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"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 hundred 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."
Bob rode home through the forest, singing at the top of his voice. When he met his father, near the lower meadow, he greeted the older man boisterously. "That," said Orde to him shrewdly, "sounds to me mighty like relief. Have you decided for or against?" "For," said Bob. "It's a fine chance for me to do just what I've always wanted to do to work hard at what interests me and satisfies me."
Orde breathed deep of a new satisfaction in walking again the streets of this little sandy, sawdust-paved, shantyfied 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.
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.
Matters stood thus dependent on the efforts of Jack Orde, at Washington, when, one evening, Baker rode in to camp and dismounted before the low verandah of the sleeping quarters. Welton and Bob sat, chair-tilted, awaiting the supper gong. "Thrice hail, noble chiefs!" cried Baker, cautiously stretching out first one sturdy leg, then the other. "Against which post can I lean my trusty charger?"
"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."
You know your clothes aren't quite the thing, and I thought your manner was queer, and all that. I was a cad. I want to apologise. 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!" Orde smiled slowly.
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 refreshed, 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 cheerfully.
"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.
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. Nothing could induce the cook to attempt the logs. "What is it, Charlie?" asked Orde, leaping ashore and stamping the loose water from his boots.
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