“From Mr. Tweedy, sir.”
The young lumberman ripped it open without a premonition of the blow in store for him. It was natural for Tweedy to write. He would be reporting his success in the matter of credit, of course, and probably gloating over the amount of manufactured lumber he had sold in so short a time. Bainbridge noted that it had been written in the Bangor office the night before. Then, settling himself by the fire, he proceeded to read:
Dear Bobby: It’s all up with us, boy. We’re done, and we may as well admit it first as last and make what terms we can with the gang. I can’t get credit anywhere. Crane’s been ahead of me and spilled the beans each time. What’s more, Gastich absolutely refuses to renew that note. Says he must have the cash for some stocks he’s carrying, and all that; but you know what it means. It’s due in less than a week, and I can’t for the life of me see an earthly way of scraping the money together. Last of all—and worst of all—I haven’t been able to make a single sale of lumber for the simple reason that the trust has cut prices below cost and has taken every customer from us. If I cut to meet them they go lower. You can see that. They’ve got the stock and the resources. Crane’s set out to ruin us at any cost, and he’s succeeded. It hurts like sin to say it, boy, but there’s nothing left to do but give in and make the best terms we can. Let me hear from you at once. Yours ever, John Tweedy.
CHAPTER XI. NO QUITTER
The letter dropped into Bob’s lap, and for a long minute he sat staring into the yellow, dancing flames. His face was blank, and just a little white, for the blow had been a heavy one, and totally unexpected. He could not seem to understand it. It was unbelievable that he and Tweedy, who had been fair and square in every one of their business dealings, could be forced to the wall by such a monster of corruption as Elihu Crane.
There must be some mistake. Tweedy must have been thrown into one of his unjustifiable panics. That was it, of course.
Bob picked up the letter to read it carefully again.
He perused it to the last word, and then leaned back against the sapling, his face drawn and somber. It really did not sound like a mistake. It was all clear and logical, and singularly cohesive. It was the sort of thing Crane would delight in planning and putting into execution—the cutting of prices on a competitor. Tweedy had written that if they attempted to cut under the trust’s present rates, there would be a further reduction. That was quite true. Bob knew, because he had had a vast deal of experience with the trust’s method of doing business. They would ruin him, no matter how great the cost, because he was dangerous to their continued well-being. With Bainbridge in the ring, and fighting vigorously against the graft and wholesale theft of timberlands, those juicy melon cuttings which had been so pleasing to the stockholders would cease—therefore Bainbridge must go.
Presently Bob’s eyes fell again to the letter, and somehow that single sentence seemed to stand out as if written in capitals: “It hurts like sin to say it, boy, but there’s nothing left to do but give in and make the best terms we can.”
For a second Bob stared, the blood rushing into his face, a crimson flood. Make terms with Crane? Go on his knees to that scoundrel, who had long ago parted with the last shred of decency and self-respect? Not much!