
Hardly could Carroll command vision clear enough to see
the road along which she was driving. This was really
unnecessary, for Prince was buffeted to a walk. Thus they
crawled along until they reached the turn-bridge, where
the right-angled change in direction gave them relief. The
river was full of choppy waves, considerable in size. As
they crossed, the Sprite darted beneath them, lowering her
Smokestack as she went under the bridge.
They entered Main Street, where was a great banging
and clanging of swinging signs and a few loose shutters.
All the sidewalk displays of vegetables and other goods
had been taken in, and the doors, customarily wide open,
were now shut fast. This alone lent to the street quite
THE RIVERMAN - 275
a deserted air, which was emphasised by the fact that
actually not a rig of any sort stood at the curbs. Up the
empty roadway whirled one after the other clouds of dust
hurried by the wind.
“I wonder where all the farmers' wagons are?” mar-
velled the practical Mina. “Surely they would not stay
home Saturday afternoon just for this wind l’’
Opposite Randall's hardware store her curiosity quite
mastered her.
“Do stop!” she urged Carroll. “I want to run in and
see what's the matter.”
She was gone but a moment, and returned, her eyes
shining with excitement.
“Oh, Carroll!” she cried, “there are three vessels gone
ashore off the piers. Everybody’s gone to see.”
“Jump in l’” said Carroll. “We’ll drive out. Perhaps
they’ll get out the life-saving crew.”
They drove up the plank road over the sand-hill, through
the beech woods, to the bluff above the shore. In the woods
they were somewhat sheltered from the wind, although
even there the crash of falling branches and the whirl
of twigs and dead leaves advertised that the powers of the
air were abroad; but when they topped the last rise, the
unobstructed blast from the open Lake hit them Square
between the eyes.
Probably a hundred vehicles of all descriptions were
hitched to trees just within the fringe of woods. Carroll,
however, drove straight ahead until Prince stood at the
top of the plank road that led down to the bath houses.
Here she pulled up.
Carroll saw the lake, slate blue and angry, with white-
capped billows to the limit of vision. Along the shore were
rows and rows of breakers, leaping, breaking, and gather-
ing again, until they were lost in a tumble of white foam
that rushed and receded on the sands. These did not look
276 THE RIVERMAN
to be very large until she noticed the twin piers reaching
out from the river's mouth. Each billow, as it came in,
rose sullenly above them, broke tempestuously to over-
whelm the entire structure of their ends, and ripped in-
shore along their lengths, the crest submerging as it ran
every foot of the massive structures. The piers and the
light-houses at their ends looked like little toys, and the
compact black crowd of people on the shore below were
as small as Bobby's tin soldiers.
“Look there—out fartherl’ pointed Mina.
Carroll looked, and rose to her feet in excitement.
Three little toy ships—or so they seemed compared to
the mountains of water—lay broadside-to, just inside the
farthest line of breakers. Two were sailing schooners. These
had been thrown on their beam ends, their masts pointing
at an angle toward the beach. Each wave, as it reached,
stirred them a trifle, then broke in a deluge of water that
for a moment covered their hulls completely from sight.
With a mighty suction the billow drained away, carrying
with it wreckage. The third vessel was a steam barge. She,
too, was broadside to the seas, but had caught in some
hole in the bar so that she lay far down by the head.
The shoreward side of her upper works had, for some
freakish reason, given away first, so now the interior of
her staterooms and saloons was exposed to view as in
the cross-section of a model ship. Over her, too, the great
waves hurled themselves, each carrying away its spoil.
To Carroll it seemed fantastically as though the barge
were made of sugar, and that each sea melted her pre-
cisely as Bobby loved to melt the lump in his chocolate
by raising and lowering it in a spoon.
And the queer part of it all was that these waves, so
mighty in their effects, appeared to the woman no differ-
ent from those she had often watched in the light summer
blows that for a few hours raise the “white caps" on the
THE RIVERMAN 277
lake. They came in from the open in the same swift yet
deliberate ranks; they gathered with the same leisurely
pauses; they broke with the same rush and roar. They
seemed no larger, but everything else had been struck
small—the tiny ships, the toy piers, the ant-like swarm of
people on the shore. She looked on it as a spectacle. It had
as yet no human significance.
“Poor fellows ' '.' cried Mina.
“What?” asked Carroll.
“Don’t you see them?” queried the other.
Carroll looked, and in the rigging of the schooner she
made out a number of black objects.
“Are those men?—up the masts?” she cried.
She set Prince in motion toward the beach.
At the foot of the bluff the plank road ran out into the
deep sand. Through this the phaeton made its way heavily.
The fine particles were blown in the air like a spray, ming-
ling with the spume from the lake, stinging Carroll's face
like so many needles. Already the beach was strewn with
pieces of wreckage, some of it cast high above the wash,
others still thrown up and sucked back by each wave,
others again rising and falling in the billows. This wreck-
age constituted a miscellaneous jumble, although most of it
was lumber from the deck-loads of the vessels. Inter-
mingled with the split and broken yellow boards were bits
of carving and of painted wood. Carroll saw one piece half
buried in the sand which bore in gilt two huge letters, A. R.
A little farther, bent and twisted, projected the ornamental
spear which had pointed the way before the steamer's bow.
Portions of the usual miscellaneous freight cargo carried
on every voyage were scattered along the shore—boxes,
barrels, and crates. Five or six men had rolled a whisky
barrel beyond the reach of the water, had broached it, and
now were drinking in turn from a broken and dingy frag-
ment of a beer-schooner. They were very dirty; their hair
278 THE RIVERMAN
had fallen over their eyes, which were bloodshot; the ex-
pression of their faces was imbecile. As the phaeton passed,
they hailed its Occupants in thick voices, shouting against the
wind maudlin invitations to drink.
The crowd gathered at the pier comprised fully half the
population of Monrovia. It centred about the life saving
crew, whose mortar was being loaded. A stove-in lifeboat
mutely attested the failure of other efforts. The men
worked busily, ramming home the powder sack, placing the
projectile with the light line attached, attending that the
reel ran freely. Their chief watched the seas and winds
through his glasses. When the preparations were finished,
he adjusted the mortar, and pulled the string. Carroll had
seen this done in practice. Now, with the recollection of
that experience in mind, she was astonished at the feeble
report of the piece, and its freedom from the dense white
clouds of smoke that should have enveloped it. The wind
snatched both noise and vapour away almost as soon as
they were born. The dart with its trailer of line rose on a
long graceful curve. The reel sang. Every member of the
crowd unconsciously leaned forward in attention. But the
resistance of the wind and the line early made itself felt.
Slower and slower hummed the reel. There came a time
when the missile seemed to hesitate, then fairly to stand in
equilibrium. Finally, in an increasingly abrupt curve, it de-
scended into the sea. By a good three hundred yards the
shot had failed to carry the line over the vessels.
“There's Mr. Bradford,” said Carroll, waving her hand.
“I wish he'd come and tell us something about it.”
The banjo-playing village Brummell saw the signal and
came, his face grave. -
“Couldn't they get the lifeboats out to them?” asked
Carroll as he approached.
“You see that one,” said Bradford, pointing. “Well, the
other's in kindling wood farther up the beach.”
THE RIVERMAN 279
“Anybody drowned?” asked Mina quickly.
“No, we got 'em out. Mr. Carn's shoulder is broken.”
He glanced down at himself comically, and the girls for
the first time noticed that beneath the heavy overcoat his
garments were dripping.
“But surely they’ll never get a line over with the mor-
tar !” said Carroll. “That last shot fell so far shortl "
“They know it. They've shot a dozen times. Might as
well do something.” -
“I should think,” said Mina, “that they'd shoot from
the end of the pier. They’d be ever so much nearer.”
“Tried it,” replied Bradford succintly. “Nearly lost the
whole business.”
Nobody said anything for some time, but all looked
helplessly to where the vessels—from this elevation insig-
nificant among the tumbling waters—were pounding to
pieces.
At this moment from the river a trail of black smoke
became visible over the point of sand-hill that ran down to
the pier. A smokestack darted into view, slowed down, and
came to rest well inside the river-channel. There it rose and
fell regularly under the influence of the swell that swung
in from the lake. The crowd uttered a cheer, and streamed
in the direction of the smokestack.
“Come and see what's up,” suggested Bradford.
He hitched Prince to a log sticking up at an angle from
the sand, and led the way to the pier.
There they had difficulty in getting close enough to
see; but Bradford, preceding the two women, succeeded
by patience and diplomacy in forcing a way. The Sprite was
lying close under the pier, the top of her pilot-house just
about level with the feet of the people watching her. She
rose and fell with the restless waters. Fat rope-yarn
bumpers interposed between her sides and the piling. The
pilot-house was empty, but Harvey, the negro engineer,
28o THE RIVERMAN
leaned, elbows crossed against the sill of his little square
door, Smoking his pipe.
“I wouldn’t go out there for a million dollars l’’ cried a
man excitedly to Carroll and Bradford. “Nothing on earth
could live in that seal Nothing! I’ve run a tug myself in
my time, and I know what I’m talking about !”
“What are they going to do?” asked Carroll.
“Haven't you heard l’’ cried the other, turning to her.
“Where you been 2 This is one of Orde's tugs, and she's
going to try to get a line to them vessels. But I
wouldn't—”
Bradford did not wait for him to finish. He turned
abruptly, and with an air of authority brushed toward the
tug, followed closely by Carroll and Mina. At the edge of
the pier was the tug's captain, Marsh, listening to earnest
expostulation by a half-dozen of the leading men of the
town, among whom were both Newmark and Orde.
As the three came within earshot Captain Marsh spit
forth the stump of cigar he had been chewing.
“Gentlemen,” said he crisply, “that isn't the question.
I think I can do it; and I’m entirely willing to take all per-
sonal risks. The thing is hazardous and it’s Mr. Orde's tug.
It's for him to say whether he wants to risk her.”
“Good Lord, man, what's the tug in a case like this!”
cried Orde, who was standing near. Carroll looked at him
proudly, but she did not attempt to make her presence
known.
“I thought so,” replied Captain Marsh. “So it's settled.
I'll take her out, if I can get a crew. Harvey, step up
here ! ”
The engineer slowly hoisted his long figure through the
breast-high doorway, dragged his legs under him, and
then with extraordinary agility swung to the pier, his teeth
shining like ivory in his black face.
“Yas, suh !” said he.
THE RIVERMAN 281
“Harvey,” said Captain Marsh briskly, “we’re going to
try to get a line aboard those vessels out there. It's danger-
ous. You don't have to go if you don't want to. Will you
go? 53
Harvey removed his cap and scratched his wool. The
grin faded from his good-natured countenance.
“You-all goin', Suh?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“I reckon I’ll done haif to go, too,” said Harvey simply.
Without further word he swung lightly back to the uneasy
craft below him, and began to toss the slabs from the deck
into the hold.
“I want a man with me at the wheel, two to handle the
lines, and one to fire for Harvey,” said Captain Marsh to
the crowd in general. º
“That’s our job,” announced the life-saving captain.
“Well, come on then. No use in delay,” said Captain
Marsh.
The four men from the life-saving service dropped
aboard. The five then went over the tug from stem to
stern, tossing aside all movables, and lashing tight all es-
sentials. From the pilot-house Captain Marsh distributed
life preservers. Harvey declined his.
“Whaf-for I want dat?” he inquired. “Lots of good he
gwine do me down here!”
Then all hatches were battened down. Captain Marsh
reached up to shake the hand which Orde, stooping, offered
him.
“I’ll try to bring her back all right, sir,” said he.
“To hell with the tug l’’ cried Orde, impatient at this
insistence on the mere property aspect. “Bring yourself
back.”
Captain Marsh deliberately lit another cigar and entered
the pilot-house with the other men.
“Cast off!” he cried; and the silent crowd heard clearly
3.
282 THE RIVERMAN
the single sharp bell ringing for attention, and then the
“jangler” that called for full speed ahead. Awed, they
watched the tiny sturdy craft move out into the stream and
point to the fury of the open lake.
“Brave chaps | Brave chaps l’” said Dr. McMullen to
Carroll as they turned away. The physician drew his tall
slender figure to its height. “Brave chaps, every one of
them. But, do you know, to my mind, the bravest of them
all are that nigger—and his fireman—nailed down in the
hold where they can’t see nor know what's going on, and
if-if- " the good doctor blew his nose vigorously five or
six times—“well, it's just like a rat in a hole.” He shook
his head vigorously and looked out to sea. “I read last
evening, sir,” said he to Bradford, “in a blasted fool medi-
cal journal I take, that the race is degenerating. Good
God | *
The tug had rounded the end of the pier. The first of her
thousand enemies, sweeping in from the open, had struck
her fair. A great sheet of white water, slanting back and
up, shot with terrific impact against the house and beyond.
For an instant the little craft seemed buried; but almost
immediately the gleam of her black hull showed her plung-
ing forward dauntlessly.
* That's nothin'! ” said the tug captain who had first
spoken. “Wait ’til she gets outside l’” The watchers streamed
down from the pier for a better view. Carroll and Miss
Heinzman followed. They saw the staunch little craft drive
into three big seas, each of which appeared to bury her
completely, save for her upper works. She managed, how-
ever, to keep her headway.
“She can stand that, all right,” said one of the life-sav-
ing crew who had been watching her critically. “The
trouble will come when she drops down to the vessels.”
In spite of the heavy smashing of head-on seas the Sprite
held her course straight out.
THE RIVERMAN 283
“Where's she going, anyway?” marvelled little Mr.
Smith, the stationer. “She’s away beyond the wrecks
already.”
“Probably Marsh has found the seas heavier than he
thought and is afraid to turn her broadside,” guessed his
companion.
“Afraid, hell!” snorted a riverman who overheard.
Nevertheless the Sprite was now so distant that the loom
of the great seas on the horizon swallowed her from view,
save when she rose on the crest of some mighty billow.
“Well, what is he doing 'way out there then?” chal-
lenged Mr. Smith's friend with some asperity.
“Do'no,” replied the riverman, “but whatever it is, it's
all right as long as Buck Marsh is at the wheel.”
“There, she's turned now,” Mr. Smith interposed.
Beneath the trail of black smoke she had shifted direction.
And then with startling swiftness the Sprite darted out of
the horizon into full view. For the first time the spectators
realised the size and weight of the seas. Not even the sullen
pounding to pieces of the vessels on the bar had so impressed
them as the sight of the tug coasting with railroad speed
down the rush of a comber like a child’s toy-boat in the surf.
One moment the whole of her deck was visible as she was
borne with the wave; the next her bow alone showed high as
the back suction caught her and dragged her from the crest
into the hollow. A sea rose behind. Nothing of the tug
was to be seen. It seemed that no power or skill could pre-
vent her feeling overwhelmed. Yet somehow always she
staggered out of the gulf until she caught the force of the
billow and was again cast forward like a chip.
“Maybe they ain't catchin’ p’ticular hell at that wheel
to hold her from yawing !” muttered the tug captain to
his neighbour, who happened to be Mr. Duncan, the min-
ister.
Almost before Carroll had time to see that the little craft
284 THE RIVERMAN
was coming in, she had arrived at the outer line of breakers.
Here the combers, dragged by the bar underneath, crested,
curled over, and fell with a roar, just as in milder weather
the surf breaks on the beach. When the Sprite rushed at
this outer line of white-water, a woman in the crowd
screamed.
But at the edge of destruction the Sprite came to a shud-
dering stop. Her powerful propellers had been set to the
reverse. They could not hold her against the forward
fling of the water, but what she lost thus she regained
on the seaward slopes of the waves and in their hollows.
Thus she hovered on the edge of the breakers, awaiting
her chance.
As long as the seas rolled in steadily, and nothing broke,
she was safe. But if one of the waves should happen to
crest and break, as many of them did, the weight of water
catching the tug on her flat, broad stern deck would in-
dubitably bury her. The situation was awful in its extreme
simplicity. Would Captain Marsh see his opportunity before
the law of chances would bring along the wave that would
Overwhelm him P
A realisation of the crisis came to the crowd on the beach.
At once the terrible strain of suspense tugged at their
souls. Each conducted himself according to his nature. The
hardy men of the river and the woods set their teeth until
the cheek muscles turned white, and blasphemed softly and
steadily. Two or three of the townsmen walked up and
down the space of a dozen feet. One, the woman who had
screamed, prayed aloud in short hysterical sentences.
“O God! Save them, O Lord! O Lord!”
Orde stood on top of a half-buried log, his hat in his
hand, his entire being concentrated on the manoeuvre being
executed. Only Newmark apparently remained as calm as
ever, leaning against an upright timber, his arms folded,
and an unlighted cigar as usual between his lips.
THE RIVERMAN 285
Methodically every few moments he removed his eye-
glasses and wiped the lenses free of spray.
Suddenly, without warning, occurred one of those inex-
plicable lulls that interpose often amid the wildest uproars.
For the briefest instant other sounds than the roar of the
wind and surf were permitted the multitude on the beach.
They heard the grinding of timbers from the stricken
ships, and the draining away of waters. And distinctly they
heard the faint, far tinkle of the jangler calling again for
“full speed ahead.” -
Between two waves the Sprite darted forward directly for
the nearest of the wrecks. Straight as an arrow's flight she
held until from the crowd went up a groan.
“She’ll collide l’ some one put it into words.
But at the latest moment the tug swerved, raced past,
and turned on a long diagonal across the end of the bar
toward the piers. -
Captain Marsh had chosen his moment with exactitude.
To the utmost he had taken advantage of the brief lull of
jumbled seas after the “three largest waves * had swept
by. Yet in shallow water and with the strong inshore set,
even that lull was all too short. The Sprite was staggered by
the buffets of the smaller breakers; her speed was checked,
her stern was dragged around. For an instant it seemed
that the back suction would hold her in its grip. She tore
herself from the grasp of the current. Enveloped in a blind-
ing hail of spray she struggled desperately to extricate her-
self from the maelstrom in which she was involved before
the resumption of the larger seas should roll her over and
over to destruction.
Already these larger seas were racing in from the open.
To Carroll, watching breathless and wide-eyed in that
strange passive and receptive state peculiar to imaginative
natures, they seemed alive. And the Sprite, too, appeared
to be, not a fabric and a mechanism controlled by men,
286 THE RIVERMAN
but a sentient creature struggling gallantly on her own
volition.
Far out in the lake against the tumbling horizon she saw
heave up for a second the shoulder of a mighty wave. And
instinctively she perceived this wave as a deadly enemy
of the little tug, and saw it bending all its great energies
to hurrying in on time to catch the victim before it could
escape. To this wave she gave all her attention, watching
for it after it had sunk momentarily below its fellows,
recognising it instantly as it rose again. The spasms of dis-
may and relief among the crowd about her she did not share
at all. The crises they indicated did not exist for her. Until
the wave came in, Carroll knew, the Sprite, no matter how
battered and tossed, would be safe. Her whole being was
concentrated in a continually shifting calculation of the
respective distances between the tug and the piers, the tug
and the relentlessly advancing wave.
“Oh, go!” she exhorted the Sprite under her breath.
Then the crowd, too, caught with its slower perceptions
the import of the wave. Carroll felt the electric thrill of ap-
prehension shiver through it. Huge and towering, green
and flecked with foam the wave came on now calmly and
deliberately as though sure. The Sprite was off the end of
the pier when the wave lifted her, just in the position her
enemy would have selected to crush her life out against the
cribs. Slowly the tug rose against its shoulder, was lifted
onward, poised; and then with a swift forward thrust the
wave broke, smothering the pier and lighthouse beneath
tons of water.
A low, agonised wail broke from the crowd. And then—
and then—over beyond the pier down which the wave,
broken and spent but formidable still, was ripping its way,
they saw gliding a battered black stack from which still
poured defiantly clouds of gray smoke.
For ten seconds the spectators could not believe their
THE RIVERMAN 287
eyes. They had distinctly seen the Sprite caught between a
resistless wall of water and the pier; where she should
have been crushed like the proverbial egg-shell. Yet there
she was—or her ghost.
Then a great cheer rose up against the wind. The crowd
went crazy. Mere acquaintances hugged each other and
danced around and around through the heavy sands. Sev-
eral women had hysterics. The riverman next to Mr. Dun-
can opened his mouth and swore so picturesquely that, as
he afterward told his chum, “I must 've been plumb in-
spired for the occasion.” Yet it never entered Mr. Duncan's
ministerial head to reprove the blasphemy. Orde jumped
down from his half-buried log and clapped his hat on his
head. Newmark did not alter his attitude nor his expres-
S1011.
The Sprite was safe. For the few moments before she
glided the length of the long pier to stiller water this fact
sufficed.
“I wonder if she got the line aboard,” speculated the
tug-boat captain at last. - t
The crowd surged over to the piers again. Below them
rose and fell the Sprite. All the fancy scroll-work of her
upper works, the cornice of her deck house, the light rig-
ging of her cabin had disappeared, leaving raw and splin-
tered wood to mark their attachments. The tall smokestack
was bent awry, but its supports had held, which was for-
tunate since otherwise the fires would have been drowned
out. At the moment, Captain Marsh was bending over ex-
amining a bad break in the overhang—the only material
damage the tug had sustained.
At sight of him the crowd set up a yell. He paid no
attention. One of the life-saving men tossed a mooring line
ashore. It was seized by a dozen men. Then for the first
time somebody noticed that although the tug had come to
a standstill, her screw was still turning slowly over and over,
288 THE RIVERMAN
holding her against the erratic strong jerking of a slender
rope that ran through her stern chocks and into the water.
“He got it aboard l’ yelled the man, pointing.
Another cheer broke out. The life-saving crew leaped
to the deck. They were immediately followed by a crowd
of enthusiasts eager to congratulate and question. But Cap-
tain Marsh would have none of them.
“Get off my tug l’ he shouted. “Do you want to swamp
her? What do you suppose we put that line aboard for?
Fun? Get busy and use it! Rescue that crew now !”
Abashed, the enthusiasts scrambled back. The life-saving
crew took charge. It was necessary to pass the line around
the end of the pier and back to the beach. This was a dan-
gerous job, and one requiring considerable power and in-
genuity, for the strain on the line imposed by the waters
was terrific; and the breaking seas rendered work on the
piers extremely hazardous. However, the life-saving captain
took charge confidently enough. His crew began to strug-
gle out the pier, while volunteers, under his personal di-
rection, manipulated the reel. .
A number of the curious lingered about the Sprite.
Marsh and Orde were in consultation over the smashed
stern, and did not look as though they cared to be dis-
turbed. Harvey leaned out his little square door.
“Don’ know nuffin 'bout it,” said he, “’ceptin' she done
rolled 'way over 'bout foh times. Yass she did, suh ! I
know. I felt her doin’ it.
“No,” he answered a query. “I wasn't what you-all
would call scairt, that is, not really scairt—jess a little
ne’vous. All I had to do was to feed her slabs and listen
foh my bell. You see, Cap'n Ma'sh, he was in cha’ge.”
“No, sir,” Captain Marsh was saying emphatically to his
employer. “I can’t figure it out except on one thing. You
see it’s stove from underneath. A sea would have smashed
it from above.”
THE RIVERMAN 289
“Perhaps you grounded in between seas out there,” sug-
gested Orde.
Marsh smiled grimly.
“I reckon I’d have known it,” said he. “No, sir! It
sounds wild, but it's the only possible guess. That last sea
must 've lifted us bodily right over the corner of the pier.”
“Well—maybe,” assented Orde doubtfully.
“Sure thing,” repeated Marsh with conviction.
“Well, you’d better not tell 'em so unless you want to
rank in with Old Man Ananias,” ended Orde. “It was a
good job. Pretty dusty out there, wasn’t it?”
“Pretty dusty,” grinned Marsh.
They turned away together and were at once pounced
on by Leopold Lincoln Bunn, the local reporter, a callow
youth aflame with the chance for a big story of more than
local interest.
“Oh, Captain Marsh l’’ he cried. “How did you get
around the pier? It looked as though the wave had you
caught.”
Orde glanced at his companion in curiosity.
“On roller skates,” replied Marsh.
Leopold tittered nervously.
“Could you tell me how you felt when you were out
there in the worst of it?” he inquired.
“Oh, hell!” said Marsh grumpily, stalking away.
“Don’t interview for a cent, does he?” grinned Orde.
“Oh, Mr. Ordel Perhaps you 95.
“Don’t you think we’d better lend a hand below P” sug-
gested Orde, pointing to the beach.
The wild and picturesque work of rescue was under way.
The line had been successfully brought to the left of the
lighthouse. To it had been attached the rope, and to that
the heavy cable. These the crew of the schooner had dragged
out and made fast to a mast. The shore end passed over
a tall scissors. When the cable was tightened the breeches
290 THE RIVERMAN
buoy was put into commission, and before long the first
member of the crew was hauled ashore, plunging in and out
of the waves as the rope tightened or slackened. He was a
flaxen-haired Norwegian, who stamped his feet, shook his
body and grinned comically at those about him. He accepted
with equanimity a dozen drinks of whisky thrust at him
from all sides, Swigged a mug of the coffee a few practical
women were making over an open fire, and opposed to
Leopold Lincoln Bunn’s frantic efforts a stolid and baffling
density. Of none of these attentions did he seem to stand
in especial need.
The crew and its volunteers worked quickly. When the
last man had come ashore, the captain of the life-saving
service entered the breeches buoy and caused himself to be
hauled through the smother to the wreck. After an interval,
a signal jerked back. The buoy was pulled in empty and
the surf car substituted. In it were piled various utensils of
equipment. One man went with it, and several more on its
next trip, until nearly the whole crew were aboard the
wreck.
Carroll and Mina stayed until dusk and after, watching
the long heavy labour of rescue. Lines had to be rocketed
from the schooner to the other vessels. Then by their means
cable communication had to be established with the shore.
After this it was really a matter of routine to run the crew
to the beach, though cruel, hard work, and dangerous. The
wrecks were continually swept by the great seas; and at any
moment the tortured fabrics might give way, might dis-
solve completely in the elements that so battered them. The
women making the hot coffee found their services becoming
valuable. Big fires of driftwood were ignited. They were
useful for light as well as warmth. -
By their illumination finally Orde discovered the two
girls standing, and paused long enough in his own heavy
labour of assistance to draw Carroll one side.
THE RIVERMAN 291
“You’d better go home now, sweetheart,” said he.
“Bobby'll be waiting for you, and the girls may be here in
the crowd somewhere. There’ll be nobody to take care of
him.”
“I suppose so,” she assented. “But hasn’t it been exciting?
Whose vessels were they ; do you know?”
O1 de glanced at 1.er strangely.
“They were ours,” said he.
She looked up at him, catching quickly the wrinkles of
his brow and the harassed anxiety in his eyes. Impulsively
she pulled him down to her and kissed him.
“Never mind, dear,” said she. “I care only if you do.”
She patted his great shoulders lightly and smiled up at
him.
“Run, help!” she cried. “And come home as soon as you
can. I’ll have something nice and hot all ready for you.”
She turned away, the smile still on her lips; but as soon
as she was out of sight, her face fell grave.
“Come, Minal * she said to the younger girl. “Time to
go.”
They toiled through the heavy sand to where, hours ago,
they had left Prince. That faithful animal dozed in his
tracks and awoke reluctantly.
Carroll looked back. The fires leaped red and yellow.
Against them were the silhouettes of people, and in the
farther circle of their illumination were more people cast
in bronze that flickered red. In contrast to their glow the
night was very dark. Only from the lake there disengaged
a faint gray light where the waters broke. The strength of
the failing wind still lifted the finer particles of sand. The
organ of the pounding surf filled the night with the gran-
deur of its music.
XXXV
RDE mounted the office stairs next day with a
O very heavy step. The loss of the North Star and
of the two schooners meant a great deal to him
at that time.
“It kicks us into somewhat of a hole,” he grumbled to
Newmark.
“A loss is never pleasant,” replied the latter, “ and it
puts us out of the carrying business for awhile. But we're
insured.”
“I can’t understand why Floyd started,” said Orde. “He
ought to know better than to face sure prospects of a fall
blow. I’ll tan his soul for that, all right!”
“I’m afraid I'm partly responsible for his going,” put
in Newmark.
“You ! ” cried Orde.
“Yes. You see that Smith & Mabley shipment was im-
portant enough to strain a point for—and it's only twenty-
four hours or so—and it certainly didn’t look to see me as
if it were going to blow very soon. Poor Floyd feels bad
enough. He’s about sick.” {
Orde for the first time began to appreciate the pressure
of his circumstances. The loss on the cargo of “uppers ”
reached about 8,000,000 feet; which represented $20,000 in
money. As for the North Star and her consorts, save for
the insurance, they were simply eliminated. They had rep-
resented property. Now they were gone. The loss of $60,000
or so on them, however, did not mean a diminution of the
company’s present cash resources to that amount; and so
292
THE RIVERMAN 293
did not immediately affect Orde's calculations as to the
payment of the notes which were now soon to come due.
At this time the woods work increasingly demanded his
attention. He disappeared for a week, his organising abili-
ties claimed for the distribution of the road crews. When
he returned to the office, Newmark, with an air of small
triumph, showed him contracts for the construction of three
new vessels.
“I get them for $55,000," said he, “with $30,000 of it
on long time.”
“Without consulting me!” cried Orde.
Newmark explained carefully that the action, seemingly
so abrupt, had really been taking advantage of a lucky op-
portunity.
“Otherwise,” he finished, “we shouldn’t have been able
to get the job done for another year, at least. If that big
Cronin contract goes through—well, you know what that
would mean in the shipyards—nobody would get even a
look-in. And McLeod is willing, in the meantime, to give
us a price to keep his men busy. So you see I had to close
at once. You can see what a short chance it was.”
“It’s a good chance, all right,” admitted Orde; “but—
why—that is, I thought perhaps we'd job our own freighting
for awhile—it never occurred to me we'd build any more
vessels until we’d recovered a little.”
“Recovered,” Newmark repeated coldly. “I don’t see
what ‘recovered ' has to do with it. If the mill burned down,
we'd rebuild, wouldn’t we? Even if we were embarrassed—
which we’re not—we'd hardly care to acknowledge pub-
licly that we couldn't keep up our equipment. And as we're
making twelve or fifteen thousand a year out of our freight-
ing, it seems to me too good a business to let slip into other
hands.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Orde, a trifle helplessly.
“Therefore I had to act without you,” Newmark fin-
294 THE RIVERMAN
ished. “I knew you'd agree. That's right: isn't it?” he
insisted. * -
“Yes, that's right,” agreed Orde drearily.
“You’ll find copies of the contract on your desk,” New-
mark closed the matter. “And there's the tax lists. I wish
you’d run them over.”
“Joe,” replied Orde, “I–I don’t think I’ll stay down
town this morning. I 95 .
Newmark glanced up keenly.
“You don't look a bit well,” said he; “kind of pale around
the gills. Bilious. Don't believe that camp grub quite agrees
with you for a steady diet.” -
“Yes, that must be it,” assented Orde.
He closed his desk and went out. Newmark turned back
to his papers. His face was expressionless. From an inner
pocket he produced a cigar which he thrust between his teeth.
The corners of his mouth slowly curved in a grim smile.
Orde did not go home. Instead, he walked down Main
Street to the docks where he jumped into a rowboat lying
in a slip, and with a few rapid strokes shot out on the
stream. In his younger days he had belonged to a boat
club, and had rowed in the “four.” He still loved the oar,
and though his racing days were past, he maintained a clean-
lined, rather unstable little craft which it was his delight to
propel rapidly with long spoon-oars whenever he needed
exercise. To-day, however, he was content to drift.
The morning was still and golden. The crispness of
late fall had infused a wine into the air. The sky was
a soft, blue-gray; the sand-hills were a dazzling yellow.
Orde did not try to think; he merely faced the situation,
staring it in the face until it should shrink to its true
significance.
One thing he felt distinctly; yet could not without a strug-
gle bring himself to see. The California lands must be
mortgaged. If he could raise a reasonable sum of money on
THE RIVERMAN 295
them, he would still be perfectly able to meet his notes.
He hated fiercely to raise that money.
It was entirely a matter of sentiment. Orde realised the
fact clearly, and browbeat his other self with a savage con-
tempt. Nevertheless his dream had been to keep the western
timber free and unencumbered—for Bobby. Dreams are
harder to give up than realities.
He fell into the deepest reflections which were broken
only when the pounding of surf warned him he had drifted
almost to the open lake. After all, there was no essential
difference between owing money to a man in Michigan
and to a man in California. That was the net result of his
struggle.
“When the time comes, we'll just borrow that money on
a long-time mortgage, like sensible people,” he said aloud,
“ and quit this everlasting Scrabbling.”
Back to town he pulled with long vigorous strokes, skit-
tering his feathered spoon-oars lightly over the tops of the
wavelets. At the slip he made fast the boat, and a few min-
utes later reëntered the office, his step springy, his face
glowing. Newmark glanced up.
“Hullo!” said he. “Back again? You look better.”
“Exercise,” said Orde, in his hearty manner. “Exercise,
old boy! You ought to try it. Greatest thing in the world.
Just took a row to the end of the piers and back, and I’m
as fit as a fiddle !”
XXXVI
RDE immediately set into motion the machinery of
O banking to borrow on the California timber. Tay-
lor took charge of this, as the only man in Mon-
rovia who had Orde's confidence. At the end of a necessary
delay Orde received notice that the West had been heard
from. He stepped across the hall to the lawyer's office.
“Well, Frank,” said he, “glad we managed to push it
through with so little trouble.”
Taylor arose, shut carefully the door into his outer office,
walked to the window, looked contemplatively out upon
the hotel backyard, and returned to his desk.
“But there is trouble,” said he curtly.
“What's the matter?” asked Orde.
“The banks refuse the loan.”
Orde stared at him in blank astonishment.
“Refuse ! ” he echoed.
“Absolutely.”
“What grounds can they possibly have for that?”
“I can't make out exactly from these advices. It’s some-
thing about the title.”
“But I thought you went over the title.”
“I did,” stated Taylor emphatically; “and I’ll stake my
reputation as a lawyer that everything is straight and clear
from the Land Office itself. I’ve wired for an explanation;
and we ought surely to know something definite by to-
morrow.”
With this uncertainty Orde was forced to be content. For
the first time in his business career a real anxiety gnawed
296
THE RIVERMAN 297
at his vitals. He had been in many tight places; but somehow
heretofore success or failure had seemed to him about im-
material, like points gained or conceded in the game; a fresh
start was always so easy, and what had been already won
as yet unreal. Now the game itself was at issue. Property,
reputation, and the family's future were at stake. When the
three had lived in the tiny house by the church, it had
seemed that no adversity could touch them. But now that
long use had accustomed them to larger quarters, servants,
luxuries, Orde could not conceive the possibility of Carroll’s
ever returning to that simplest existence. Carroll could have
told him otherwise; but of course he did not as yet bring
the possibility before her. She had economised closely, these
last few years. Orde was proud of her. He was also fiercely
resentful that his own foolishness, or untoward circum-
stances, or a combination of both should jeopardise her
future. Therefore he awaited further news with the greatest
impatience.
The message came the following day, as Taylor had pre-
dicted. Taylor handed it to him without comment.
“Land Office under investigation,” Orde read. “Fraudu-
lent entries suspected. All titles clouded until decision is
reached.”
“What do you suppose that means?” asked Orde, al-
though he knew well enough.
Taylor glanced up at his dull eyes with commisera-
tion.
“They simply won't lend good money on an uncertainty,”
said he.
“Frank,” said Orde, rousing himself with an effort, “I’ve
got to be here. I couldn't get away this winter if my life
depended on it. And I won’t even have time to pay much
attention to it from here. I want you to go to California
and look after those interests for me. Never mind your prac-
tice, man,” as Taylor tried to interrupt him. “Make what
298 THE RIVERMAN
arrangements you please; but go. It'll be like a sort of
vacation to you. You need one. And I’ll make it worth your
while. Take Clara with you. She'll like California. Now
don’t say no. It’s important. Straighten it out as quick as
you can: and the minute it is straight borrow that money on
it, and send it on p. d. q.” -
Taylor thoughtfully tapped his palm with the edge of his
eye-glasses.
“All right,” he said at last.
“Good!” cried Orde, rising and holding out his hand.
He descended the dark stairs to the street, where he
turned down toward the river. There he sat on a pile for
nearly an hour, quite oblivious to the keen wind of latter
November which swept up over the scum ice from the Lake.
At length he hopped down and made his way to the Office
of the Welton Lumber Co.
“Look here, Welton,” he demanded abruptly when he
had reached that operator's private office, “how much of
a cut are you going to make this year?” *
“About twenty million,” replied Welton. “Why?”
“Just figuring on the drive,” said Orde, nodding a fare-
well.
He had the team harnessed, and, assuming his buffalo-fur
coat, drove to the offices of all the men owning timber up
and down the river. When he had collected his statistics,
he returned to his desk, where he filled the backs of several
envelopes with his characteristically minute figures. At the
close of his calculations he nodded his head vigorously
several times.
“Joe,” he called across to his partner, “I’m going to cut
that whole forty million we have left.”
Newmark did not turn. After a moment his dry expres-
sionless voice came back.
“I thought that we figured that as a two-years'
job.”
Quite Oblivious to the Keen Wind

THE RIVERMAN 299
“We did, but I'm going to clean up the whole thing this
year.”
“Do you think you can do it?”
“Sure thing,” replied Orde. Then under his breath, and
quite to himself, he added: “I’ve got to !”
XXXVII
HE duel had now come to grapples. Orde was fight-
ing for his very life. The notes given by New-
mark & Orde would come due by the beginning
of the following summer. Before that time Orde must be
able to meet them personally, or, as by the agreement with
Newmark, his stock in the Boom Company would be turned
in to the firm. This would, of course, spell nearly a total
loss of it, as far as Orde was concerned.
The chief anxiety under which the riverman laboured,
however, was the imminent prospect of losing under the
mortgage all the Northern Peninsula timber. He had thought
that the firm would be able to step in for its redemption,
even if he personally found himself unable to meet the ob-
ligation. Three hundred million feet would seem to be too
important a matter to let go under so small a mortgage.
Now as the time approached, he realised that if he could
not pay the notes, the firm would certainly be unable to do
so. What with the second mortgage, due two years later, and
to be met by Newmark; with the outstanding obligations;
with the new enterprise of the vessels ordered from Dun-
can McLeod, Newmark & Orde would be unable to raise
anything like the necessary amount. To his personal anx-
ieties Orde added a deep and bitter self-reproach at having
involved his partner in what amounted to a total loss.
Spurred doubly by these considerations, then, he fell upon
the woods work with unparalleled ferocity. A cut and sale
of the forty million feet remaining of the firm's up-river
holdings, together with the tolls to be collected for driving
3oo
THE RIVERMAN 3Ol
the river that spring would, if everything went right and
no change in the situation took place, bring Orde through
the venture almost literally by “the skin of his teeth.” To
cut forty million feet, even in these latter days of improve-
ments then unknown, would be a task to strain to the utmost
every resource of energy, pluck, equipment and organisa-
tion. In 1880-81 the operators on the river laughed good-
humouredly over an evident madness.
Nevertheless Orde accomplished the task. To be sure he
was largely helped by a favourable winter. . The cold
weather came early and continued late. Freezing preceded
the snow, which was deep enough for good travoying and
to assure abundant freshet water in the spring, but not too
deep to interfere with the work. Orde increased his woods
force; and, contrary to his custom, he drove them merci-
lessly. He was that winter his own walking-boss, and lived
constantly in the woods. The Rough Red had charge of the
banking, where his aggressive, brutal personality kept the
rollways free from congestion. For congestion there means
delay in unloading the sleighs; and that in turn means a drag
in the woods work near the skidways at the other end of
the line. Tom North and Tim Nolan and Johnny Sims and
Jim Denning were foremen back in the forest. Every one had
an idea, more or less vague, that the Old Fellow had his back
to the wall. Late into the night the rude torches, made quite
simply from brown stone jugs full of oil and with wicks in
their necks, cast their flickering glare over the ice of the
haul-roads. And though generally in that part of Michigan
the thaws begin by the first or second week in March, this
year zero weather continued even to the eighth of April.
When the drive started, far up toward headwaters, the cut
was banked for miles along the stream, forty million feet of it
to the last timber.
The strain over, Orde slept the clock around and awoke
to the further but familiar task of driving the river. He was
3O2 THE RIVERMAN
very tired; but his spirit was at peace. As always after the
event, he looked back on his anxieties with a faint amuse-
ment over their futility.
From Taylor he had several communications. The lawyer
confessed himself baffled as to the purpose and basis of the
Land Office investigation. The whole affair appeared to be
tangled in a maze of technicalities and a snarl of red-tape
which it would take some time to unravel. In the meantime
Taylor was enjoying himself; and was almost extravagant
in his delight over the climate and attractions of Southern
California.
Orde did not much care for this delay. He saw his way
clear to meeting his obligations without the necessity of
hypothecating the California timber; and was the better
pleased for it. With the break-up of spring he started con-
fidently with the largest drive in the history of the river, a
matter of over two hundred million feet.
This tremendous mass of timber moved practically in
three sections. The first, and smallest, comprised probably
thirty millions. It started from the lowermost rollways on
the river, drove rapidly through the more unobstructed
reaches, and was early pocketed above Monrovia in the
Company’s distributing booms. The second and largest sec-
tion of a hundred million came from the main river and
its largest tributaries. It too made a safe drive; and was
brought to rest in the main booms and in a series of tem-
porary or emergency booms built along the right bank and
upstream from the main works. The third section contain-
ing a remainder of about seventy million had by the twenty-
sixth of June reached the slack water above the city of
Redding. w
-
He Fell Upon the Woods Work with Unparalleled Ferocity

XXXVIII
HE morning of June twenty-sixth dawned clear.
Orde was early on the road before the heat of the
day. He drove his buckboard rapidly over the
twelve miles that separated his home from the distributing
booms, for he wanted at Once to avoid the heat of the first
sun and to arrive at the commencement of the day's work.
After a glance at the river, he entered the tiny office and set
about the examination of the tally sheets left by the foreman.
While he was engaged in this checking, the foreman, Tom
North, entered.
“The river's rising a little,” he remarked conversationally
as he reached for the second set of tally boards.
“You’re crazy,” muttered Orde, without looking up. “It’s
clear as a bell; and there have been no rains reported from
anywhere.”
“It’s rising a little, just the same,” insisted North, going
Out.
An hour later Orde, having finished his clerical work,
walked out over the booms. The water certainly had risen;
and considerably at that. A decided current sucked through
the interstices in the piling. The penned logs moved uneasily.
“I should think it was rising !” said Orde to himself, as
he watched the slowly moving water. “I wonder what's up.
It can’t be merely those rains three days ago.”
He called one of the younger boys to him, Jimmy Powers
by name.
“Here, Jimmy,” said he, “mark one of these piles and
keep track of how fast the water rises.”
3O3
3O4. THE RIVERMAN
For some time the river remained stationary, then re-
sumed its slow increase. Orde shook his head.
“I don't like June floods,” he told Tom North. “A fellow
can understand an ordinary spring freshet, and knows about
how far it will go; but these summer floods are so con-
founded mysterious. I can’t figure out what’s struck the old
stream, unless they’re having almighty heavy rains up near
headwaters.”
By three o'clock in the afternoon Jimmy Powers reported
a rise since morning of six inches. The current had pro-
portionately increased in power.
“Tom,” said Orde to the old riverman, “I’m going to
send Marsh down for the pile-drivers and some cable. The
barge company has some fifteen inch manilla.”
North laughed.
“What in blazes do you expect to do with that?” he in-
quired.
“We may need them,” Orde stated with conviction.
“Everything's safe enough now ; and probably will continue
so; but I can't afford to take chances. If those logs ever
break through they'll go on out to Lake Michigan and there
they wouldn't be worth the salvage.”
Tom North stared at his principal in surprise.
“That’s a mighty long chance,” he commented. “Never
knew you to come so near croaking before, Jack.”
“If this drive goes out, it surely busts me,” replied Orde,
“and I’m not taking even long chances.”
Captain Marsh, returning with the Sprite, brought an
evening paper and news from the telegraph offices. A cloud-
burst in the China Creek district followed by continued
heavy rains was responsible for the increased water. The
papers mentioned this only incidentally, and in explanation.
Their columns were filled with an account of the big log
jam that had formed above the iron railroad bridge. The
planing mill's booms had given way under pressure and the
33
THE RIVERMAN 305
contents had piled down stream against the buttresses. Be-
fore steps could be taken to clear the way, the head of the
drive, hurried by the excess water, had piled in on top. Im-
mediately a jam formed, increasing in weight each moment,
until practically the entire third section had piled up back
of the bridge.
The papers occupied themselves with the picturesque side
of the affair. None expressed any anxiety as to the bridge.
It was a new structure, each of whose bents weighed over a
hundred tons. A fall of a few inches only would suffice to
lock the jam solidly, thus relieving whatever pressure the
mass exerted against the iron bridge. That the water would
shortly go down was of course inevitable at this time of
year. It would be a big jam for the rivermen to break,
however.
“Do you think you’ll go up there?” asked North.
Orde shook his head.
“They’re in a nice pickle,” he acknowledged; “but No-
lan's in charge and will do his best. I think we may have
troubles of our own right here at home.”
He slept that night at the booms. The water, contrary
to all expectation, rose steadily. By morning it had crept so
far up the piles that there began to be danger that it would
overflow their tops. In that case, of course, the logs in the
booms would also run out.
“Guess it's time we did a little work,” remarked Orde.
He set a crew of men to raising the height of the piling
by tying logs firmly to the bolted timbers atop. This would
take care of an extra two feet of water; a two feet beyond
all previous records. Another crew stretched the fifteeri
inch manilla cables across the field of logs in order to segre-
gate them into several units of mass, and so prevent them
from piling up at the down-stream end of the enclosure.
The pile-driver began to drop its hammer at spots of weak-
ness. In spite of the accelerated current and the increased
306 THE RIVERMAN
volume of the river, everything was soon shipshape and
safe.
“We’re all right now,” said Orde. “The only thing
I'm a little uneasy about is those confounded temporary
booms upstream. Still they’re all right unless they get to
piling up. Then we’ll have to see what we can do to hold
them. I think as soon as the driver is through down at the
sorting end, she'd better drive a few clumps of piles to
strengthen the swing when it is shut. Then if the logs pile
down on us from above, we can hold them there.”
About two hours later the pile-driver moved up. The
swing was opened; and the men began to drive clumps of
piles in such a position as to strengthen the swing when the
latter should be shut. It was a slow job. Each pile had to be
taken from the raft at the stern of the scow, erected in the
“carrier,” and pounded into place by the heavy hammer
raised and let drop in the derrick at the bow.
Long before the task was finished, the logs in the tem-
porary booms had begun to slide atop one another, to cross
and tangle, until at last the river bed inside the booms was
filled with a jam of formidable dimensions. From beneath
it the water boiled in eddies. Orde, looking at it, roused
himself to sudden activity.
“Get a move on,” he advised Captain Aspinwall of the
driver. “If that jam breaks on us, we want to be ready;
and if it don't break before you get this swing strengthened,
maybe we can hold her where she is. There's no earthly
doubt that those boom piles will never stand up when they
get the full pressure of the freshet.”
He departed up river on a tour of inspection from which
he returned almost immediately.
“Hurry up! Hurry up!” he cried. “She can't last much
longer l’” f
Indeed even to the men on the pile-driver, evidences of
the pressure sustained by the slender boom piles were not
THE RIVERMAN 307
wanting. Above the steady gurgle of the water and the
intermittent puffing and other noises of the work, they could
hear a creaking and groaning of timbers full of portent
to those who could read the signs.
The driver's crew laboured desperately, hoisting the piles
into the carriage, tripping the heavy hammer, sending it
aloft again, binding feverishly the clumps of piles together
by means of cables. Each man worked with an eye over his
shoulder, fearful of the power that menaced him.
Two of the clumps had been placed and bound; a third
was nearly finished, when suddenly, with a crack and a
roar the upper booms gave way, projecting their logs upon
the opening and the driver.
The half dozen members of the crew, caught utterly
unaware in spite of the half warning they had been re-
ceiving for an hour past, were scattered by the winds of
a panic. Two or three flung themselves on their faces; sev-
eral ran from one end of the scow to the other; one leaped
into the river ! Imminent destruction seemed upon them.
Tom North, at the winch that operated the arm of the
swing, however, retained his présence of mind. At the first
sag outward of the boom piles he set in operation the
machinery that closed the gate. Clumsy and slow as was his
mechanism, he nevertheless succeeded in getting the long
arm started. The logs, rushing in back of it, hurried it shut.
Immediately they jammed again, and heaped up in a for-
midable tangle behind the barrier. Tom North, his little
black pipe between his teeth, stood calm, the lever of his
winch in his hand. A short three feet from the spot on which
he stood, the first saw log of the many that might have
overwhelmed him thrust forward its ugly head. The wash
of the water lifted the huge pile-driver bodily and deposited
it with a crash half on the bank and half in the water.
Instantly after the first break Orde had commenced run-
ning out over the booms from the shore.
\–
308 THE RIVERMAN
ſº
“Good boy, Tom l’’ he shot at North as he passed.
Across the breast of the jam he hurried, and to the other
bank where the pile-driver lay. The crew had recovered from
their panic, and were ashore gazing curiously underneath
the scow. Captain Aspinwall examined the supports of the
derrick on deck. -
“That was lucky,” said Orde briefly to Aspinwall.
“How's the damage? Stove you in P”
“I—I don’t think so,” replied the captain, turning a rather
perturbed face to Orde.
“That's good. I’ll send over the tug to help get her
afloat. We’ve got our work cut out for us now. As soon as
you’re afloat, blow your whistle and I’ll come over to tell
you what to do.”
“You don't expect me to work my driver under the face
of that jam l’ cried the captain.
“Certainly,” snapped Orde, wheeling.
“Not me!” said Aspinwall positively. “I know when I’ve
got enough !”
“What's the matter?” asked Orde.
“It isn't safe,” replied the captain; “and I don’t intend
to risk my men or my driver.”
Orde stood for a moment stock-still; then with a snort
of anger he leaped to the deck, seized the man by the neck
and thrust him bodily over the side to the bank.
“Safe, you white-livered skunk l’ he roared. “Safe! Go
over in the middle of that ten-acre lot and lie down on your
face and see if you feel safe there ! Get out; the whole pack
of you ! I’m in charge here now.”
Captain Aspinwall picked himself up, his face red with
anger. -
“Get off my driver,” he snarled. “Put that man off.”
Orde seized a short heavy bar.
“This driver is requisitioned,” said he. “Get out! I
haven’t time to fool with you. I’ve got to save my logs.”
THE RIVERMAN 309
They hesitated; and while they did so Tom North and
some others of the crew came running across the jam. -
“Get a cable to the winch,” Orde shouted at these as
soon as they were within hearing. “And get Marsh up here
with the Sprite. We've got to get afloat.”
He paid no more attention to the ejected crew. The latter,
overawed by the rivermen, who now gathered in full force,
took the part of spectators.
A few minutes’ hard work put the driver afloat. For-
tunately its raft of piles had not become detached in the
upheaval.
“Tom,” said Orde briskly to North, “you know the pile-
driver business. Pick out your crew, and take charge.”
In ten seconds of time the situation had changed from
one of comparative safety to one of extreme gravity. The
logs, broken loose from the upper temporary booms, now
jammed against the Swing and against the other logs already
filling the main booms. Already the pressure was beginning
to tell, as the water banked up behind the mass. The fifteen-
inch cables tightened slowly but mightily; some of the piles
began to groan and rub one against the other; here and
there a log deliberately up-ended above the level.
Orde took charge of the situation in its entirety, as a gen-
eral might. He set North immediately to driving clumps
each of sixteen piles, bound to solidity by chains, and so
arranged in angles and slants as to direct the enormous
pressure toward either bank, thus splitting the enemy's
power. The small driver owned by the Boom Company drove
similar clumps here, there and everywhere that need arose
or weakness developed. Seventy-five men opposed, to the
weight of twenty million tons of logs and a river of water,
the expedients invented by determination and desperation.
As in a virulent disease, the symptoms developed rapidly
when once the course of the malady was assured. After the
first rush, when the upper booms broke, nothing spectacular
31o THE RIVERMAN
occurred. Steadily and relentlessly the logs, packed close
together down to the very bed of the stream, pressed out-
ward against the frail defences. Orde soon found him-
self forced from the consideration of definite plans
of campaign. He gave over formal defences, and threw
his energies to saving the weak places which rapidly
developed. By the most tremendous exertions he seemed
but just able to keep even. So closely balanced was
the equilibrium between the improvisation of defence and
the increase of pressure behind the jam that it seemed
as if even a moment's breathing spell would bring the
deluge. Piles quivered, bent slowly outward—immediately,
before the logs behind them could stir, the pile-driver must
do its work. Back and forth darted the Sprite and her
sister-tug the Spray towing the pile-drivers or the strings
of piles. Under the frowning destruction that a breath might
loosen, the crews had to do their work. And if ever that
breath should come, there would be no chance for escape.
Crushed and buried, the men and their craft alike would be
borne with the breaking jam to an unknown grave in the
Lake. Every man knew it.
Darkness came. No one stopped for food. By the light
of lanterns the struggle went on, doubly terrifying in the
mystery of night. By day the men, practised in such matters,
could at least judge of the probabilities of a break. At night
they had to work blindly, uncertain at what moment the
forces they could not see would cut loose to overwhelm
them.
Morning found no change in the situation. The water rose
steadily; the logs grew more and more restive; the defences
weaker and more inadequate. Orde brought out steaming
pails of coffee which the men gulped down between mo-
ments. No one thought of quitting. They were afire with
the flame of combat, and were set obstinately on winning
even in the face of odds. About ten o'clock they were rein-
THE RIVERMAN 31 1
forced by men from the mills downstream. The owners
of those mills had no mind to lose their logs. Another
pile-driver was also sent up from the Government work.
Without this assistance the jam must surely have gone out.
Spectators marvelled how it held as it did. The mass seemed
constantly to quiver on the edge of motion. Here and there
over the surface of the jam single logs could be seen pop-
ping suddenly into the air, propelled as an apple seed is
projected from between a boy’s thumb and forefinger. Some
of the fifteen-inch cables stretched to the shore parted. One,
which passed once around an oak tree before reaching its
shore anchorage, actually buried itself out of sight in the
hard wood. Bunches of piles bent, twisted, or were cut off
as though they had been but shocks of Indian corn. The
current had become so swift that the tugs could not hold
the drivers against it; and as a consequence, before com-
mencing operations, special mooring piles had to be driven.
Each minute threatened to bring an end to the jam, yet
it held; and without rest the dogged little insects under
its face toiled to gain an inch on the waters.
XXXIX
LL that day and the next night the fight was hand
A to hand, without the opportunity of a breathing
space. Then Orde, bareheaded and dishevelled,
strung to a high excitement, but cool as a veteran under fire,
began to be harassed by annoyances. The piles provided for
the drivers gave out. Newmark left, ostensibly to purchase
more. He did not return. Tom North and Jim Denning, their
eyes burning deep in their heads for lack of sleep, came to
Orde holding to him symbolically their empty hands.
“No more piles,” they said briefly.
“Get 'em,” said Orde with equal brevity. “Newmark will
have enough here shortly. In the meantime, get them.”
North and his friend disappeared, taking with them the
crews of the drivers and the two tugs. After an interval
they returned towing small rafts of the long timbers. Orde
did not make any inquiries; nor until days later did he
see a copy of the newspaper telling how a lawless gang of
rivermen had driven away the railroad men and stolen the
railroad's property. These piles lasted five or six hours.
Tom North placed and drove them accurately and deliber-
ately, quite unmindful of the constant danger. A cold fire
seemed to consume the man, inflaming his courage and his
dogged obstinacy. Once a wing of the jam broke suddenly
just as his crew had placed a pile in the carrier. The scow
was picked up, whirled around, carried bodily a hundred
feet, and deposited finally with a crash. The instant the
craft steadied and even before any one could tell whether
or no the danger was past, Tom cut loose the hammer and
drove that pile !
3I2
THE RIVERMAN 313
“I put you in that carrier to be drove 1° he shouted
viciously, “and drove you’ll be, if we are goin’ to hell!”
When the Spray shouldered the scow back to position
that one pile was left standing upright in the channel, a
monument to the blind determination of the man.
Fortunately the wing break carried with it but a few
logs; but it sufficed to show, if demonstration were need-
ed, what would happen if any more serious break should
OCC111. -
Orde was everywhere. Long since he had lost his hat;
and over his forehead and into his eyes the strands of his
hair whipped tousled and unkempt. Miles and miles he
travelled; running along the tops of the booms, over the
surface of the jam, spying the weakening places, and hurry-
ing to them a rescue. He seemed tireless, omnipresent, alive
to every need. It was as though his personality alone held
in correlation these struggling forces; as though were he
to relax for an instant his effort they would burst forth
with the explosion of long-pent energies.
Toward noon the piles gave out again.
“Where in hell is Newmark l’ exploded Orde, and im-
mediately was himself again, controlled and resourceful.
He sent North and a crew of men to cut piles from standing
timber in farm wood lots near the river.
“Haul them out with your winch,” said he. “If the own-
ers object, stand them off with your peavies. Get them
anyway.”
About three of the afternoon the Lucy Belle splattered
up stream from the village, carrying an excursion to see
the jam. Captain Simpson brought her as close in as pos-
sible. The waves raised by her awkward paddle-wheel
and her clumsy lines surged among the logs and piles.
Orde looked on this with distrust.
“Go tell him to pull out of that,” he instructed Jimmy
Powers. “The confounded old fool ought to know better
314 THE RIVERMAN
than that. Tell him it's dangerous. If the jam goes out, it'll
carry him to Kingdom Come.”
Jimmy Powers returned red-faced from his interview.
“He told me to go to hell,” he said shortly.
“Oh, he did,” snapped Orde. “I should think we had
enough without that old idiot!”
With the short nervous leaps of a suppressed anger he
ran down to where the Sprite had just towed the Number
One driver into a new position.
“Lay me alongside the Lucy Belle,” he told Marsh.
But Simpson, in a position of importance at last, was
disinclined to listen. He had worn his blue clothes and brass
buttons for a good many years in charge only of boxes and
barrels. Now at a stroke he found himself commander over
tenscore people. Likewise, at fifty cents a head, he foresaw
a good thing as long as high water should last. He had risen
nobly to the occasion; for he had even hoisted his bunting
and brought with him the local brass band. Orde, brusque
in his desire to hurry through an affair of minor importance,
rubbed the man the wrong way.
“I reckon I’ve some rights on this river,” Captain Simp-
son concluded the argument, “ and I ain't agoin’ to be bull-
dozed out of them.”
The excursionists, typical “trippers ” from Redding, Hol-
land, Monrovia and Muskegon, cheered this sentiment and
jeered at Orde.
Orde nodded briefly.
“Marsh,” said he to his captain in a low voice,
crew and take them in charge. Run 'em off.”
As soon as the tug touched the piling, he was off and
away, paying no further attention to a matter already set-
tled. Captain Marsh called a dozen rivermen to him; laid
the Sprite alongside the Lucy Belle, and in spite of Simp-
Son's scandalised protests and an incipient panic among
the passengers, thrust aside the regular crew of the steam-
&
‘get a
THE RIVERMAN 315
ship and took charge. Quite calmly he surveyed the scene.
From the height of the steamer's bridge he could see abroad
over the country. A warm June sun flooded the landscape
which was filled with the peace of early summer. The
river seemed to flow smoothly and quietly enough, in spite
of the swiftness of its current and the swollen volume of
its waters. Only up stream where the big jam shrugged and
groaned did any element jar on the peace of the scene; and
even that, in contrast to the rest of the landscape, afforded
small hint to the inexperienced eye of the imminence of a
mighty destruction.
Captain Marsh paid little attention to all this. His eye
swept rapidly up and down where the banks used to be
until he saw a cross current deeper than the rest sweeping
in athwart the inundated fields. He swung over the wheel
and rang to the engine-room for half speed ahead. Slowly
the Lucy Belle answered. Quite calmly Captain Marsh
rammed her through the opening and out over the corn-
fields. The Lucy Belle was a typical river steamboat, built
light in the draught in order to slide over the numerous
shifting bars to be encountered in her customary business.
When Captain Marsh saw that he had hit the opening, he
rang for full speed, and rammed the poor old Lucy Belle
hard aground in about a foot of water through which a
few mournful dried cornstalks were showing their heads.
Then, his hands in his pockets, he sauntered out of the
pilot-house to the deck.
“Now if you want to picnic,” he told the astonished and
frightened excursionists, “go to it!”
With entire indifference to the water, he vaulted over
the low rail and splashed away. The rivermen and the en-
gineer who had accompanied him lingered only long enough
to start up the band.
“Now you're safe as a cow tied to a brick wall,” said
the Rough Red, whose appearance alone had gone far
316 THE RIVERMAN
toward overawing the passengers. “Be joyful. Start up the
music. Start her up, I tell you!”
The band hastily began to squawk, very much out of
time, and somewhat out of tune.
“That's right,” grinned the Rough Red savagely, “keep
her up. If you quit before I get back to work, I’ll come back
and take you apart.”
They waded through the shallow water in the cornfield.
After them wafted the rather disorganised strains of Whoa,
Emma. Captain Simpson was indulging in what resembled
heat apoplexy. After a time the Lucy Belle’s crew recovered
their scattered wits sufficiently to transport the passengers
in small boats to a point near the county road, whence all
trudged to town. The Lucy Belle grew in the cornfield
until several weeks later, when time was found to pull her
off on rollers.
Arrived at the booms Captain Marsh shook the loose
water from his legs.
“All right, sir,” he reported to Orde. “I ran 'em ashore
yonder.”
Orde looked up, brushing the hair from his eyes. He
glanced in the direction of the cornfield, and a quick grin
flickered across the absorbed expression of his face.
“I should think you did,” said he briefly. “I guess that'll
end the excursion business. Now take Number Two up be-
low the swing; and then run down and see if you can
discover Tom. He went somewhere after piles about an
hour ago.” #
Down river the various mill owners were busy with what
men they had left in stringing defences across the river in
case Orde's works should go out. When Orde heard this he
swore vigourously.
“Crazy fools,” he spat out. “They’d be a lot better off
helping here. If this goes out, their little booms won't
amount to a whiff of wind.”
---
After Them Wafted the Rather Disorganised Strains of
“Whoa, Emma /*
º
of .
- º 5.

THE RIVERMAN 317
He sent word to that effect; but, lacking the enforcement
of his personal presence his messages did not carry con-
viction, and the panic-stricken owners continued to labour,
each according to his ideas, on what Orde's clearer vision
saw to be a series of almost comical futilities. However,
Welton answered the summons. Orde hailed his coming
with a shout.
“I walt a dredge,” he yelled, as soon as the lumberman
was within distance. “I believe we can relieve the pressure
Somewhat by a clºannel into Stearn's Fayou. Get that Gov-
ernment dredge up and through the bayou as soon as you
can.”
“All right,” said Welton briefly. “Can you hold
ner P’’
“I’ve got to hold her,” replied Orde between his clenched
teeth. “Have you seen Newmark? Where in hell is New-
mark? I need him for fifty things, and he's disappeared
off the face of the earth ! Purdy! that second cable ! She's
snapped a strand ' Get a reinforcing line on her l’” He ran
in the direction of the new danger without another thought
of Welton.
By the late afternoon casual spectators from the country-
side had gathered in some number. The bolder or more
curious of these added a further touch of anxiety to the
situation by clambering out over the jam for a better view.
Orde issued instructions that these should keep off the logs;
but in spite of that, with the impertinent perseverance of the
sight-seer, many persisted from time to time, when the river-
men were too busily engaged to attend to them, in venturing
out where they were not only in danger but also in the way.
Tom North would have none of this on his pile-driver. If
a man was not actually working, he had no business on
Number One.
“But,” protested a spectator mildly, “I own this driver.
I haven't any objections to your grabbing her in this emer-
318 THE RIVERMAN
gency, even if you did manhandle my captain; but surely
you are not going to keep me off my own property?”
“I don't give a tinker's damn who you are,” replied
North sturdily. “If you're not working, you get off.”
And get off he did.
The broad deck of the pile-driver scow was a tempting
point from which to survey the work, and the ugly jam, and
the water boiling angrily, and the hollow-eyed, Cishevelled
maniacs who worked doggedly with set teeth as though they
had not already gone without two nights’ sleep. North
had often to order ashore intruders, until his temper short-
ened to the vanishing point. One big hulking countryman
attempted to argue the point. North promptly knocked him
overboard into the shallow water between the driver and
the bank. He did not rise; so North fished for him in the
most matter-of-fact way with a boat hook, threw him on the
bank unconscious, and went on driving piles! The incident
raised a laugh among the men.
But flesh and blood has its limit of endurance; and that
limit was almost reached. Orde heard the first premonitions
of reaction in the mild grumblings that arose. He knew
these men well from his long experience with them. Al-
though the need for struggle against the tireless dynamics
of the river was as insistent as ever; although it seemed
certain that a moment’s cessation of effort would permit
the enemy an irretrievable gain, he called a halt on the
whole work.
“Boys,” said he, irrelevantly, “let’s have a smoke.”
He set the example by throwing himself full length
against a slanting pile and most leisurely filling his pipe.
The men stared a moment; then followed his example. A
great peace of evening filled the sky. The horizon lay low
and black against the afterglow. Beneath it the river
shone like silver. Only the groaning, the heave and
shrugging of the jam, and the low threatening gurgle of
THE RIVERMAN 319
hurrying waters reminded the toil-weary men of the enemy's
continued activity. Over beyond the rise of land that lay
between the river and Stearn's Bayou could be seen the
cloud of mingled smoke and steam that marked the activi-
ties of the dredge. For ten minutes they rested in the so-
lace of tobacco. Orde was apparently more at ease than
any of the rest, but each instant he expected to hear the pre-
monitory crack that would sound the end of everything.
Finally he yawned, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and
got to his feet.
“Now,” said he, a new ring in his voice, “come on and
let’s get something done!” \
They responded to a man.
XL
Y midnight the water seemed to have gone down
B slightly. Half the crew snatched a little sleep. For
several hours more the issue hung aggravatingly
in equilibrium. Then, with the opening of the channel into
Stearn's Bayou the heaviest pressure was relieved. For the
moment the acute danger point was passed. -
Orde spent the next two days in strengthening the de-
fences. The men were able to take their quota of meals and
of sleep. Merely the working hours were longer than usual.
Orde himself slept little, and was still possessed by a fev-
erish activity. The flood continued at about the same volume.
Until the water should subside, the danger could not be
considered completely over with.
In these few days of comparative leisure Orde had time
to look about him and to receive news. The jam had been
successfully held at the iron railroad bridge above Redding;
but only by the most strenuous efforts. Braces of oak beams
had been slanted where they would do the most good; chains
strengthened the weaker spots; and on top of all ton after
ton of railroad iron held the whole immovably. Nolan had
enjoyed the advantage of a “floating ” jam ; of convenient
facilities incident to a large city; and of an aroused public
sentiment that proffered him all the help he could use.
Monrovia, little village that it was, had not grasped the situ-
ation. Redding saw it clearly. The loss of the timber alone
—representing some millions of dollars’ worth of the sawed
product—would mean failure of mill companies, of banks
holding their paper, and so of firms in other lines of busi-
ness; and besides would throw thousands of men out of
32O
THE RIVERMAN 321
employment. Furthermore, what was quite as serious, should
the iron bridge give way, the wooden bridges below could
hardly fail to go out. Railroad communication between
eastern and western Michigan would be entirely cut off.
For a season industry of every description would be prac-
tically paralysed. Therefore Nolan had all the help he re-
quired. Every device known was employed to strengthen
the jam. For only a few hours was the result in doubt.
Then as the Clarion jubilantly expressed it, “It’s a hundred
dollars to an old hat she holds!”
Orde received all this with satisfaction, but with a slight
scepticism.
“It’s a floating jam ; and it gets a push from underneath,”
he pointed out. “It’s probably safe; but another flood might
send it out.”
“The floods are going down,” said North.
“Good Lord; I hope so !” said Orde.
Newmark sent word that a sudden fit of sickness had
confined him to the house. .
“Didn't think of a little thing like piles,” said Orde to
himself. “Well, that's hardly fair. Joe couldn’t have realised
when he left here just how bad things were.”
For two days, as has been said, nothing happened. Then
Orde decided to break out a channel through the jam itself.
This was a necessary preliminary to getting the logs in
shape for distribution. An opening was made in the piles,
and the rivermen, with pike-pole and peavy, began cautious-
ly to dig their way through the tangled timbers. The Gov-
ernment pile-driver, which had finally been sent up from
below, began placing five extra booms at intervals down
stream to capture the drift as fast as it was turned loose.
From the mills and private booms crews came to assist in
the labour. The troubles appeared to be quite over, when
word came from Redding that the waters were again rising.
Ten minutes later Leopold Lincoln Bunn, the local reporter,
322 THE RIVERMAN
came flapping in on Randall's old white horse, like a second
Paul Revere, crying that the iron bridge had gone, and the
logs were racing down river toward the booms.
“It just went out !” he answered the eager exclamations
of the men who crowded around him. “That's all I know. It
went out! And the other bridges Sure! All but the Lake
Shore! Don't know why that didn't go out. No ; the logs
didn’t jam there; just slid right under l’’
“That settles it,” said Welton, turning away.
“You aren't going to quit!” cried Orde.
“Certainly. You're crazy!” said Welton with some as-
perity. “If they can’t stop a little jam with iron, what are
your wooden defences going to amount to against the whole
accumulation? When those logs hit the tail of this jam,
she’ll go out before you can wink.”
He refused to listen to argument.
“It’s sure death,” said he, “ and I’m not going to sacri-
fice my men for nothing, even if they’d stay.”
Other owners among the bystanders said the same thing.
An air of profound discouragement had fallen on them all.
The strain of the fight was now telling. The utmost that
human flesh and blood was capable of had been accom-
plished; a hard-won victory had been gained by the nar-
rowest of narrow margins. In this new struggle the old odds
were still against them, and in addition the strength that
had pushed aside Redding's best effort, augmented by the
momentum of a powerful current. It was small wonder they
gave up.
Already the news was spreading among the workers on
the jams. As man shouted to man, each shouldered his
peavy and came running ashore, eager question on his lips.
Orde saw the Government driver below casting loose from
her moorings. A moment later her tug towed her away to
some side bayou of safety out of the expected rush to the
Lake. “
THE RIVERMAN 323
“But we can hold her l’’ cried Orde in desperation.
“Have a little nerve with you. You aren't going to quit
like that l” -
He swept them with his eye; then turned away from them
with a gesture of despair. They watched him gravely and
silently.
“It’s no use, boy,” said old Carlin; “it’s sure death.”
“Sure death !” Orde laughed bitterly. “All right; sure
death, then. Isn’t there a man in this crowd that will tackle
this sort of sure death with me?”
“I’m with you.” “And me,” said North and the Rough
Red in a breath.
“Good!” cried Orde. “You, too, Johnny Sims? and
Purdy? and Jimmy Powers? Bully boys!”
“I reckon you’ll need the tug,” said Marsh.
A dozen more of Orde's personal following volunteered.
At once his good humour returned; and his easy leisurely
confidence in himself.
“We’ve got to close that opening, first thing,” said he.
“Marsh, tow the pile-driver up there.”
He caused a heavy line to be run from a tree, situated
around the bend down stream, to the stern of the driver.
“Now if you have to,” he told North, who had charge,
“let go all holds, and the line will probably swing you
around out of danger. We on the tug will get out as best
we can.”
The opening was to be closed by piles driven in groups
of sixteen bound together by chains. The clumps were con-
nected one to the other by a system of boom logs and ropes
to interpose a continuous barrier. The pile-driver placed
the clumps; while the tug attended to the connecting de-
fences.
“Now, boys,” said Orde as his last word, “if she starts
to go, save yourselves the best way you can. Never mind
the driver. Stay on top 1 °
324. THE RIVERMAN
Slowly the tug and her consort nosed up through the
boiling water.
“She’s rising already,” said Orde to Marsh, watching the
water around the piles.
“Yes, and that jam's going out before many minutes,”
supplemented the tugboat captain grimly.
Both these statements were only too true. Although not
fifteen minutes before, the jam had lain locked in perfect
safety, now the slight rise of the waters had lifted and
loosened the mass until it rose fairly on the quiver.
“Work fast! ” Orde called to the men on the pile-driver.
“If we can close the opening before those Redding logs
hit us, we may be able to turn them into our new channel.”
He did not add that if the opening were not closed before
the jam broke, as break it would in a very few moments,
the probabilities were that both pile-driver and tug would
be destroyed. Every man knew that already.
Tom North ordered a pile placed in the carriage; the
hammer descended. At once, like battering rams logs began
to shoot up from the depths of the river end foremost all
about them. These timbers were projected with tremendous
force, leaping sometimes half their length above the surface
of the water. If any of them had hit either the tug or the
pile-driver Squarely, it would have stove and sunk the craft.
Fortunately this did not happen; but Marsh hastily towed
the scow back to a better position. The pile had evidently
been driven into the foot of the jam itself, thus loosening
timbers lying at the bottom of the river.
The work went forward as rapidly as possible. Four times
the jam shrugged and settled; but four times it paused on
the brink of discharge. Three of the clumps had been placed
and bound; and fifteen piles of the last clump had been
driven.
“One more pile !” breathed Orde, his breath quickening
a trifle as he glanced up stream.
THE RIVERMAN 325
The hammer in the high derrick ran smoothly to the top,
paused, and fell. A half dozen times more it ripped. Then
without delay the heavy chains were thrown around the
winch, and the steam power began to draw the clumps to-
gether. g
“Done!” cried Tom North, straightening his back.
“And a job in time, too,” said Johnny Sims, indicating
the creaking and tottering jam.
North unmoored, and the driver dropped back with the
current and around the bend where she was snubbed by
the safety line already mentioned.
Immediately the tug churned forward to accomplish the
last duty, that of binding the defences together by means of
chains and cables. Two men leaped to the floating booms
and moved her fore and aft. Orde and the Rough Red set
about the task. Methodically they worked from either end
toward the middle. When they met finally, Orde directed his
assistant to get aboard the tug.
“I’ll tie this one, Jimmy,” said he.
Aboard the tug all was tense preparation. Marsh grasped
alertly the spokes of the wheel. In the engine-room Harvey,
his hand on the throttle, stood ready to throw her wide open
at the signal. Armed with sharp axes two men prepared to
cut the mooring lines on a sign from the Rough Red. They
watched his upraised hand. When it should descend, their
axes must fall.
“Look out,” the Rough Red warned Orde, who was me-
thodically tying the last cumbersome knot, “ she's getting
ready!”
Orde folded the knot over without reply. Up stream the
jam creaked, groaned, settled deliberately forward, cutting
a clump of piles like straw.
“She's coming !” cried the Rough Red.
“Give me every second you can,” said Orde, without look-
ing up. He was just making the last turns.
326 THE RIVERMAN
The mass toppled slowly, fell into the swift current, and
leaped with a roar. The Rough Red watched with cat-like
attention.
“Jump!” he cried at last, and his right arm descended.
With the shout and the motion several things happened
simultaneously. Orde leaped blindly for the rail, where he
was seized and dragged aboard by the Rough Red; the axes
fell, Marsh whirled over the wheel, Harvey threw open his
throttle. The tug sprang from its leash like a hound. And
behind the barrier the logs, tossing and tumbling, the white
spray flying before their onslaught, beat in vain against the
barrier, like raging wild beasts whose prey has escaped.
“Close call,” said Orde briefly.
“Bet you,” replied Marsh.
Neither referred to the tug's escape; but to the fortunate
closing of the opening.
XLI
cently dredged to Stearn's Bayou the mass of
the logs racing down stream from Redding. He
estimated that he had still two hours or so in which to do
the work. In this time he succeeded by the severest efforts
in establishing a rough shunt into the new channel. The
logs would come down running free. Only the shock of their
impact against the tail of the jam already formed was to
be feared. Orde hoped to be able to turn the bulk of them
aside.
This at first he succeeded in doing; and very successfully
as affecting the pressure on the jam below. The first logs
came scattering. Then in a little while the surface of the
river was covered with them; they shouldered each other
aside in their eagerness to outstrip the rushing water; finally
they crowded down more slowly, hardly able to make their
way against the choking of the river banks, but putting forth
in the very effort to proceed a tremendous power. To the
crew working in the channel dredged through to Stearn's
Bayou the affair was that of driving a rather narrow and
swift stream, only exaggerated. By quick and skilful work
they succeeded in keeping the logs in motion. A large pro-
portion of the timbers found their way into the bayou. Those
that continued on down the river could hardly have much
effect on the jam.
The work was breathless in its speed. From one to an-
other sweat-bathed, panting man the logs were handed on.
As yet only the advance of the big jam had arrived at the
dredged channel.
O'; now took steps to deflect into the channel re-
327
328 THE RIVERMAN
Orde looked about him and realised this.
“We can't keep this up when the main body hits us,” he
panted to his neighbour, Jim Denning. “We’ll have to
do some more pile-driver work.”
He made a rapid excursion to the boom camp, whence he
returned with thirty or forty of the men who had given up
work on the jam below.
“Here, boys,” said he, “you can at least keep these logs
moving in this channel for a couple of hours. This isn't
dangerous.”
He spoke quite without sarcastic intent; but the rivermen,
already over their first panic, looked at each other a trifle
shamefacedly.
“I’ll tie into her wherever you say,” said one big fellow.
“If you fellows are going back to the jam, I’m with you.”
Two or three more volunteered. The remainder said noth-
ing, but in silence took charge of the dredged channel.
Orde and his men now returned to the jam where, on the
pile-driver, the tugs, and the booms, they set methodically to
strengthening the defences as well as they were able.
“She’s holding strong and dandy,” said Orde to Tom
North, examining critically the clumps of piles. “That
channel helps a lot in more ways than one. It takes an awful
lot of water out of the river. As long as those fellows keep
the logs moving, I really believe we’re all right.”
But shortly the water began to rise again, this time fairly
by leaps. In immediate response the jam increased its pres-
sure. For the hundredth time the frail wooden defences op-
posed to millions of pounds were tested to the very extreme
of their endurance. The clumps of piles sagged outward; the
network of chains and cables tightened and tightened again,
drawing ever nearer the snapping point. Suddenly, almost
without warning, the situation had become desperate.
And for the first time Orde completely lost his poise and
became fluently profane. He shook his fist against the mena-
THE RIVERMAN 329
cing logs; he apostrophised the river, the high water, the
jam, the deserters, Newmark and his illness, ending finally
in a general anathema against any and all streams, logs, and
floods. Then he stormed away to see if anything had gone
wrong at the dredged channel.
“Well,” said Tom North, “they’ve got the old man real
good and mad this time.”
The crew went on driving piles, stringing cables, binding
chains, although, now that the inspiration of Orde's com-
bative spirit was withdrawn the labours seemed useless,
futile, a mere filling in of the time before the supreme mo–
ment when they would be called upon to pay the sacrifice
their persistence and loyalty had proffered for the altar of
self-respect and the invincibility of the human soul.
At the dredged channel Orde saw the rivermen standing
idle, and, half-blind with anger; he burst upon them de-
manding by this, that and the other what they meant. Then
he stopped short and stared. &
Square across the dredged channel and completely block-
ing it lay a single span of an iron bridge. Although twisted
and misshapen, it was still intact, the framework of its
overhead truss-work retaining its cage-like shape. Behind
it the logs had of course piled up in a jam, which, sinking
rapidly to the bed of the channel, had dammed back the
Water. g
“Where in hell did that drop from ?” cried Orde.
“Come down on top the jam,” explained a riverman.
“Must have come way from Redding. We just couldn’t
scare her out of here.”
Orde, suddenly fallen into a cold rage, stared at the ob-
struction, both fists clenched at his side.
“Too bad, boy,” said Welton at his elbow. “But don’t
take it too hard. You've done more than any of the rest
of us could. And we’re all losers together.”
Orde looked at him strangely.
33O THE RIVERMAN
“That about settles it,” repeated Welton.
“Settle !” cried Orde. “I should think not.”
Welton Smiled quaintly.
“Don’t you know when you’re licked?”
“Licked, hell!” said Orde. “We’ve just begun to fight.”
“What can you do?”
“Get that bridge span out of there, of course.”
&&. How P 99
“Can't we blow her up with powder?”
“Ever try to blow up iron?”
“There must be some way.”
“Oh, there is,” replied Welton. “Of course—take her
apart bolt by bolt and nut by nut.”
“Send for the wrenches, then,” snapped Orde.
“But it would take two or three days, even working night
and day.”
“What of it?”
“But it would be too late—it would do no good—”
“Perhaps not,” interrupted Orde; “but it will be doing
something, anyway. Look here, Welton, are you game? If
you’ll get that bridge out in two days I’ll hold the jam.”
“You can’t hold that jam two hours, let alone two days,”
said Welton decidedly.
“That's my business. You're wasting time. Will you send
for lanterns and wrenches and keep this crew working?”
“I will,” said Welton.
“Then do it.”
During the next two days the old scenes were all relived,
with back of them the weight of the struggle that had gone
before. The little crew worked as though mad. Excepting
them, no one ventured on the river, for to be caught in the
imminent break meant to die. Old spars, refuse timbers of
all sorts—anything and everything was requisitioned that
might help form an obstruction above or below water. Piles
were taken where they could be found. Farmer's trees were
THE RIVERMAN 331
cut down. Pines belonging to divers and protesting owners
were felled and sharpened. Some were brought in by rail.
Even the inviolate Government supply was commandeered.
The Railroad Company had a fine lot which, with re-
markable shortsightedness and lack of public spirit, they
refused to sell at any price. The crew took them by force.
Once Captain Marsh was found up to his waist in water,
himself felling the trees of a wood, and dragging them to
the river by a cable attached to the winch of his tug. Night
followed day; and day night again. None of the crews real-
ised the fact. The men were caught in the toils of a labour
teaseless and eternal. Never would it end, just as never had
it begun. Always were they to handle piles, steam hammers
and the implements of their trade, menaced by a jam on the
point of breaking, wet by a swollen and angry flood, over-
arched by a clear calm sky or by the twinkling peaceful stars.
Long since had they ceased to reckon with the results of
what they did, the consequences either to themselves or to
the jam. Mechanically they performed their labour. Per-
haps the logs would kill them. Perhaps these long, black,
dripping piles they drove were having some effect on the
situation. Neither possibility mattered. \
Then all at once, as though a faucet had been turned off,
the floods slackened.
“They’ve opened the channel,” said Orde dully. His voice
sounded to himself very far away. Suddenly the external
world, too, seemed removed to a distance, far from his
centre of consciousness. He felt himself moving in strange
and distorted surroundings; he heard himself repeating to
each of a number of wavering, gigantic figures the talis-
manic words that had accomplished the dissolution of the
earth for himself: “They’ve opened the channel.” At last
he felt hard planks beneath his feet, and, shaking his head
with an effort, he made out the pilot-house of the Sprite
and a hollow-eyed man leaning against it. “They’ve opened
332 THE RIVERMAN
the channel, Marsh,” he repeated. “I guess that'll be all.”
Then quite slowly he sank to the deck, sound asleep.
Welton, returning from his labours with the iron bridge
and the jam, found them thus. Men slept on the deck of
the tug, aboard the pile-driver. Two or three had even
curled up in the crevices of the jam, resting in the arms of
the monster they had subdued.
XLII
HEN Newmark left, in the early stages of the
W jam, he gave scant thought to the errand on
which he had ostensibly departed. Whether or
not Orde got a supply of piles was to him a matter of in-
difference. His hope, or rather preference was that the jam
should go out; but he saw clearly what Orde, blinded by
the swift action of the struggle, was as yet unable to perceive.
Even should the riverman succeed in stopping the jam, the
extraordinary expenses incidental to the defence and to the
subsequent salvaging, untangling and sorting would more
than eat up the profits of the drive. Orde would then be
forced to ask for an extension of time on his notes.
On arriving in Monrovia, he drove to his own house. To
Mallock he issued orders.
“Go to the office and tell them I am ill,” said he, “ and
then hunt up Mr. Heinzman, wherever he is, and tell him I
want to see him immediately.”
He did not trouble to send word directly to Orde, up river;
but left him to be informed by the slow process of filtration
through the bookkeepers. The interim of several hours be-
fore Heinzman appeared he spent very comfortably in his
easy chair, dipping into a small volume of Montaigne.
At length the German was announced. He entered rather
red and breathless, obviously surprised to find Newmark
at home.
“Dot was a terrible jam,” said he, mopping his brow and
sinking into a chair. “I got lots of logs in it.”
Newmark dismissed the subject with an abrupt flip of his
unlighted cigar.
333
334 THE RIVERMAN
“Heinzman,” said he, “in three weeks at the latest Orde
will come to you asking for a renewal of the notes you hold
against our firm. You must refuse to make such a renewal.”
“All righdt,” agreed Heinzman.
“He”1 probably offer you higher interest. You must re-
fuse that. Then when the notes are overdue you must begin
suit in foreclosure.”
“All righdt,” repeated Heinzman a little restlessly. “Do
you think he vill hold that jam P.”
Newmark shrugged his shoulders swiftly.
“I got lots of logs in that jam. If that jam goes out I vill
lose a heap of money.”
“Well, you'll make quite a heap on this deal,” said New-
mark carelessly.
“Suppose he holds it,” said Heinzman, pausing. “I hate
like the mischief to joomp on him.”
“Rot!” said Newmark decisively. “That's what he's
there for.” He looked at the German sharply. “I suppose
you know just how deep you're in this?”
“Oh, I ain't backing oudt,” negatived Heinzman. “Not
a bit.”
“Well, then, you know what to do,” said Newmark, ter-
minating the interview.
XLIII
already considerably relieved by the channel into
Stearn's Bayou, slackened every hour. Orde, still
half dazed with his long-delayed sleep, drove back along the
marsh road to town.
His faculties were still in the torpor that follows rest
after exhaustion. The warm July sun, the breeze from the
Lake, the flash of light from the roadside water, these were
all he had room for among his perceptions. He was content
to enjoy them, and to anticipate drowsily the keen pleasure
of seeing Carroll again. In the rush of the jam he had
heard nothing from her. For all he knew she and Bobby
might have been among the spectators on the bank; he had
hardly once left the river. It did not seem to him strange
that Carroll should not have been there to welcome him
after the struggle was over. Rarely did she get to the booms
in ordinary circumstances. This episode of the big jam was,
after all, nothing but part of the day's work to Orde; a
crisis, exaggerated it is true, but like many other crises
a man must meet and cope with on the river. There was no
reason why Carroll should drive the twelve miles between
Monrovia and the booms, unless curiosity should take her.
As the team left the marsh road for the county turnpike
past the mills and lumberyards, Orde shook himself fully
awake. He began to review the situation. As Newmark had
accurately foreseen, he came almost immediately to a realisa-
tion that the firm would not be able to meet the notes
given to Heinzman. Orde had depended on the profits
Lº by little the water went down. The pressure,
335
336 THE RIVERMAN
from the season's drive to enable him to make up the neces-
sary amount. Those profits would be greatly diminished, if
not wiped out entirely, by the expenses, both regular and
irregular, incurred in holding the jam ; by the damage suits
surely to be brought by the owners of the piles, trees, pile-
drivers and other supplies and materials requisitioned in
the heat of the campaign; and by the extra labour necessary
to break out the jam and to sort the logs according to their
various destinations.
, “I’ll have to get an extension of time,” said Orde to
himself. “Of course Joe will let me have more time on my
own personal note to the firm. And Heinzman surely ought
to—I saved a lot of his logs in that jam. And if he doesn't
want to, I guess an offer of a little higher interest will fetch
him.”
Ordinarily the state of affairs would have worried him,
for it was exactly the situation he had fought against so
hard. But now he was too wearied in soul and body. He
dismissed the subject from his mind. The horses, left al-
most to themselves, lapsed into a sleepy jog. After a little
they passed the bridge and entered the town. Warm spicy
odours of pine disengaged themselves from the broken
shingles and sawdust of the roadway, and floated upward
through the hot sunshine. The beautiful maples with their
dense shadows threw the sidewalks into coolness. Up one
street and down another the horses took their accustomed
way. Finally they pulled up opposite the Orde house. Orde
hitched the horses, and, his step quickening in anticipation,
sprang up the walk and into the front door.
“Hullo, sweetheart!” he called cheerily.
The echoes alone answered him. He cried again, and yet
again, with a growing feeling of disappointment that Carroll
should happen to be from home. Finally a door opened and
shut in the back part of the house. A moment later Mary,
the Irish servant girl, came through the dining-room, caught
THE RIVERMAN 337
sight of Orde, threw her apron over her head, and burst
into one of those extravagant demonstrations of grief pecu-
liar to the warm-hearted of her class.
Orde stopped short, a sinking at his heart.
“What is it, Mary?” he asked very quietly.
But the girl only wept the louder, rocking back and forth
in a fresh paroxysm of grief. Beside himself with anxiety
Orde sprang forward to shake her by the arm, to shower
her with questions. These elicited nothing but broken and
incoherent fragments concerning “ the missus,” “oh, the
sad day !” “ and me lift all alone with Bobby, me heart that
heavy,” and the like, which served merely to increase Orde's
bewilderment and anxiety. At this moment Bobby himself
appeared from the direction of the kitchen. Orde, frantic
with alarm, fell upon his son. Bobby, much bewildered by
all this pother, could only mumble something about “ small-
pox,” and “took mamma away with doctor.”
“Where? where, Bobby?” cried Orde, fairly shaking
the small boy by the shoulder. He felt like a man in a bad
dream, trying to reach a goal that constantly eluded him.
At this moment a calm, dry voice broke through the tur-
moil of questions and exclamations. Orde looked up to see
the tall, angular form of Doctor McMullen standing in
the doorway.
“It’s all right,” said the doctor in answer to Orde's ago-
nised expression. “Your wife was exposed to smallpox and
is at my house to avoid the danger of spreading contagion.
She is not ill.”
Having thus in one swift decisive sentence covered the
ground of Orde's anxiety, he turned to the sniffling servant.
“Mary,” said he sternly, “I’m ashamed of you! What
kind of an exhibition is this? Go out to the kitchen and
cook us some lunch !” He watched her depart with a humour-
ous quirk to his thin lips. “Fool Irish !” he said with a
Scotchman's contempt. “I meant to head you off before you
338 THE RIVERMAN
got home, but I missed you. Come in and sit down, and I'll
tell you about it.”
“You’re quite sure Mrs. Orde is well?” insisted Orde.
“Absolutely. Never better. As well as you are.”
“Where was she exposed?”
“Down at Heinzman's. You know—or perhaps you don't
—that old Heinzman is the worst sort of anti-vaccination
crank. Well, he's reaped the reward.”
“Has he smallpox?” asked Orde. “Why, I thought I
remembered seeing him up river only the other day.”
“No ; his daughter.”
“Mina P"
“Yes. Lord knows where she got it. But get it she did.
Mrs. Orde happened to be with her when she was taken
with the fever and distressing symptoms that begin the dis-
ease. As a neighbourly deed she remained with the girl.
Of course no one could tell it was smallpox at that time.
Next day, however, the characteristic rash appeared on the
thighs and armpits, and I diagnosed the case.” Dr. Mc-
Mullen laughed a little bitterly. “Lord, you ought to have
seen them run Servants, neighbours, friends—they all ske-
daddled, and you coudn’t have driven them back with a
steam-roller | I telegraphed to Redding for a nurse. Until she
came Mrs. Orde stayed by, like a brick. Don’t know what I
should have done without her. There was nobody to do any-
thing at all. As soon as the nurse came Mrs. Orde gave up
her post. I tell you,” cried Doctor McMullen with as near an
approach to enthusiasm as he ever permitted himself, “there's
a sensible woman l None of your story-book twaddle about
nursing through the illness, and all that. When her usefulness
was ended, she knew enough to step aside gracefully. There
was not much danger as far as she was concerned. I had vac-
cinated her myself, you know, last year. But she might take
the contagion and she wanted to spare the youngster. Quite
right. So I offered her quarters with us for a couple of weeks.”
THE RIVERMAN 339
“How long ago was this?” asked Orde, who had listened
with a warm glow of pride to the doctor's succinct state-
ment.
“Seven days.”
“How is Mina getting on?”
“She’ll get well. It was a mild case. Fever never serious
after the eruption appeared. I suppose I'll have old Heinz-
man on my hands, though.”
“Why; has he taken it?”
“No ; but he will. Emotional old German fool. Rushed
right in when he heard his daughter was sick. Couldn't keep
him out. And he's been with her or near her ever since.”
“Then you think he's in for it?”
“Sure to be,” replied Dr. McMullen. “ Unless a man has
been vaccinated, continuous exposure means infection in
the great majority of cases.”
“Hard luck,” said Orde thoughtfully. “I’m going to step
up to your house and see Mrs. Orde.”
“You can telephone her,” said the doctor. “And you can
see her if you want to. Only in that case I should advise your
remaining away from Bobby until we see how things turn
out.”
“I see,” said Orde. “Well,” he concluded with a sigh,
after a moment's thought, “I suppose I’d better stay by the
ship.”
He called up Dr. McMullen's house on the telephone.
“Oh, it’s good to hear your voice again,” cried Carroll,
“even if I can’t see you ! You must promise me right after
lunch to walk up past the house so I can see you. I'll wave
at you from the window.”
“You’re a dear, brave girl, and I’m proud of you,'
Orde.
“Nonsense! There was no danger at all. I’d been vacci-
nated recently. And somebody had to take care of poor Mina
until we could get help. How’s Bobby P”
9
said
XLIV
A. lunch Orde went downtown to his office where
for some time he sat idly looking over the mail.
About three o'clock Newmark came in.
“Hullo, Joe,” said Orde with a slight constraint, “Sorry
to hear you’ve been under the weather. You don't look very
sick now.” -
“I’m better,” replied Newmark, briefly; “this is my first
appearance.”
“Too bad you got sick just at that time,” said Orde; “we
needed you.”
“So I hear. You may rest assured I’d have been there if
possible.”
“Sure thing,” said Orde, heartily, his slight resentment
dissipating, as always, in the presence of another's person-
ality. “Well, we had a lively time, you bet, all right; and
got through about by the skin of our teeth.” He arose and
walked over to Newmark's desk, on the edge of which he
perched. “It’s cost us considerable; and it’s going to cost
us a lot more, I’ll have to get an extension on those notes.”
“What's that?” asked Newmark, quickly.
Orde picked up a paper knife and turned it slowly be-
tween his fingers.
“I don't believe I'll be able to meet those notes. So many
things have happene 55
“But,” broke in Newmark, “the firm certainly cannot do
so. I’ve been relying on your assurance that you would take
them up personally. Our resources are all tied up.”
“Can't we raise anything more on the Northern Peninsula
timber?” asked Orde.
34o
THE RIVERMAN 34.
“You ought to know we can’t,” cried Newmark, with an
appearance of growing excitement. “The last seventy-five
thousand we borrowed for me finishes that.”
“Can't you take up part of your note?”
“My note comes due in 1885,” rejoined Newmark with
cold disgust. “I expect to take it up then. But I can’t until
then. I hadn’t expected anything like this.”
“Well, don’t get hot,” said Orde vaguely. “I only
thought that Northern Peninsula stuff might be worth sav-
ing any way we could figure it.”
“Worth saving !” snorted Newmark, whirling in his
chair.
“Well, keep your hair on,” said Orde, on whom New-
mark's manner was beginning to have its effect, as New-
mark intended it should. “You have my Boom Company
stock as security.”
“Pretty security for the loss of a tract like the Upper
Peninsula timber 1 °
“Well, it's the security you asked for, and suggested,”
said Orde.
“I thought you’d surely be able to pay it,” retorted New-
mark, now secure in the position he desired to take, that of
putting Orde entirely in the wrong.
“Well, I expected to pay it; and I’ll pay it yet,” rejoined
Orde. “I don’t think Heinzman will stand in his own light
rather than renew the notes.” ag
He seized his hat and departed. Once in the street, how-
ever, his irritation passed. As was the habit of the man, he
began more clearly to see Newmark's side, and so more em-
phatically to blame himself. After all, when he got right
down to the essentials, he could not but acknowledge that
Newmark's anger was justified. For his own private ends
he had jeopardised the firm’s property. More of a business
man might have reflected that Newmark, as financial head,
should have protected the firm against all contingencies;
342 THE RIVERMAN
should have seen to it that it met Heinzman's notes, instead
of tying up its resources in unnecessary ways. Orde's own
delinquency bulked too large in his eyes to admit his per-
ception of this. By the time he had reached Heinzman's
office, the last of his irritation had vanished. Only he realised
clearly now that it would hardly do to ask Newmark for a
renewal of the personal note on which depended his retention
of his Boom Company stock unless he could renew the
Heinzman note also. This is probably what Newmark in-
tended.
“Mr. Heinzman?” he asked briefly of the first clerk.
“Mr. Heinzman is at home ill,” replied the bookkeeper.
“Already!” said Orde. He drummed on the black walnut
rail thoughtfully. The notes came due in ten days. “How
bad is he?”
The clerk looked up curiously. “Can't say. Probably
won’t be back for a long time. It's smallpox, you know.”
“True,” said Orde. “Well, who's in charge?”
“Mr. Lambert. You’ll find him in the private office.”
Orde passed through the grill into the inner room.
“ Hullo, Lambert,” he addressed the individual seated at
Heinzman's desk. “So you're the boss, eh?”
Lambert turned, showing a perfectly round face, orna-
mented by a dot of a nose, two dots of eyes set rather close
together, and a pursed up mouth. His skin was very brown
and shiny, and was so filled by the flesh beneath as to take
the appearance of having been inflated.
“Yes, I’m the boss,” said he non-committally.
Orde dropped into a chair.
“Heinzman holds some notes due against our people in
ten days,” said he. “I came in to see about their renewal.
Can you attend to it?”
“Yes, I can attend to it,” replied Lambert. He struck a
bell; and to the bookkeeper who answered he said: “John,
bring me those Newmark & Orde papers.”
THE RIVERMAN 343
Orde heard the clang of the safe door. In a moment the
clerk returned and handed to Lambert a long manilla en-
velope. Lambert opened this quite deliberately, spread its
contents on his knee, and assumed a pair of round spectacles.
“Note for seventy-five thousand dollars with interest at
ten per cent. Interest paid to January tenth. Mortgage deed
on certain lands described herein.”
“That's it,” said Orde.
Lambert looked up over his spectacles.
“I want to renew the note for another year,” Orde ex-
plained.
“Can't do it,” replied Lambert, removing and folding
the glasses.
“Why not?”
“Mr. Heinzman gave me especial instructions in regard
to this matter just before his daughter was taken sick. He
told me if you came when he was not here—he intended to
go to Chicago yesterday—to tell you he would not renew.”
“Why not?” asked Orde blankly.
“I don’t know that.”
“But I’ll give him twelve per cent. for another year.”
“He said not to renew, even if you offered higher in-
terest.”
“Do you happen to know whether he intends anything
in regard to this mortgage?” -
“He instructed me to begin suit in foreclosure immedi-
ately.”
“I don’t understand this,” said Orde.
Lambert shook his head blandly. Orde thought for a
moment.
“Where's your telephone?” he demanded abruptly.
He tried in vain to get Heinzman at his house. Finally
the telephone girl informed him that although messages had
come from the stricken household, she had been unable to
get an answer to any of her numerous calls, and suspected
344 "THE RIVERMAN
the bell had been removed. Finally Orde left the office at a
loss how to proceed next. Lambert, secretly overjoyed at
this opportunity of exercising an unaccustomed and auto-
cratic power, refused to see beyond his instructions. Heinz-
man's attitude puzzled Orde. A foreclosure could gain
Heinzman no advantage of immediate cash. Orde was forced
to the conclusion that the German saw here a good oppor-
tunity to acquire cheap a valuable property. In that case
a personal appeal would avail little.
Orde tramped out to the end of the pier and back, mulling
over the tangled problem. He was pressed on all sidis–by
the fatigue after his tremendous exertions of the past two
weeks; by his natural uneasiness in regard to Carroll; and
finally by this new complication which threatened the very
basis of his prosperity. Nevertheless the natural optimism
of the man finally won its ascendency.
“There's the year of redemption on that mortgage,” he
reminded himself. “We may be able to do something in
that time. I don’t know just what,” he added whimsically,
with a laugh at himself. He became grave. “Poor Joe,” he
said, “this is pretty tough on him. I’ll have to make it up
to him somehow. I can let him in on that California deal,
when the titles are straightened out.”
XLV
RDE did not return to the office; he felt unwilling
O to face Newmark until he had a little more thor-
oughly digested the situation. He spent the rest of
the afternoon about the place, picking up the tool house,
playing with Bobby, training Duke, the black and white
setter dog. Three or four times he called up Carroll by tele-
phone; and three or four times he passed Dr. McMullen's
house to shout his half of a long-distance and fragmentary
conversation with her. He ate solemnly with Bobby at six
o'clock, the two quite subdued over the vacant chair at the
other end of the table. After dinner they sat on the porch
until Bobby's bed-time. Orde put his small son to bed, and
sat talking with the youngster as long as his conscience
would permit. Then he retired to the library, where, for a
long time, he sat in twilight and loneliness. Finally, when he
could no longer distinguish objects across the room, he arose
with a sigh, lit the lamp, and settled himself to read.
The last of the twilight drained from the world, and the
window panes turned a burnished black. Through the half-
open sashes sucked a warm little breeze, swaying the long
lace curtains back and forth. The hum of lawn-sprinklers
and the chirping of crickets and tree-frogs came with it.
One by one the lawn-sprinklers fell silent. Gradually there
descended upon the world the deep slumbrous stillness of
late night; a stillness compounded of a thousand and one
mysterious little noises repeated monotonously over and
over until their identity was lost in accustomedness. Occa-
sionally the creak of timbers or the sharp scurrying of a
345
346 THE RIVERMAN
mouse in the wall served more to accentuate than to break
this night silence.
Orde sat lost in reverie, his book in his lap. At stated
intervals the student lamp at his elbow flared slightly, then
burned clear again after a swallow of satisfaction in its
reservoir. These regular replenishments of the oil supply
alone marked the flight of time.
Suddenly Orde leaned forward, his senses at the keenest
attention. After a moment he arose and quietly walked to-
ward the open window. Just as he reached the casement and
looked out, a man looked in. The two stared at each other
not two feet apart.
“Good Lord! Heinzman l’’ cried Orde in a guarded voice.
He stepped decisively through the window, seized the
German by the arm, and drew him one side.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Heinzman was trembling violently as though from a chill.
“Dake me somewheres,” he whispered hoarsely. “Some-
wheres quick. I haf broke quarantine, and dey vill be after
me.”
“The place for you is at your own house,” said Orde, his
anger rising. “What do you mean by coming here and ex-
posing my house to infection?”
Heinzman began to blubber; choked, shivered all over,
and cried aloud with an expression of the greatest agony:
“You must dake me somewheres. I must talk with you
and your goot wife. I haf somedings to say to you.” He in
his turn grasped Orde by the arm. “I haf broke quarantine
to gome and tell you. Dey are dere mit shotguns to kill me
if I broke quarantine. And I haf left my daughter, my
daughter Mina, all alone mit dose people to come and tell
you. And now you don’t listen.”
He wrung his hands dramatically, his soft pudgy body
shaking.
“Come with me,” said Orde briefly.
THE RIVERMAN 347
He led the way around the house to the tool shed. Here
he lit a lantern, thrust forward one nail keg, and sat down
on another.
Heinzman sat down on the nail keg, almost immediately
arose, walked up and down two or three times, and re-
sumed his seat.
Orde looked at him curiously. He was half dressed, with-
out a collar, his thin hair unkempt. The usual bright colour
of his cheeks had become livid, and the flesh, ordinarily firm
and elastic, had fallen in folds and wrinkles. His eyes
burned bright as though from some internal fire. A great
restlessness possessed him. Impulsively Orde leaned for-
ward to touch his hand. It was dry and hot.
“What is it, Heinzman?” he asked quietly, fully pre-
pared for the vagaries of a half delirium.
“Ach, Orde!” cried the German, “I am tortured mit
höllenqualle—what you call?—hell’s fire. You, whose wife
comes in and saves my Mina when the others runs away.
You, my best friends ! It is schrecklich ! She was the noblest,
the best, the most kindest 35
“If you mean Mrs. Orde's staying with Mina,” broke in
Orde, “it was only what any one should have done, in hu-
manity; and I, for one, am only too glad she had the chance.
You mustn't exaggerate. And now you’d better get home
where you can be taken care of. You’re sick.”
“No, no, my friend,” said Heinzman, vigourously shaking
his head. “She might take the disease. She might die. It
was noble.” He shuddered. “My Mina left to die all alone!”
Orde rose to his feet with decision.
“That is all right,” said he. “Carroll was glad of the
chance. Now let me get you home.”
But Heinzman's excitement had suddenly died.
“No,” said he, extending his trembling hand; “sit down.
I want to talk business.”
“You are in no condition to talk business,” said Orde.
348 THE RIVERMAN
“No !” cried Heinzman with unexpected vigour. “Sit
down | Listen to me! Dot's better. I haſ your note for
sefenty-five t'ousand dollars. No?”
Orde nodded.
“Dot money I never lent you. No! I’m not crazy. Sit
still ! I know my name is on dot note. But the money came
from somewheres else. It came from your partner, Joseph
Newmark.”
Orde half rose from his keg.
“Why? What?” he asked in bewilderment.
“Den ven you could not pay the note, I was to fore-
close and hand over dot Northern Peninsula land to Joseph
Newmark, your partner.”
“Impossible !” cried Orde.
“I vas to get a share. It was a trick.”
“Go on,” said Orde grimly.
“Dere is no go on. Dot is all.”
“Why do you come to tell me now?”
“Because for more than one year now I say to mineself,
‘Carl Heinzman, you was one dirty scoundrel. You was dis-
honest; a sneak; a thief'; I don’t like to call myself names
like dose. It iss all righdt to be smart; but to be a thief l’”
“Why didn’t you pull out?” asked Orde.
“I couldn't!” cried Heinzman piteously. “How could I?
He haf me cold. I paid Stanford five hundred dollars for
his vote on the charter; and Joseph Newmark, he know dot;
he can prove it. He tell me if I don’t do what he say, he put
me in jail. Think of dot! All my friends go back on me; all
my money gone; maybe my daughter Mina go back on me,
too. How could I?”
“Well, he can still put you in prison,” said Orde.
“Vot I care?” cried Heinzman, throwing up both his
arms. “You and your wife are my friends. She save my
Mina. Du lieber Gott! If my daughter had died, vot good
iss friends and money? Vot good iss anything? I don't vant

THE RIVERMAN 349
to live! And ven I sit dere by her always something ask me:
‘Vy you do dot to the peoples dot safe your Mina?’ And
ven she look at me, her eyes say it; and in the night every-
thing cry out at me; and I get sick, and I can’t stand it no
longer, and I don't care if he send me to prison or to hell,
no more.”
His excitement died. He sat listless, his eyes vacant, his
hands between his knees.
“Well, I go,” he said at last.
“Have you that note?” asked Orde.
“Joseph Newmark, he keeps it most times,” replied Heinz-
man, “but now it is at my office for the foreclosure. I will
not foreclose; he can send me to the penitentiary.”
“Telephone Lambert in the morning to give it to me. No ;
here. Write an order in this notebook.”
Heinzman wrote the required order.
“I go,” said he, suddenly weary.
Orde accompanied him down the street. The German was
again light-headed with the fever, mumbling about his
daughter, the notes, Carroll, the voices that had driven him
to righteousness. By some manoeuvring Orde succeeded in
slipping him through the improvised quarantine without dis-
covery. Then the riverman with slow and thoughtful steps
returned to where the lamp in the study still marked off
with the spaced replenishments from its oil reservoir the
early morning hours.
XLVI
Mº found Orde still seated in the library
chair. His head was sunk forward on his chest;
his hands were extended listless, palms up, along
the arms of the chair; his eyes were vacant and troubled.
Hardly once in the long hours had he shifted by a hair's
breadth his position. His body was suspended in an abso-
lute inaction while his spirit battered at the walls of an im-
passe. For, strangely enough, Orde did not once, even for a
single instant, give a thought to the business aspects of
the situation—what it meant to him and his prospects or
what he could do about it. Hurt to the soul he stared at
the wreck of a friendship. Nothing will more deeply sicken
the heart of a naturally loyal man than to discover baseless
his faith in some one he has thoroughly trusted.
Orde had liked Newmark. He had admired heartily his
clearness of vision, his financial skill, his knowledge of
business intricacies, his imperturbable coolness, all the abili-
ties that had brought him to success. With a man of Orde's
temperament, to admire is to like; and to like is to invest
with all good qualities. He had constructed his ideal of a
friend, with Newmark as a basis; and now that this, which
had seemed to him as solid a reality as a brick block, had
dissolved into nothing, he found himself in the necessity
of refashioning his whole world. He was not angry at
Newmark. But he was grieved down to the depths of his
being.
When the full sun shone into the library, he aroused him-
self to change his clothes. Then, carrying those he had just
discarded, he slipped out of the house and down the street.
35o
THE RIVERMAN 351
Duke, the black and white setter dog, begged to follow
him. Orde welcomed the animal’s company. He paused only
long enough to telephone from the office telling Carroll he
would be out of town all day. Then he set out at a long
swinging gai over the hills. By the time the sun grew
hot, he was some miles from the village and in the high
beech woods. There he sat down, his back to a monster tree.
A 1 day long he gazed steadily in the shifting shadows and
splotches of sunlight; on the patches of blue sky, the daz-
zling white clouds that sailed across them; on the waving,
whispering frond that over-arched him, and the deep cool
shadows beneath. The woods creatures soon became accus-
tomed to his presence. Squirrels of the several varieties that
abounded in the Michigan forests scampered madly after
each other in spirals around the tree trunks, or bounded
across the ground in long undulating leaps. Birds flashed
and called and disappeared mysteriously. A chewink, brave
in his black and white and tan uniform, scratched mightily
with great two-footed swoops that threw the vegetable
mould over Orde's very feet. Blazoned butterflies—the yel-
low and black turnus, the dark troilus, the shade-loving
nymphalis—flickered in and out of the patches of sunlight.
Orde paid them no attention. The noon heat poured down
through the forest isles like an incense. Overhead swung
the sun, and down the slope until the long shafts of its light
lifted wand-like across the tree trunks.
At this hint of evening Orde shook himself and arose.
He was little nearer the readjustment he sought than he
had been the previous night.
He reached home a little before six o'clock. To his sur-
prise he found Taylor awaiting him. The lawyer had written
nothing as to his return.
“I had things pretty well in shape,” he said, after the
first greetings had been exchanged, “and it would do no
good to stay away any longer.”
352 THE RIVERMAN
“Then the trouble is over?” asked Orde.
“I wouldn't say that,” replied Taylor; “but you can rest
easy as to the title to your lands. The investigation had no
real basis to it. There may have been some small individual
cases of false entry; but nothing on which to ground a
real attack.” -
“When can I borrow on it?”
“Not for a year or two, I should say. There's an awful
lot of red-tape to unwir d, as there always is in such cases.”
“Oh,” said Orde in some disappointment.
Taylor hesitated, removed his eye-glasses, wiped them
carefully, and replaced them. He glanced at Orde sidelong
through his keen, shrewd eyes.
“I have something more to tell you; something that will
be painful,” said he.
Orde looked up quickly.
“Well; what is it?” he asked.
“The general cussedness of all this investigation business
had me puzzled, until at last I made up my mind to do a
little investigating on my own account. It all looked foolish
to me. Somebody or something must be back of all this
performance. I was at it all the time I was West, between
times on regular business, of course. I didn’t make much out
of my direct efforts—they cover things up well in those
matters—but at last I got on a clue by sheer accident. There
was one man behind all this. He was 33
“Joe Newmark,” said Orde quietly.
“How did you know that?” cried Taylor in astonishment.
“I didn't know, Frank; I just guessed.”
“Well, you made a good guess. It was Newmark. He'd
tied up the land in this trumped-up investigation so you
could not borrow on it.” .
“How did he find out I owned any land?” asked Orde.
“That I couldn't tell you. Must have been a leak some-
where.”
*.
THE RIVERMAN 353
“Quite likely,” said Orde calmly.
Taylor looked at his principal in some wonder.
“Well, I must say you take it coolly enough,” said he
at last.
Orde smiled.
“Do I?’” Said he.
“Of course,” went on Taylor after a moment, “we have
a strong presumption of conspiracy to get hold of your
Boom Company stock, which I believe you put up as
security. But I don’t see how we have any incontestable
proof of it.”
“Proof? What more do we want?”
“We'd have no witness to any of these transactions; nor
have we documentary proofs. It's merely moral certainty;
and moral certainty isn’t much in a court of law. I’ll see
him, if you say so, though, and scare him into some sort of
an arrangement.”
Orde shook his head.
“No,” said he decidedly. “Rather not. I’ll run this. Please
say nothing.”
“Of course not!” interjected Taylor, a trifle indignantly.
“And I’ll figure out what I want to do.”
Orde pressed Taylor to stay to supper; but the latter
declined. After a few moments’ conversation on general
topics the lawyer took his departure, secretly marvelling
over the phlegmatic way in which Orde had taken what had
been to Taylor, when he first stumbled against it, a shocking
piece of news.
XLVII
RDE did not wish to return to the office until he had
O worked his problem out; so, to lend his absence
the colour of naturalness, he drove back next
morning to the booms. There he found enough to keep him
occupied all that day and the next. As in those times the
long distance telephone had not yet been attempted, he was
cut off from casual communication with the village. Late
in the afternoon he returned home.
A telephone to Carroll apprised him that all was well with
her. A few moments later the call sounded, and Orde took
a message that caused him to look grave and to whistle
gently with surprise. He ate supper with Bobby. About
star-time he took his hat and walked slowly down the street
beneath the velvet darkness of the maples. At Newmark's
he turned in between the oleanders.
Mallock answered his ring.
“No, sir, Mr. Newmark is out, sir,” said Mallock. “I’ll
tell him you called, sir,” and started respectfully but firmly
to close the door.
But Orde thrust his foot and knee in the opening.
“I’ll come in and wait,” said he quietly.
“Yes, sir, this way, sir,” said Mallock, trying to indicate
the dining-room, where he wished Orde to sit until he could
come at his master’s wishes in the matter.
Orde caught the aroma of tobacco and the glimmer of
light to the left. Without reply he turned the knob of the
door and entered the library.
There he found Newmark in evening dress, seated in a
354
THE RIVERMAN 355
low easy chair beneath a lamp, Smoking, and reading a
magazine. At Orde's appearance in the doorway, he looked
up calmly, his paper knife poised, keeping the place.
“Oh, it’s you, Orde,” said he.
“Your man told me you were not in,” said Orde.
“He was mistaken. Won’t you sit down?”
Orde entered the room and mechanically obeyed New-
mark's suggestion, his manner preoccupied. For some time
he stared with wrinkled brow at a point above the illumina-
tion of the lamp. Newmark, over the end of his cigar,
poised a foot from his lips, watched the riverman with a
cool calculation.
“Newmark,” Orde began abruptly at last, “I know all
about this deal.”
“What deal?” asked Newmark, after a barely percep-
tible pause.
“This arrangement you made with Heinzman.”
“I borrowed some money from Heinzman for the firm.”
“Yes; and you supplied that money yourself.”
Newmark's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Orde
glanced toward him, then away again, as though ashamed.
“Well,” said Newmark at last, “what of it?”
“If you had the money to lend why didn't you lend it
direct?”
“Because it looks better to mortgage to an outside
kiolder.”
An expression of profound disgust flitted across Orde's
countenance. Newmark smiled covertly, and puffed once or
twice strongly on his nearly extinct cigar.
“That was not the reason,” went on Orde. “You agreed
with Heinzman to divide when you succeeded in foreclosing
me out of the timber lands given as security. Furthermore
you instructed Floyd to go out on the eve of that blow in
spite of his warnings; and you contracted with McLeod for
the new vessels; and you’ve tied us up right and left for the
356 THE RIVERMAN
sole purpose of pinching us down where we couldn’t meet
those notes. That's the only reason you borrowed the
seventy-five thousand on your own account; so we couldn't
borrow it to save ourselves.”
“It strikes me you are interesting but inconclusive,” said
Newmark, as Orde paused again.
“That sort of thing is somewhat of a facer,” went on
Orde without the slightest attention to the interjection. “It
took me some days to work it out in all its details; but I
believe I understand it ill now. I don’t quite understand
how you discovered about my California timber. That ‘in-
vestigation was a very pretty move.”
“How the devil did you get onto that?” cried Newmark,
startled for a moment out of his cool attitude of cynical
aloofness. *
“Then you acknowledge it?” shot in Orde quick as a
flash. .
Newmark laughed in amusement.
“Why shouldn't I? Of course Heinzman blabbed. You
couldn’t have got it all anywhere else.”
Orde arose to his feet, and half sat again on the arm
of his chair.
“Now I'll tell you what we will do in this matter,” said
he crisply. -
But Newmark unexpectedly took the aggressive.
“We'll follow,” said he, “the original programme, as laid
down by myself. I’m tired of dealing with blundering fools.
Heinzman's mortgage will be foreclosed; and you will hand
over as per the agreement your Boom Company stock.”
Orde stared at him in amazement.
“I must say you have good nerve,” he said; “you don’t
seem to realise that you are pretty well tangled up. I don’t
know what they call it: criminal conspiracy, or something
of that sort, I suppose. So far from handing over to you
the bulk of my property, I can send you to the penitentiary.”
THE RIVERMAN 357
“Nonsense,” rejoined Newmark, leaning forward in his
turn. “I know you too well, Jack Orde. You're a fool of
more kinds than I care to count, and this is one of the kinds.
Do you seriously mean to say that you dare try to prosecute
me? Just as sure as you do, I’ll put Heinzman in the pen
too. I’ve got it on him, cold. He's a bribe giver—and some-
what of a criminal conspirator himself.”
“Well,” said Orde.
Newmark leaned back with an amused little chuckle. “If
the man hadn't come to you and given the whole show
away, you’d have lost every cent you owned. He did you
the biggest favour in his power. And for your benefit I’ll
tell you what you can easily substantiate; I forced him into
this deal with me. I had this bribery case on him; and in
addition his own affairs were all tied up.”
“I knew that,” replied Orde.
“What had the man to gain by telling you?” pursued
Newmark. “Nothing at all. What had he to lose? Every-
thing: his property, his social position, his daughter's esteem,
which the old fool holds higher than any of them. You could
put me in the pen, perhaps—with Heinzman's testimony.
But the minute Heinzman appears on the stand, I’ll land
him high and dry and gasping, without a chance to flop.”
He paused a moment to puff at his cigar. Finding it had
gone out, he laid the butt carefully on the ash tray at his
elbow. * *
“I’m not much used to giving advice,” he went on, “least
of all when it is at all likely to be taken. But I’ll offer
you some. Throw Heinzman over. Let him go to the pen.
He's been crooked, and a fool.”
“That's what you'd do, I suppose,” said Orde.
“Exactly that. You owe nothing to Heinzman; but some-
thing to what you would probably call repentance, but which
is in reality a mawkish sentimentality of weakness. How-
ever, I know you, Jack Orde, from top to bottom; and I
y
358 THE RIVERMAN
know you're fool enough not to do it. I’m so sure of it that
I dare put it to you straight; you could never bring your-
self to the point of destroying a man who had sacrificed
himself for you.”
“You seem to have this game all figured out,” said Orde
with contempt.
Newmark leaned back in his chair. Two bright red spots
burned in his ordinarily sallow cheeks. He half closed his
eyes.
“You’re right,” said he with an ill-concealed satisfaction.
“If you play a game, play it through. Each man is different;
for each a different treatment is required. The game is in-
finite, wonderful, fascinating to the skilful.” He opened his
eyes and looked over at Orde with a mild curiosity. “I Sup-
pose men are about all of one kind to you.”
“Two,” said Orde grimly; “the honest men and the
scoundrels.”
“Well,” said the other, “let’s settle this thing. The fact
remains that the firm owes a note to Heinzman, which it
cannot pay. You owe a note to the firm which you cannot
pay. All this may be slightly irregular; but for private
reasons you do not care to make public the irregularity.
Am I right so far?”
Orde, who had been watching him with a slightly sar-
donic smile, nodded.
“Well, what I want out of this 33
“You might hear the other side,” interrupted Orde. “In
the first place,” said he, producing a bundle of papers, “I
have the note and the mortgage in my possession.”
“Whence Heinzman will shortly rescue them, as soon
as I get to see him,” countered Newmark. “You acknowl-
edge that I can force Heinzman; and you can hardly refuse
him.”
“If you force Heinzman, he'll land you,” Orde pointed
Out.
THE RIVERMAN 359
“There is Canada for me, with no extradition. He travels
with heavier baggage. I have the better trumps.”
“You’d lose everything.”
“Not quite,” smiled Newmark. “And, as usual, you are
forgetting the personal equation. Heinzman is—Heinzman.
And I am I.”
“Then I suppose this affidavit from Heinzman as to the
details of all this is useless for the same reason?”
Newmark's thin lips parted in another Smile.
“Correct,” said he.
“But you're ready to compromise below the face of the
note?”
& & I am.”
& & Why? 59
Newmark hesitated.
“I’ll tell you,” said he; “because I know you well enough
to realise that there is a point where your loyalty to Heinz-
man would step aside in favour of your loyalty to your
family.”
“And you think you know where that point is?”
“It’s the basis of my compromise.”
Orde began softly to laugh. “Newmark, you're as clever
as the devil,” said he. “But aren't you afraid to lay out
your cards this way?”
“Not with you,” replied Newmark, boldly; “with any-
body else on earth, yes. With you, no.”
Orde continued to laugh, still in the low undertone.
“The worst of it is, I believe you’re right,” said he at
last. “You have the thing sized up; and there isn't a flaw
in your reasoning. I always said that you were the brains
of this concern. If it were not for one thing, I’d compromise
sure; and that one thing was beyond your power to fore-
see.”
He paused. Newmark's eyes half-closed again, in a quick
darting effort of his brain to run back over all the elements
360 THE RIVERMAN
of the game he was playing. Orde waited in patience for
him to speak. -
“What is it?” asked Newmark at last.
“Heinzman died of smallpox at four o'clock this after-
noon,” said Orde. -
XLVIII
EWMARK did not alter his attitude nor his ex-
N pression, but his face slowly went gray. For a full
minute he sat absolutely motionless, his breath
coming and going noisily through his contracted nostrils.
Then he arose gropingly to his feet, and started toward one
of the two doors leading from the room.
“Where are you going?” asked Orde quietly.
Newmark steadied himself with an effort.
“I’m going to get myself a drink in my bedroom,” he
snapped. “Any objections?”
“No,” replied Orde. “None. After you get your drink,
come back. I want to talk to you.”
Newmark snarled at him: “You needn’t be afraid I’ll
run away. How’d I get out of town P”
“I know it wouldn't pay you to run away,” said Orde.
Newmark passed out through the door. Orde looked
thoughtfully at Heinzman's affidavit, which, duly disin-
fected, had been handed him by Dr. McMullen as im-
portant; and thrust it and the other papers into his inside
pocket. Then he arose to his feet and glided softly across
the room to take a position close to the door through which
Newmark had departed in quest of his drink. For a half
minute he waited. Finally the door swung briskly inward.
Like a panther, as quickly and as noiselessly, Orde sprang
forward. A short but decisive struggle ensued. In less than
ten seconds Orde had pinioned Newmark's arms to his side
where he held them immovable with one of his own. The
other hand he ran down Newmark's right arm to the pocket.
361
362 THE RIVERMAN
There followed an instant of silent resistance. Then with a
sharp cry of mingled anger and pain Newmark snatched his
hand out and gazed a trifle amazedly at the half crushed
fingers. Orde drew forth the revolver Newmark had
grasped concealed in the coat pocket.
Without hesitation he closed and locked the bedroom
door; turned the key in the lock of the other; tried and
fastened the window. The revolver he opened; spilled out
the cartridges into his hand; and then tossed the empty
weapon to Newmark, who had sunk into the chair by the
lamp.
“There's your plaything,” said he. “So you wanted that
affidavit, did you? Now we have the place to ourselves;
and we’ll thresh this matter out.”
He paused, collecting his thoughts.
“I don’t need to tell you that I’ve got you about where
you live,” said he finally. “Nor what I think of you. The
case is open and shut; and I can send you over the road
for the best part of your natural days. Also I’ve got these
notes and the mortgage.”
“Quit it,” growled Newmark, “you’ve got me. Send me
up; and be damned.”
“That's the question,” went on Orde slowly. “I’ve been
at it three days, without much time off for sleep. You hurt
me pretty bad, Joe. I trusted you; and I thought of you
as a friend.”
Newmark stirred slightly with impatience.
“I had a hard time getting over that part of it; and
about three-quarters of what was left in the world looked
mighty like ashes for awhile. Then I began to see this thing
a little clearer. We’ve been together a good many years
now ; and as near as I can make out you’ve been straight
as a string with me for eight of them. Then I suppose the
chance came and before you knew it you were in over
your neck.”
y
THE RIVERMAN 363
He looked, half-pleading toward Newmark. Newmark
made no sign.
“I know that's the way it might be. A man thinks he's
mighty brave; and so he is, as long as he can see what’s
coming, and get ready for it. But some day an emergency
just comes up and touches him on the shoulder, and he
turns around and sees it all of a sudden. Then he finds he's
a coward. It’s pretty hard for me to understand dishonesty,
or how a man can be dishonest. I’ve tried, but I can’t do it.
Crookedness isn't my particular kind of fault. But I do
know this: that we every one of us have something to be
forgiven for by Some one. I guess I’ve got a temper that
makes me pretty sorry sometimes. Probably you don't see
how it's possible for a man to get crazy mad about little
things. That isn't your particular kind of fault.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, drop that preaching. It makes me
sick | * broke out Newmark.
Orde smiled whimsically.
“I’m not preaching,” he said; “and even if I were, I’ve
paid a good many thousands of dollars, it seems, to buy the
right to say what I damn please. And if you think I’m work-
ing up to a Christian forgiveness racket, you’re very much
mistaken. I’m not. I don't forgive you; and I surely despise
your sort. But I’m explaining to you—no, to myself—just
what I’ve been at for three days.”
“Well, turn me over to your sheriff, and let's get
through with this,” said Newmark sullenly. “I suppose
you’ve got that part of it all fixed.” -
Orde rose.
“Look here, Newmark, that’s just what I’ve been coming
to, just what I’ve had such a hard time to get hold of. I felt
it, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Now I know. I’m not
going to hand you over to any sheriff; I’m going to let
you off. No,” he continued, in response to Newmark's look
of incredulous amazement, “it isn’t from any fool notion of
364 THE RIVERMAN
forgiveness. I told you I didn't forgive you. But I’m not
going to burden my future life with you. That's just plain,
Ordinary selfishness. I suppose I really ought to jug you;
but if I do, I'll always carry with me the thought that I’ve
taken it on myself to judge a man. And I don’t believe any
man is competent to judge another. I told you why—or tried
to—a minute or so ago. I’ve lived clean, and I’ve enjoyed
the world as a clean open-air sort of proposition—like a
windy day—and I always hope to. I’d rather drop this
whole matter. In a short time I’d forget you; you’d pass
out of my life entirely. But if we carry this thing through
to a finish, I’d always have the thought with me that I’d
put you in the pen; that you are there now. I don’t like
the notion. I’d rather finish this up right here and now and
get it over and done with and take a fresh start.” He paused
and wiped his brow, wet with the unusual exertion of this
self-analysis. “I think a fellow ought to act always as if
he was making the world. He ought to try not to put things
in it that are going to make it an unpleasant or an evil
world. We don't always do it; but we ought to try. Now if
I were making a world, I wouldn't put a man in a peni-
tentiary in it. Of course there's dangerous criminals.” He
glanced at Newmark a little anxiously. “I don’t believe
... you're that. You're sharp and dishonest, and need punish-
ment; but you don't need extinction. Anyway, I’m not go-
ing to bother my future with you.”
Newmark, who had listened to this long and rambling
exposition with increasing curiosity and interest, broke into
a short laugh.
“You’ve convicted me,” he said. “I’m a most awful fail-
ure. I thought I knew you; but this passes all belief.”
Orde brushed this speech aside as irrelevant.
“Our association, of course, comes to an end. There re-
main the terms of settlement. I could fire you out of this
without a cent, and you’d have to git. But that wouldn't
“I’m Going to Give You About the Worst Licking You Ever
Heard Tell Of” -
º
| OF -
º

THE RIVERMAN 305
be fair. I don’t give a damn for you; but it wouldn’t be
fair to me. Now as for the Northern Peninsula timber, you
have had seventy-five thousand out of that and have lent
me the same amount. Call that quits. I will take up your
note when it comes due; and destroy the one given to
Heinzman. For all your holdings in our common business I
will give you my note without interest and without time for
one hundred thousand dollars. That is not its face value,
nor anything like it, but you have caused me directly and
indirectly considerable loss. I don't know how soon I can
pay this note; but it will be paid.”
“All right,” agreed Newmark.
“Does that satisfy you?”
“I suppose it's got to.”
“Very well. I have the papers here all made out. They
need simply to be signed and witnessed. Timbull is the
nearest notary.”
He unlocked the outside door.
“Come,” said he.
In silence the two walked the block and a half to the no-
tary's house. Here they were forced to wait some time while
Timbull dressed himself and called the necessary witnesses.
Finally the papers were executed. In the street Newmark
paused significantly. But Orde did not take the hint.
“Are you coming with me?” asked Newmark.
“I am,” replied Orde. “There is one thing more.”
In silence once more they returned to the shadowy low
library filled with its evidences of good taste. Newmark
threw himself into the armchair. He was quite recovered,
Once again the imperturbable, coldly calculating, cynical ob-
server. Orde relocked the door, and turned to face him.
“You have five days to leave town,” he said crisply.
“Don’t ever show up here again. Let me have your address
for the payment of this note.”
He took two steps forward.
366 THE RIVERMAN
“I’ve let you off from the pen because I didn't waiſt my
life bothered with the thought of you. But you’ve treated
me like a hound. I’ve been loyal to the firm's interests from
the start; and I’ve done my best by it. You knifed me in
the back. You're a dirty, low-lived skunk. If you think
you're going to get off scot-free, you're mightily mistaken.”
He advanced two steps more. Newmark half arose.
“What do you mean?” he asked in some alarm.
“I mean that I’m going to give you about the worst lick-
ing you ever heard tell of,” replied Orde, buttoning his
COat.
XLIX
house, softly rubbing the palm of one hand over
the knuckles of the other. At the front gate he
paused to look up at the stars. Then he shut it decisively
behind him.
TJp through the maple shaded streets he walked at a brisk
pace, breathing deep, unconsciously squaring back his shoul-
ders. The incident was behind him. In his characteristic
decisive manner he had wiped the whole disagreeable af-
fair off the slate. The copartnership with its gains and
losses, its struggles and easy sailing was a thing of the past.
Only there remained, as after a flood the sediment, a final
result of it all, the balance between successes and failures,
a ground beneath the feet of new aspirations. Orde had the
Northern Peninsula timber; the Boom Company; and the
carrying trade. They were all burdened with debt, it is
true, but the riverman felt surging within him the reawak-
ened and powerful energy for which optimism is another
name. He saw stretching before him a long life of endeav-
our, the sort of endeavour he enjoyed, exulted in ; and in
it he would be untrammelled and alone. The idea appealed
to him. Suddenly he was impatient for the morrow that he
might begin.
He turned out of the side street. His own house lay be-
fore him, dark save for the gas jet in the hallway and the
single lamp in the library. A harmony of softly touched
chords breathed out through the open window. He stopped;
then stole forward softly until he stood looking in through
the doorway.
F: minutes later Orde emerged from Newmark's
367
368 THE RIVERMAN
Carroll sat leaning against the golden harp, her shining
head with the soft shadows bent until it almost touched
the strings. Her hands were straying idly over accustomed
chords and rich modulations, the plaintive half-music of
reverie. A soft light fell on her slender figure; half re-
vealed the oval of her cheek and the sweep of her lashes.
Orde crept to her unheard. Gently he clasped her from
behind. Unsurprised she relinquished the harp strings and
sank back against his breast with a happy little sigh.
“Kind of fun being married, isn't it, sweetheart?” he
repeated their quaint formula. -
“Kind of,” she replied; and raised her face to his.
THE END
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