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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.

"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.

"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?" "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."

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.

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 footman, 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.

"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.

He also hunted up Tom North and others of the older men domiciled in the cheap boarding-houses of Hell's Half-Mile, talked with them, and verified his own impressions. Together, 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.

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. "Here!" he cried, "quit that! I'll have ye arrested!" "Arrest ahead," replied Orde coldly. Reed stormed back and forth for a moment, then departed at full speed up the road.

"Look out," the Rough Red warned Orde, who was methodically 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 looking up. He was just making the last turns.

"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," concluded 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."