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Updated: May 22, 2025
Even Dan Devore, experienced mountaineer and guide that he was, had only been to Cascade Pass once, and that was sixteen years before. He had never been across the divide. "Silent Lawrie" Lindsley, the naturalist, had been only part-way down the Agnes Creek Valley, which we intended to follow. Only in a general way had we any itinerary at all. Now a National Forest is a happy hunting-ground.
"It is your understanding, then," he said, "that the plot against the President will not be tried until after the grand assault?" "That is my understanding of the matter, sir," Hal replied. "Good! In the meantime, then, we shall have time to take care of that." He turned to another of his officers. "Colonel Devore," he said, "you will see that these two lads are given suitable quarters."
It was from Chelan that we were to make our start. Long before we arrived, Dan Devore and the packers were getting the outfit ready. Yet the first glimpse of Chelan was not attractive. We had motored half a day through that curious, semi-arid country, which, when irrigated, proves the greatest of all soils in the world for fruit-raising.
"Don't," he was told. "I tried it. Know what happened?" "Go ahead." "He got the regional director on the communicator. I've been transferred to Outpost. They seem to need a cable maintenance chief up there. And I was lucky at that. I started to protest, and they nearly had me for insubordination." Abruptly, Kirk cut away. DeVore stared unseeingly across the desk.
And that would be the day of days! DeVore turned in at the door to his own office, crossed the room, and sat down at his desk. To be sure, he could request a share of the fees from Central, and they'd make an award. But they'd never award more than fifty per cent, and it'd be hard to get that much. That was no good. The Old Man would want the same payments he'd been getting.
"The old ... wouldn't understand if he did." DeVore grinned. "See what you mean. Well, guess I'm the next victim." He stepped to the door and tapped. "Come in." Morely looked up as his Fiscal Chief entered, then swept some papers aside. "Well, what do you want?" DeVore held out the letter. "You wanted to see me, sir, about this."
And while we were doing this Devore framed a triple-deck, black-face head. So we missed only one mail. The first page had a ragged, sloppy look, but anyway we were saved from being scooped to death on the most important story of the year.
But he still insisted on either communicator calls or personal contact when he wished to talk to any of his people. And he discouraged any but essential use of the communicator system, generally demanding that people come in to see him. DeVore wrinkled his face disgustedly. It was hard to communicate with the district leader by means of a headband.
I have not the faintest idea of what this means. The spleen is, I believe, an internal organ whose functions are very imperfectly understood, still it is an accepted article of faith in France that every Briton is "devore de spleen," and that this lamentable state of things embitters his whole outlook on life, and casts a black shadow over his existence.
Coming along, he had thought up a full sonorous one, with a biblical injunction touching on the wages of sin embodied in it; but, on the other hand, there was to be borne in mind the daily-dinned injunction of Devore that every important news item should begin with a sentence in which the whole story was summed up. Finally Major Stone made a beginning. He covered nearly a sheet of paper.
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