Rev. Nathan Stubbs, the camp preacher, journeyed back and forth from one camp to the other. He did not sleep in any of the camps but repaired each night to some isolated shack he had fixed up for himself somewhere in the fastnesses of Nannabijou Mountain. He seemed to purposely avoid Hammond, as he did most of the executives of the limits, and a feature that struck the young man as rather odd was that he never saw Ogima Bush or the Rev. Nathan Stubbs and Acey Smith together or even in the camp at the one time, though the Medicine Man frequently inquired as to the superintendent’s whereabouts and on such occasions immediately struck off as though he had an appointment with him some-where. It was plain that Acey Smith looked upon the preacher as a pest and insisted on him making himself scarce when he was about camp; as for the Medicine Man, there seemed to be some understanding between him and the superintendent whereby the former was quite confident of his status and privileges anywhere on the limits.
There was something queer—so queer as to be absolutely uncanny—about this gigantic pulp camp. Hammond could see that every intelligent worker in it sensed this, but nobody understood it or could tangibly grasp a glimmer of what it was. The morale among the cutting gangs, teamsters and boom workers could scarcely be improved upon. Men who shirked their work lost the regard of their fellows and either soon learned to put their best into their efforts or left camp. The North Star Company held the reputation of paying and feeding their employés better than any other outfit in the north country. There were camp hospitals with camp doctors and competent men nurses; it was even said that no man was docked for lost time while he was really sick. Incidentally, there were no evidences of iron discipline or slave-driving methods. But everywhere among the men and their petty executives there was an undercurrent of something akin to superstitious awe of the company and those who directed its affairs.
Acey Smith himself seemed to be obsessed with this same haunting apprehension. When he issued orders he did so more like one who is interpreting definite commands from elsewhere. As Sandy Macdougal analysed it to Hammond after his own peculiar fashion, “one felt as though the whole show was being run by some one or something that didn’t cast a shadow.”
III
His enforced idleness brought a notion to the young ex-newspaper man that he could improve his time by writing, even if it were only a diary of his experiences. He felt he must have something to occupy his time besides roaming over the tote roads and riding around in the fussy little gasoline tugs of the boom-tenders, so, early one morning he presented himself at Acey Smith’s office and boldly asked if he might have some loose writing paper. Acey Smith quite readily complied with his wishes, going to the rear of his office and bringing to Hammond several pads of blank sheets.
“I had been expecting you to come around for this,” he said, the ghost of an exultant flicker playing at the corners of his mouth. “The ruling hobby will force itself to the surface sooner or later, won’t it, Mr. Hammond?”
“Meaning just what?”
“Just this: Set a man at doing nothing long enough and habit will drive him back to the haunts of his old rut—especially if that rut is writing for publication.”
Hammond illy-suppressed a start at this broad hint at knowledge of his identity. “I have no designs for writing anything for publication, if that’s what you’re driving at,” he, however, came back frankly.
“I have not the remotest notion that you will,” Acey Smith assured him with a tinge of sarcasm in his tones. “In fact, I am quite confident that for the present you won’t reach a publisher.”