The words died in his throat. Sprawled across the log carrier near one of the huge circular saws was the inert body of a man. The fire had almost reached it, but Bainbridge plunged forward without faltering. Through heat that singed hair and eyebrows, and seemed to sear his lungs with the breath of death he plunged. Stooping, he grasped the unconscious man by the shoulders, and dragged him across the floor. He could not retreat as he had come. He did not try. He was making for the opening to the runway or chute over which logs were yanked up from the river. This was rather steep and slippery, and he was forced to change his grip on the man. An instant later he gave a cry of amazement as he recognized the blackened, bloody features of his own riverman.
But there was not a second to lose in speculation as to what Curly was doing here. The glare of the burning building lit up the whole river, and already from the other side came cries of arriving villagers. He could see them running; doubtless many of them saw him as he paused in the fire-lit arch of the chute with the unconscious youth in his arms.
“It’s a swim for it,” he muttered, glancing at Kollock. “Not much of a one, but mighty cold. Reckon we’ll be on our way.”
Hoisting Kollock over his shoulder, he stepped into the log-polished trough. For a fraction of a second he seemed to stand motionless, straight as a dart, a striking figure against that background of lurid crimson. Then, still remaining upright, he shot downward at an angle like a person sliding on ice, to plunge with a great splash into the icy water.
CHAPTER XVI. THE VERGE OF RUIN
Stepping hastily from his car, John Tweedy hurried across the sidewalk, and entered the lobby of the Bangor House. His plump face had an oddly sunken, pasty look. The jowls were pendulous, and there were dark rings under the eyes. His whole manner, in fact, was that of a man on the verge of a nervous collapse, holding himself together by sheer determination of will.
Inside the door he paused a moment, staring almost furtively to right and left, as if the ruin he knew to be so imminent was already a matter of public knowledge and comment. The fairly well-filled lobby held a number of familiar faces, whose owners either did not or would not see the stout man. Tweedy made sure that the slight was intentional, and a nervous tremor quivered on his lips.
“Bah!” he muttered, hastening on toward the desk, “They’re beginning to cut me. After the fire last night they think I’m out for more credit. It’s the beginning of the end.”
To his supersensitive mind the very desk clerk, who had so often laughed obsequiously at the lumber magnate’s jokes and pocketed with effusive thanks his expensive cigars, delayed purposely in attending him. It was the subtle impertinence of an inferior which seems to cut so much more deeply than any other kind, and it stung Tweedy into a momentary flash of his old spirit.
“Griggs!” he snapped, in a voice which brought the clerk instantly forward. “I have an appointment to meet Mr. Bainbridge here at twelve,” he went on, transfixing the young man with an icy stare. “Has he left any word for me?”