that very day John Grier started back to Montreal. He arrived in about four days, and when he came, found everything in order. He went straight from his home to the mill and there found Carnac in control.
“Had trouble, eh, Carnac?” he asked with a grin, after a moment of greeting. Carnac shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.
“It’s the first strike I ever had in my mills, and I hope it will be the last. I don’t believe in knuckling down to labour tyranny, and I’m glad you kept your hand steady. There’ll be no more strikes in my mills—I’ll see to that!”
“They’ve only just begun, and they’ll go on, father. It’s the influence of Canucs who have gone to the factories of Maine. They get bitten there with the socialistic craze, and they come back and make trouble. This strike was started by Luc Baste, a French-Canadian, who had been in Maine. You can’t stop these things by saying so. There was no strike among Belloc’s men!”
“No, but did you have no trouble with Belloc’s men?”
Carnac told him of the death of the Grier man after the collision, of his own arrest and fine of twenty-five cents and of the attitude of the public and the Press. The old man was jubilant. “Say, you did the thing in style. It was the only way to do it. You landed ’em with the protest fair and easy. You’re going to be a success in the business, I can see that.”
Carnac for a moment looked at his father meditatively. Then, seeing the surprise in John Grier’s face, he said: “No, I’m not going to be a success in it, for I’m not going on with it. I’ve had enough. I’m through.”
“You’ve had enough—you’re through—just when you’ve proved you can do things as well as I can do them! You ain’t going on! Great Jehoshaphat!”
“I mean it; I’m not going on. I’m going to quit in another month. I can’t stick it. It galls me. It ain’t my job. I do it, but it’s artificial, it ain’t the real thing. My heart isn’t in it as yours is, and I’d go mad if I had to do this all my life. It’s full of excitement at times, it’s hard work, it’s stimulating when you’re fighting, but other times it’s deadly dull and bores me stiff. I feel as though I were pulling a train of cars.”
Slowly the old man’s face reddened with anger. “It bores you stiff, eh? It’s deadly dull at times! There’s only interest in it when there’s a fight on, eh? You’re right; you’re not fit for the job, never was and never will be while your mind is what it is. Don’t take a month to go, don’t take a week, or a day, go this morning after I’ve got your report on what’s been done. It ain’t the real thing, eh? No, it ain’t. It’s no place for you. Tell me all there is to tell, and get out; I’ve had enough too, I’ve had my fill. ‘It bores me stiff’!”
John Grier was in a rage, and he would listen to no explanation. “Come now, out with your report.”
Carnac was not upset. He kept cool. “No need to be so crusty,” he said.
CHAPTER VI. LUKE TARBOE HAS AN OFFER
Many a man behind his horses’ tails on the countryside has watched the wild reckless life of the water with wonder and admiration. He sees a cluster of logs gather and climb, and still gather and climb, and between him and that cluster is a rolling waste of timber, round and square.
Suddenly, a being with a red shirt, with loose prairie kind of hat, knee-boots, having metal clamps, strikes out from the shore, running on the tops of the moving logs till he reaches the jam. Then the pike-pole, or the lever, reaches the heart of the difficulty, and presently the jam breaks, and the logs go tumbling into the main, while the vicious-looking berserker of the water runs back to the shore over the logs, safe and sound. It is a marvel to the spectator, that men should manipulate the river so. To him it is a life apart; not belonging to the life he lives-a passing show.
It was a stark surprise of the river which makes this story possible. There was a strike at Bunder’s Boom—as it was called—between Bunder and Grier’s men. Some foreman of Grier’s gang had been needlessly offensive. Bunder had been stupidly resentful. When Grier’s men had tried to force his hand also, he had resisted. It chanced that, when an impasse seemed possible to be broken only by force, a telegram came to John Grier at Montreal telling him of the difficulty. He lost no time in making his way northwards.
But some one else had come upon the scene. It was Luke Tarboe. He had arrived at a moment when the Belloc river crowd had almost wrecked Bunder’s Boom, and when a collision between the two gangs seemed inevitable. What he did remained a river legend. By good temper and adroitness, he reconciled the leaders of the two gangs; he bought the freedom of the river by a present to Bunder’s daughter; he won Bunder by four bottles of “Three Star” brandy. When the police from a town a hundred miles away arrived at the same time as John Grier, it was to find the Grier and Belloc gangs peacefully prodding side by side.
When the police had gone, John Grier looked Tarboe up and down. The brown face, the clear, strong brown eyes and the brown hatless head rose up eighteen inches above his own, making a gallant summit to a robust stalk.
“Well, you’ve done easier things than that in your time, eh?” John Grier asked.
Tarboe nodded. “It was touch and go. I guess it was the hardest thing I ever tried since I’ve been working for you, but it’s come off all right, hasn’t it?” He waved a hand to the workmen on the river, to the tumbling rushes of logs and timber. Then he looked far up the stream, with hand shading his brown eyes to where a crib-or raft-was following the eager stream of logs. “It’s easy going now,” he added, and his face had a look of pleasure.
“What’s your position, and what’s your name?” asked John Grier.
“I’m head-foreman of the Skunk Nest’s gang—that’s this lot, and I got here—just in time! I don’t believe you could have done it, Mr. Grier. No master is popular in the real sense with his men. I think they’d have turned you down. So it was lucky I came.”
A faint smile hovered at his lips, and his eyes brooded upon the busy gangs of men. “Yes, I’ve had a lot of luck this time. There’s nothing like keeping your head cool and your belly free from drink.” Now he laughed broadly. “By gosh, it’s all good! Do you know, Mr. Grier, I came out here a wreck eight years ago. I left Montreal then with a spot in my lungs, that would kill me, they said. I’ve never seen Montreal since, but I’ve had a good time out in the woods, in the shanties in the winters; on the rivers in the summer. I’ve only been as far East as this in eight years.”
“What do you do in the winter, then?”
“Shanties-shanties all the time. In the summer this; in the Fall taking the men back to the shanties. Bossing the lot; doing it from love of the life that’s been given back to me. Yes, this is the life that makes you take things easy. You don’t get fussed out here. The job I had took a bit of doing, but it was done, and I’m lucky to have my boss see the end of it.”
He smiled benignly upon John Grier. He knew he was valuable to the Grier organization; he knew that Grier had heard of him under another name. Now Grier had seen him, and he felt he would like to tell John Grier some things about the river he ought to know. He waved a hand declining the cigar offered him by his great chief.
“Thanks, I don’t smoke, and I don’t drink, and I don’t chew; but I eat—by gosh, I eat! Nothing’s so good as good food, except good reading.”
“Good reading!” exclaimed John Grier. “Good reading—on the river!”
“Well, it’s worked all right, and I read a lot. I get books from Montreal, from the old library at the University.”
“At what University?” struck in the lumber-king. “Oh, Laval! I wouldn’t