Whatever his reflections on the matter may have been on that windy afternoon, his pacing suddenly came to an abrupt stop as he caught, out of the corner of an eye, a dark object rising and falling in the seas to the west. He peered fixedly as it topped the next wave. Sure enough, it was a tug—but it was not coming from the direction of Duluth.
Others came running down to the docks from divers directions to gaze upon it with excited comment and conjecture. There had not been a tug at the dock in days; not since the strike had been called.
The great craft lifted valiantly against the flailing seas until its plume, its stack and the dark hulk of its high forward freeboard were plainly discernible. It whistled with what seemed a jubilant note before it rounded into the gap of the bay.
Gildersleeve started in pure amazement. On its smokestack and in the centre of the sinister little blue-black flag at its bow were the fiery-red, five-pointed stars that designated the North Star fleet.
It went up a yell from the rabble on the docks. It was answered with a shout from the men crowded on the bow of the tug. Lumberjacks came pouring down from the camp and the woods everywhere. There was the electric tension in the air that obtains when man-packs sense that magic monster known as News.
The crowd yelled and the tug’s siren screamed.
“Hurr-r-rah for the Big Boss—he settled it!”
“Hurr-r-rah for A-c-e-y Smith!”
And with the slogan went up a shout that shook the woods. Bucksaw men, axe men and river men danced ridiculous capers on the landing, jostling against each other and firing their woollen caps high in air. It was an ovation such as the demagogue, Slack, would have pawned his soul for—a tribute from pent up spirits who, in their hearts of hearts, had steadfastly believed when the worst came to the worst the Big Boss would range himself on the side of his men. So much for what they call personal magnetism.