Later he would paddle the whole string to Marquette, where he would sell them to a hardware dealer for two dollars and a half apiece.
To Thorpe, who had walked on ahead with his foreman, it seemed that he had never been away.There was the knoll; the rude camp with the deer hides; the venison hanging suspended from the pole; the endless broil and tumult of the clear north-country stream; the yellow glow over the hill opposite.Yet he had gone a nearly penniless adventurer;he returned at the head of an enterprise.
Injin Charley looked up and grunted as Thorpe approached.
"How are you, Charley?" greeted Thorpe reticently.
"You gettum pine? Good!" replied Charley in the same tone.
That was all; for strong men never talk freely of what is in their hearts.There is no need; they understand.
Chapter XXXI
Two months passed away.Winter set in.The camp was built and inhabited.Routine had established itself, and all was going well.
The first move of the M.& D.Company had been one of conciliation.
Thorpe was approached by the walking-boss of the camps up-river.The man made no reference to or excuse for what had occurred, nor did he pretend to any hypocritical friendship for the younger firm.His proposition was entirely one of mutual advantage.The Company had gone to considerable expense in constructing the pier of stone cribs.
It would be impossible for the steamer to land at any other point.
Thorpe had undisputed possession of the shore, but the Company could as indisputably remove the dock.Let it stay where it was.Both companies could then use it for their mutual convenience.
To this Thorpe agreed.Baker, the walking-boss, tried to get him to sign a contract to that effect.Thorpe refused.
"Leave your dock where it is and use it when you want to," said he."I'll agree not to interfere as long as you people behave yourselves."The actual logging was opening up well.Both Shearer and Thorpe agreed that it would not do to be too ambitious the first year.
They set about clearing their banking ground about a half mile below the first dam; and during the six weeks before snow-fall cut three short roads of half a mile each.Approximately two million feet would be put in from these--roads which could be extended in years to come--while another million could be travoyed directly to the landing from its immediate vicinity.
"We won't skid them," said Tim."We'll haul from the stump to the bank.And we'll tackle only a snowroad proposition:--we ain't got time to monkey with buildin' sprinklers and plows this year.We'll make a little stake ahead, and then next year we'll do it right and get in twenty million.That railroad'll get along a ways by then, and men'll be more plenty."Through the lengthening evenings they sat crouched on wooden boxes either side of the stove, conversing rarely, gazing at one spot with a steady persistency which was only an outward indication of the persistency with which their minds held to the work in hand.
Tim, the older at the business, showed this trait more strongly than Thorpe.The old man thought of nothing but logging.From the stump to the bank, from the bank to the camp, from the camp to the stump again, his restless intelligence travelled tirelessly, picking up, turning over, examining the littlest details with an ever-fresh curiosity and interest.Nothing was too small to escape this deliberate scrutiny.Nothing was in so perfect a state that it did not bear one more inspection.He played the logging as a chess player his game.One by one he adopted the various possibilities, remote and otherwise, as hypotheses, and thought out to the uttermost copper rivet what would be the best method of procedure in case that possibility should confront him.
Occasionally Thorpe would introduce some other topic of conversation.
The old man would listen to his remark with the attention of courtesy;would allow a decent period of silence to intervene; and then, reverting to the old subject without comment on the new, would emit one of his terse practical suggestions, result of a long spell of figuring.That is how success is made.
In the men's camp the crew lounged, smoked, danced, or played cards.
In those days no one thought of forbidding gambling.One evening Thorpe, who had been too busy to remember Phil's violin,--although he noticed, as he did every other detail of the camp, the cripple's industry, and the precision with which he performed his duties,--strolled over and looked through the window.A dance was in progress.
The men were waltzing, whirling solemnly round and round, gripping firmly each other's loose sleeves just above the elbow.At every third step of the waltz they stamped one foot.
Perched on a cracker box sat Phil.His head was thrust forward almost aggressively over his instrument, and his eyes glared at the dancing men with the old wolf-like gleam.As he played, he drew the bow across with a swift jerk, thrust it back with another, threw his shoulders from one side to the other in abrupt time to the music.And the music! Thorpe unconsciously shuddered; then sighed in pity.It was atrocious.It was not even in tune.Two out of three of the notes were either sharp or flat, not so flagrantly as to produce absolute disharmony, but just enough to set the teeth on edge.And the rendition was as colorless as that of a poor hand-organ.
The performer seemed to grind out his fearful stuff with a fierce delight, in which appeared little of the esthetic pleasure of the artist.Thorpe was at a loss to define it.
"Poor Phil," he said to himself."He has the musical soul without even the musical ear!"Next day, while passing out of the cook camp he addressed one of the men:
