“Bekase he’ll put in the logs. He can drive a crew, drunk or sober.”
“I thought liquor wasn’t allowed in the camps?”
“No more it is—in most.”
“I suppose,” said Mr. Ackerman casually, “that if whiskey got into Kent’s camp his work would suffer?”
John Clancy eyed him keenly. “Two an’ two makes four,” he said oracularly. “What are ye drivin’ at? Put it in plain words.”
Mr. Ackerman put it as plainly as his bias in favour of indirect speech would permit. Clancy considered with pursed mouth.
“These things works both ways,” he said. “A loggin’ war, wanst started bechune two camps, means hell an’ docthers’ bills to pay, to say nawthin’ of lost time. What would we get out of it?”
Mr. Ackerman told him, prudently sinking his voice to little more than a whisper, and Clancy’s eyes glistened.
“Them’s good contracts,” he commented. “I’ll speak to Finn. He has it in for Kent.”
This partial assurance seemed to satisfy Mr. Ackerman. “Is Kent still delivering lumber under your contract?” he asked.