Gildersleeve ignored the question. “Now that I’m back,” he remarked, “I’m anxious to see the pulp and paper mill get under way in time. By the way, Slack, how is the North Star getting on with the poles?”
“Swimmingly, swimmingly,” repeated the politician. “Nannabijou Bay is jammed almost to the last inch with timber. Away over the contract cut, I believe.”
“That’s fine. How about delivery?”
“Starts next week, soon as we get the last of our dredging contracts off our hands,” replied Slack. “We’ll have our whole fleet of equipment on the job.”
“Then there’s nothing in this talk that is going around of a strike among your tugmen?”
“Absolutely nothing,” emphatically assured Slack. “The North Star never had a strike in its history. The men tried to put up a bluff of going out, at the instigation of a nest of agitators, but they’ll never go out—they know better than to try any of that stuff on us. See you later, Gildersleeve.”
Gildersleeve’s eyes trailed after Slack’s retreating figure in a fixed, hard glitter. “When Ananias quit the job, he never dreamed he would have so illustrious a successor,” he commented grimly. “Slack’s one grand qualification for the presidency of the North Star is his magnificent ability as an unmitigated liar.”
The meal progressed in comparative silence. It was after they had retired to the privacy of a side room that Hammond, prompted by curiosity he had until now curbed, asked casually: “By the way, Mr. Winch, what became of the camp preacher you bailed out this afternoon—the Rev. Nathan Stubbs?”
Winch looked at Gildersleeve and they both smiled cynically. “He has disappeared—vanished in thin air, as you might say,” enlightened Winch.
“And left you in the air with bail?”