XII
LOCKE by means known to himself alone, managed to have his application to the Transportation Commission set down for an early hearing. This made Joe's presence necessary, and he came out of the woods lean and hard and full of vigour. Neither McCane nor his crew had taken up the challenge, and their intentions remained matter of speculation. Just before the hearing, however, the railway suddenly restored the old freight rate on lumber, thus taking the wind out of Locke's sails.
“This puts us in the position of flogging a dead horse,” he grumbled. “Now the commission will tell us we ought to be satisfied, and refuse to let me show the genesis of the cancelled rate. Confound it! I depended on this to find out more about Garwood.”
This prediction turned out to be correct. The commission refused to allow its time to be wasted. The old rate was restored, and that was not complained of. Therefore, said they, there was no question for them to consider, their powers not being retroactive. Locke was unable to convince them to the contrary.
Outgeneralled in his plan of attack he sought another, finding it in a grievance possessed by one Dingle, a small contractor in a town on the O. & N. There the price of lumber had been boosted sky-high, and this destroyed Dingle's profits on contracts he had undertaken. Investigation showed that the Central Lumber Company had bought out two competing dealers and immediately raised the price. Locke brought action for Dingle, claiming damages and charging an unlawful combination. He named the Central Lumber Company, its directors, Ackerman, Garwood, and the O. & N. Railway, defendants. It was, in fact, a legal fishing expedition and little more. The object of it was to obtain information looking to an action by Crooks and Kent against the same defendants, with the Peninsular Railway added.
Locke's first intimation that he had drawn blood came in the shape of a visit from Henry J. Beemer, manager of the Peninsular. Beemer offered him the position of general counsel for that railway. The offer was apparently bona fide, and no visible strings dangled from it. Beemer, in fact, was not aware of the Dingle action and was merely carrying out instructions, and he was much surprised when Locke refused the offer.
“But why?” he asked. “It's a good thing.”
“I know it is,” said Locke with a sigh, as he thought of his own rough-and-tumble practice. “Still I can't take it. I don't suppose you are aware of the fact, Beemer, but this is an attempt to buy me up.”
“Nonsense!” said Beemer indignantly. “If we had wanted to buy you we should have done it before. There is no litigation against us now in which you are interested. We make you the offer in good faith, because you are the man for the job.”
“I have litigation pending against Ackerman and Garwood,” the lawyer informed him. “You didn't know that. So, you see, I have to refuse.”
Beemer took his departure, rather indignant at Ackerman for keeping him in the dark. But a few days afterward Hugh Garwood himself walked into Locke's office.
“My name is Garwood,” he announced.
“I know you by sight,” said Locke. “Sit down, Mr. Garwood.”
Garwood sat down and looked at the lawyer from narrowed eyes. His face was an inscrutable mask. “You have made me a defendant in litigation of yours,” he said bluntly. “Why?”
“Because I believe you are financing the Central Lumber Company.”
“Can you prove that?” Garwood asked.
“I think so; at least I can put it up to you to disprove it.”
“Suppose I am financing it,” said Garwood after a pause. “Suppose this man-of-straw, Dingle, gets a judgment and his paltry damages are paid—what then?”
“Then he should be satisfied,” said Locke.
Garwood frowned impatiently. “You are a clever man, Locke. Give me credit for average intelligence, please.”
“Certainly—for much more than the average, Mr. Garwood.”
“Very good. Now I am going to talk plainly. You are promoting this litigation to form a groundwork for more. If you find what you hope to find, you will bring an action against myself and others.”
“Well?”
“Well, I don't want that action brought.”
Locke smiled.
“Understand me, I am not afraid of it; but it might disarrange some of my plans. Now, a certain offer has been made to you. You refused it. Wasn't it big enough?”
“No.”
“In the not improbable event of the fusion of the Peninsular with the O. & N.,” said Garwood slowly, “you might be offered the post of counsel for the amalgamated road.”
“I should refuse that also, for the same reason.”
Garwood threw himself back in his chair.
“Then what do you want?”
“Several things,” said Locke. “I want a fair deal for my clients, Crooks and Kent. I want damages for the outrageous freight rate you made for their injury. They must have cars, hereafter, when they want them. The political ukase forbidding purchases from them must be withdrawn, and the markets must be thrown open to them again. The crooked system of double-check tenders for timber limits must be altered. And generally you must stop hammering these men and using your influence against them.”
Garwood waved an impatient hand. “We are not discussing these things now. Leave them aside. What do you want for yourself?”
“They are not to be left aside. My clients will pay my fees. I can't accept anything from you as matters stand.”
Garwood stared incredulously. “I thought I was dealing with a lawyer,” said he.
“You will be absolutely certain of that in a very short time,” Locke retorted bitingly.
Garwood saw his own mistake immediately. You may make an amusing pun on a man's name or gently insinuate that the majority of the members of the profession to which he belongs are unblushing rascals, and the man may smile: but in his heart he feels like killing you. And so Garwood, who desired to come to terms with Locke if possible, apologized. The lawyer accepted the apology coldly and waited.
“Your demands for your clients are out of the question,” Garwood resumed positively. “We need not discuss them at all. I came here to make an arrangement with you. I have made you an offer which most men would snap at. I ask you again what you want?”
“I have told you,” Locke replied. “I am bound to my clients. That is absolute and final. If you will not recognize their claims I will proceed with the Dingle action and follow it by another, as you infer.”
“I dislike to upset your carefully arranged plans,” said Garwood, “but Dingle will come to you to-morrow, pay your fees, and instruct you to discontinue the action.”
“What?” cried Locke, shaken out of his usual calm. If this were true the enemy had again executed a masterly retreat. It annoyed him exceedingly to be blocked twice by the same trick, although he did not see how he could have helped it.
“As I told you, we don't want litigation just now,” said Garwood. “Without admitting Dingle's claim at all, we considered a settlement the easiest way.”
“No doubt,” said Locke dryly. “Well, you won't be able to buy off the next action. I'll take care of that.”
“You persist in your refusal to make terms?”
“That is a very cool way of putting it,” said Locke. “I tell you now, Garwood, I'm going after you, and when I get you I'll nail your hide to the sunny side of the barn.”
Garwood rose and shook a threatening forefinger at the lawyer. “Remember, if you make trouble for me I'll smash your business. Perhaps you don't think I can. You'll see. Inside a year you won't have a case in any court.”
“You own a couple of judges, don't you?” said Locke cheerfully. “A nice pair they are, too. You think my clients will get the worst of it from them. Of course they will, but I appeal most of their decisions now. You can injure me to some extent, but not as much as you think. Go to it, Garwood. When I get through with you you'll be a discredited man.”
On the whole he considered that he had broken even with the railway magnate. The settlement of the Dingle action was a confession of weakness. When that individual made an apologetic appearance the next day, Locke turned his anger loose and almost kicked him out of the office. Then he sat down and did some really first-class thinking, marshalling all the facts he had, drawing deductions, sorting and arranging, and finally he decided that he had a prima facie case.
Thereupon he brought action against everybody concerned, directly or remotely, in the assault on the business of Kent and Crooks.
Meanwhile Joe Kent was impatient to get back to the woods, but certain business held him. A year before he would have been quite content to pass his evenings at the club, with cards, billiards and the like. Now these seemed strangely futile and inadequate, as did the current conversation of the young men about town. It all struck him as not worth while. He longed for the little log shack with the dully glowing stove within, the winter storm without, and the taciturn MacNutt. As he lay back with a cigar in a luxurious chair he could see the bunk-house filled with the smoke of unspeakable tobacco, the unkempt, weather-hardened men on the “deacon seat,” and the festoons of garments drying above the stove. The smart slang and mild swearing disgusted him. He preferred the ribald, man's-size oaths of the shanty men, the crackling blasphemies which embellished their speech. In fact, though he did not know it, he was passing through a process of change; shedding the lightness of extreme youth, hardening a little, coming to the stature of a man.
Because the club bored him he took to spending his evenings with Jack Crooks. There was a cosey little room with an open fire, a piano, big, worn, friendly easy-chairs, and an atmosphere of home. This was Jack's particular den, to which none but her best friends penetrated. Sometimes Crooks would drop in, smoke a cigar, and spin yarns of logging in the early days; but more often they were alone. Jack played well and sang better; but she made no pretence of entertaining Joe. He was welcome; he might sit and smoke and say nothing if he chose. She sang or played or read or created mysterious things with linen, needle, and silk, as if he were one of the household. On the other hand, if he preferred to talk she was usually equally willing.
One night she sat at the piano and picked minor chords. Joe, sunk in the chair he particularly affected, scowled at the fire and thought of logs. Lately he had thought of little else. He wanted to get back and see the work actually going on. Jack half turned and looked at him.
“He needs cheering up,” she said. “He's thinking of her still.”
“What's that?” said Joe with a start.
“'Tis better to have loved and lost,” she quoted mockingly. “Brace up, Joe.” She often teased him about his temporary infatuation with Edith Garwood, knowing that it did not hurt. She swung about to the piano and her fingers crashed into the keys:
Whin I was jilted by Peggy Flynn,
The heart iv me broke, an' I tuk to gin;
An' I soaked me sowl both night an' day
While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y.
“Arrah-me, arrah-me, arrah-me, ay,
Arrah-me, arrah-me, arrah-me, ay,
Oh, sorra th' cint I saved of me pay
While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y.
But in eighteen hundred an' seventy-three
I went an' married Biddy McGee,
An' th' foine ould woman she was to me
While worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y.
“We'll omit the next thirteen stanzas, Joe. See what your fate might have been:
In eighteen hundred an' eighty-siven,
Poor Biddy died an' she went to Hiven;
An' I was left wid kids eliven
Worrukin' on the railwa-a-a-y.”
“Great Scott, Jack, where did you pick up that old come-all-ye?” Joe interrupted. “You sing it like an Irish section hand.”
“I learned it from one. He was a good friend of mine. Do you want the rest of the verses? There are about seventy, I think.”
“If Biddy is in Heaven, we'll let it go at that,” laughed Joe. “Why don't you sing something touching and sentimental, appropriate to my bereaved condition? By the way, Jack, where is Drew keeping himself? I haven't seen him lately. I was just beginning to feel de trop when he called.”
This was carrying the war into Jack's territory. Young Drew had paid her very pronounced attentions and had recently discontinued them, for a reason which only she and himself knew. The colour flamed into her cheeks.
“Don't talk nonsense! There was no reason why you should feel that way.”
“Hello! You're blushing!” Joe commented.
“I'm not; it's the fire.”
“Is it?” said Joe sceptically. For the first time in his life he regarded her carefully. He had been used to taking Jack for granted, and had paid no more attention to her looks than the average brother pays to those of a younger sister. Now it struck him that she was pretty. Her hair was abundant, brown and glossy; her eyes and skin were clean and clear and healthy, and her small, shapely head was carried with regal uprightness; she was slim and straight and strong and capable. In fact she suddenly dawned upon his accustomed vision in an entirely new way.
“Jack,” said he, and his surprise showed in his voice, “upon my word I believe you are rather good looking!”
She rose and swept him a mock curtsey.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Nice eyes, plenty of hair, and a good figure,” Joe drawled. “I don't blame Drew at all.”
“Now, Joe, quit it. I don't care to be jollied about that.”
“What's sauce for the gander is ditto for the goose. I wasn't aware that there was anything serious”
“There isn't,” Jack snapped, “and there never will be. Will you stop when I ask you to?”
Joe dropped the subject, but eyed her curiously.
“I take it back,” said he after an interval of silence. “Jack, you're absolutely pretty. What have you been doing to yourself?”
“I always was pretty,” Jack declared. “The trouble was with your powers of observation.”
“Likely,” said Joe, and fell silent again. Jack picked up a book and began to read. He watched her idly, pleased by the picture she presented. She fidgeted beneath his gaze.
“I wish you wouldn't stare at me as if I were a recently discovered species,” she exclaimed at last.
“Now I wonder,” said he, “why I never noticed it before.”
Jack dimpled charmingly. “I want to tell you, young man, that you are singularly dense. Even dad knows what I look like.”
“So do Inow,” said Joe. “I suppose I've been thinking of you as a little girl. Great Scott!” He shook his head, puzzled by his blindness. Jack's eyes twinkled and her dimples became pronounced. She was enjoying his discovery greatly. Presently she said:
“When do you go up to Wind River?”
“As soon as I can—in a day or two, anyway.” A slight frown drew lines between his eyes. “I ought to be up there now. Not that I can tell MacNutt anything about his job, of course. But there's that outfit of McCane's! No telling what they will be up to next. And then I ought to go round to the other camps and see how there're making it. We want a main drive of twenty-five or thirty million this year. Got to have it. Yes, I ought to be on the spot.”
He was talking to himself rather than to her, and the boyishness had vanished from his voice and manner. He was the man of affairs, the executive head, thinking, planning, immersed in his business.
Jack was quick to recognize the change.
“You need the logs, don't you, Joe?”
“I'll smash without 'em, sure. Twenty million feet delivered at Wismer & Holden's booms by July 1st. Not a day later. Then I can lift the notes, square my overdraft, and meet the mortgage payments. If I don't—well, my credit is strained pretty badly now.”
“You'll pull through, Joe. I know you will.”
Her hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up abstractedly and saw her standing beside him. Mechanically his hand reached up and closed on hers. At the contact he felt a little thrill, and something stirred within him. It was the first time he had touched her hand since childhood, save in greeting or farewell. And her touch was the first of understanding human sympathy he had had since called upon to hoe his own row. He vibrated to it responsively.
“You're a good little sport, Jack,” he said gratefully and pressed her hand.
There was a discreet knock at the door.
“Telegram for you, Joe,” said Jack, taking the yellow envelope from the maid.
“May I?” said Joe, and tore it open. His face became a thunder-cloud. He bit back the words that rose to his lips.
“What is it?” asked Jack anxiously. “Not bad news?”
“Couldn't be much worse.” He held out the slip of yellow paper. She read:
Camp burnt out. McCane's crew. Wire instructions.
Joe tore a leaf from a note-book and scribbled:
Hold men together and build new camp. Rushing supplies. Coming at once.
“I've got to have that camp going again in a week,” said he grimly. “That means hustle. I shan't see you again before I go up.”
“You're going yourself,” she said with approval. “Good boy, Joe. Oh, how I wish I were a man!”
“If you were I'd have you for a partner,” he declared. “But I'm glad you're not. I like you best this way. Good-bye, little girl, and thanks for many pleasant evenings. I'll tell you all about the war when I come back.”
In spite of Joe's misfortune Jack went upstairs that night with a light step, humming the refrain of the last stanza of her father's favourite song:
When the drive comes dow-un, when the jam comes down,
What makes yeez lads so wishful-eyed as we draw near to town?
Other eyes is soft an' bright like the stars of a June night—
Wives an' sweethearts—prayin' waitin'—as we drive the river down.
(Oh, ye divils!)
God bless the eyes that shine for us when we boil into town.
“Other eyes is soft an' bright;” she crooned to her white-clad reflection as she braided the great coils of glossy brown hair. “To think Joe has just found out that my eyes are bright. Charlie Drew knew it long ago. How stupid some boys are!”
Meanwhile Wright and Locke were swearing angrily as they read the telegram, while Joe told them of his determination to rebuild at once.
“That's the talk,” said Wright.
“I'll sue Clancy Brothers at once,” said Locke. “I believe they can be made liable. Anyway, it will have a good moral effect. And when you get the names of the men who did the burning I'll have them arrested.”
“I don't think I'll bother about law,” said Joe.
Locke stared at him in surprise.
“Because the way I feel now,” young Kent continued, “I think as soon as I can spare the time I'll take a bunch of bully-boys and run them out of the woods.”