The younger man concealed his amazement in a quiet “Thank you.”
“Better take the first tug in the morning,” suggested Acey Smith. “There’s a possibility of the afternoon tugs being off the run.”
“Oh, well, the following day will do as well,” returned the elated Hammond. “My business in the city is not so pressing that a day’s delay will matter.”
The superintendent passed Hammond his cigarette case and lit a cigarette himself. “I’d take the early tug to-morrow if I were you,” he insisted quietly. “There’s no telling what may happen the tug service between here and the city after to-morrow.”
“You’re not thinking of laying up the boats?”
“No—not us.” Smith studied Hammond idly, a curious, not unfriendly frown puckering his brows as he added: “Playing Sir Galahad seems to impair a journalist’s nose for news, doesn’t it, Hammond?”
That shot went home under the skin, but before Hammond could frame a rejoinder Acey Smith spoke up again. “I was going to say,” he remarked, “that should the tugs not be running when you are ready to return from the city that pass will be good on any make-shift service the company inaugurates to take the place of the big boats. Incidentally, I am leaving myself to-morrow on a trip to Montreal, and I’ll not be returning to camp for several days or perhaps a week. For the meantime, I have instructed Mr. Mooney, the assistant superintendent, to take care of your wants while our guest.”
Hammond was somewhat nettled by all this new show of attention and hospitality. He felt like telling the pulp camp superintendent to go to the devil, but he said “Thanks” again instead.
“Oh, just a minute, Hammond!”
Hammond paused at the door as Acey Smith strode over and passed him a newspaper. “The morning edition of the Star,” he indicated. “There is an item on the front page that may interest you—considerably.”