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Updated: May 16, 2025
We've lost hundreds of acres by fire already." "My yarn's the same." Jean nodded and turned back to the fire. "Say," he went on, "have you heard of the things going on? The thing that's happening?" "You mean the outfit working it?" "Yes. It's a political labour gang. Leastways that's the talk of 'em. They call 'em 'Bolshies, whatever that means. They're chasing these forests through.
"Come, you don't think the Bolshies are as strong as all that, do you?" Mr. Waddington brought his fist down on the arm of his chair. "I know they are," he said.
"Pretty near, miss. There's a great piece of timber across the line. Luckily the driver saw it and just pulled up in time, and a miss is as good as a mile, isn't it?" "How horrible!" ejaculated Nan. "Who d'you think put it there?" "One of they Bolshies, I expect. We've got more of them in England than we've any need for." "I hope you'll soon get the line clear?"
M. Kratzky's well-earned nickname, "Butcher of Odessa," was freely hurled at him, and the Slavs present were all in an uproar, as Slavs will be if you excite them. Gravely, from a little way off, a group of Japanese looked on. "Obviously," the Times murmured discreetly, "the Bolshies think attack the best form of self-defence. I'm much mistaken if they don't know something of this business."
And as he did so a sound reached him from the outer office, which had long since been closed for the night by the half-breed, Loale. He leapt to his feet. Without a second thought he moved over to the door and flung it wide. "What the ?" He broke off. "Good God!" he cried. "You, Father?" He laughed. "Why I thought it was some of the Bolshies from down at the mill."
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