My companion bade me note the “suction box.” This was a gap in a metal cylinder, and as the material ran over that gap it was sucked inward, with consequent loss of moisture. Now watch its gliding, serpentine course over thirty cylinders, heated by steam, until, finally—as dry, warm, immaculate paper—it is wound into rolls of from four to five miles. Its journey has been to and fro, back and turn, for the cylinders are ranged in double and treble tiers; yet but a minute or so elapses between the fluid state and the finished stage, each caterpillar reeling off paper at the pace of 525 feet per minute.
I have forgotten how many tons of J. R. Booth’s paper are now absorbed by England, what quantity goes to the States, and the proportion consumed in Canada; but I remember that thirty-nine rolls make a car-load, and that those destined for an ocean voyage are furnished with an extra wrapper and have their edges protected by burlap hessian.
To be talking with the Lumber King is to find yourself in the presence of a man unlike anyone you have ever met before, the reason being that J. R. Booth is content to be J. R. Booth. As a matter of fact, everybody is unlike everybody else; but the average mortal disguises his personality with conventionalities of manner, so that only after a while, and from chance clues, do you “get to know him.” J. R. Booth is natural and genuine even at a first acquaintance; in this respect, as in others, being a conspicuous example of a national virtue. For, whereas the island-bred Briton loves to present a surface of polished veneer, the Canadian is satisfied to be solid oak.
To have briskly opened the door, to have entered the office graciously smiling, to have uttered a few formal words of welcome—that is how it would have been with most people. That is not how it was with J. R. Booth. Sitting sideways at the corner of the table, I did not know he had arrived until, on turning, I found him, with head thoughtfully bent, quietly seated at right angles to me. A bearing so devoid of pretence wins instant confidence and respect, if at first it be a little disconcerting.
It was left to me to start the conversation, and I plunged into some unpremeditated talk about trees. What was the best sort for paper-making? Hemlock, he explained, was good, but any kind of hard timber would do if it hadn’t gum in it. Gum prevented the acid penetrating the fibre. Couldn’t they extract the gum? Yes; they were learning how to do that, and paper had been made from pitch pine after the turpentine and gum were extracted. Did his own processes yield any by-products? Well, a good deal of gummy substance came out of spruce during the cooking process, but it was mixed with the acid, and a market for it had not been found. “Except for the acid,” said J. R. Booth thoughtfully, “it would make good chewing-gum.”
In an interrogatory spirit, I mentioned the great trees of British Columbia. But the old man shook his head. There was, it seemed, a great deal of pitch in them. “I don’t know of any place in the world,” he added, “where, for softness and lightness and durability, you would get anything to match our white pines.”
But all this time—as the keen blue eyes seemed fully aware—my questions were unrelated to the matter uppermost in my mind. I really did not feel curious about the trees. It was not my intention to start a rival pulp and paper mill. I was not even proposing to write a treatise on the subject. My desire was to gain some clues to the working of an abnormal business brain. I sought to lead the conversation in that direction.
How much paper did he make? One hundred tons a day, and about forty tons of cardboard. How many hands did he employ? In summer, 2,400 at the mills, and very nearly as many more in the woods. Then I gave tongue to my thoughts.
“Paper-making is obviously a very delicate and complex matter,” I said. “How came you to strike out in that new direction at the age of eighty, and when you already had such vast undertakings to engage your attention?”
Had I asked him the time, he could not have replied with greater readiness or in a tone more matter of fact.