thinking; so if the idea is any good a part of the credit is due to him—”
“Leave out all this explanation. What is the idea?” barked Hatton.
“It’s this,” desperately replied Stanley; “pipe the pulp to the paper mill instead of pressing it out in squares and sending it by cars.”
Hatton stood rigid, his eyes blazing and boring into Stanley’s flushed face.
“It struck me as practical,” cried Stanley, believing his last chance to be gone, including an opportunity of earning a bed and board. “They sluice logs from Peppercorn to Richardson lake. Even a six feet drop, the men tell me, is sufficient in a mile sluiceway. It’s a sharp grade to the paper mills below. You’d only have to be careful that there were no pockets for the pulp to settle in and harden. It seemed to me that it would be considerably cheaper than hiring men to press and load and transport and unload the pulp.”
“When did you think of that scheme?” asked Hatton in a low voice, never removing his searching gaze.
“This morning, while waiting for the seven o’clock whistle. I was hating the work, to be honest, and wondering how it could be done
