“We’re running short of logs,” he said. “You’ve been cutting down on shipments. When can we have another train-load?”
“Things aren’t going just right in the woods,” said a voice. “I don’t believe we can get you more than a small train-load before Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“We’ll be shut down Saturday if we don’t get logs.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ashe, but we’re doing our best.”
“Is Mr. Moran there?”
“He’ll be in on the afternoon train.”
Jim hung up the receiver. He had been feeling too fine; he had grown cocky at his recent successes; now he had a taste of the opposite emotion. His mill was running better—but what good did it do if the log supply failed? He had been able to borrow money to pay bills and to operate—but that only made matters worse if he were unable to get out his product. He had an option on Le Bar’s timber. This might or might not be a profitable matter, but it was of no present help. He must have logs.
That afternoon he was at the depot as the train pulled in. Moran alighted and Jim fastened upon him instantly. “Mr. Moran,” he said, “your men are not getting logs to us.”
“Um! What seems to be wrong?” Moran’s voice was irritating. Jim fancied it was deliberately irritating.
“I’m not here to tell you what’s wrong. That’s your lookout,” Jim said. “Your business is to supply us with logs according to our contract—and if anything interferes it’s your job to see it doesn’t interfere.”