“Oh, you mean the strike?” Beatrice asked, rather bewildered and not knowing at all why the overdressed Mr. Mills should have sought out their remote cabin.
He made a movement as though to go in, but, since Beatrice seemed not at all inclined to open the door, he sat down on the step with smooth assurance, laid his hat on the stone, and took out a note-book.
“The affair is more like a lockout than a strike, but not exactly that, either,” he continued with that irresistible fluency of speech adopted by people who talk a great deal to unwilling listeners. “As I understand it, the situation is this. The Broken Bow Irrigation Co. undertakes to construct the necessary dams, ditches, and sluice-gates to water this dry valley, a big project in which a certain John Herrick, resident of these parts, has large interests.”
“I did not know about John Herrick’s share in it,” Beatrice said. She was beginning already to catch the Western habit of dropping the title “mister” except in direct address. Since she was unwilling that the stranger should come in, for fear he would disturb and annoy Aunt Anna, and since he made no move to go away, she finally sat down herself upon the step.
“The money for this affair,” Mills went on, “was raised in part, as is usual, by the owners of the land which is to be irrigated, but the greater amount was to be subscribed by capitalists outside the valley, John Herrick pledging himself to see that the necessary sum was forthcoming. So far, so good.” He tapped the note-book with a stubby forefinger and went on with significant emphasis. “Since there is no bank in Ely, there are often large sums in currency brought to pay the men and deposited in the Irrigation Company’s safe. It is known that, just before this outbreak, the finances of the company were in good condition and that there was no talk of funds giving out before the work was completed. Yet when the men held a meeting to debate whether they should go on or should strike for increased wages—they had already had one increase but Thorvik insisted it was not enough,—they were served with a notice that the capital was exhausted and that construction was shut down. That is what all the trouble is about.”
He looked at Beatrice very wisely, but she said nothing. She was aware of Nancy standing in the door and looking at Dabney Mills’ back in round-eyed astonishment. She called her sister out finally, and introduced the newcomer stiffly, and motioned Nancy to sit beside her.
“Yes, sir, the money was gone!” The polished manner of Mills’ narrative dropped suddenly into the colloquial, as though the effort had been too much for him. “The men mobbed the office building demanding to know what had happened, and the officers of the unions were allowed to examine the books and even to look into the safe, but it was plain to them all that the company couldn’t turn up a red cent. Been stolen, so people begin to say, but no one knows who did it. Now the men are lounging around town, idle, quarreling, looking for trouble. Not a wheel can turn until the money is found.”
Nancy looked at him with inquisitive interest.
“And did you come to Ely to find it?” she asked.
“Well—why, if you put it that way, I guess I did,” he answered, reddening a little, but seeming flattered, on the whole, by the bluntness of her question. “I told the editor of my paper that it would make a big story if any one could find out just who made way with that money. He didn’t think a cub reporter could do much, but I offered to come up here on my own responsibility and get to the bottom of the whole affair. It will be a smashing big hit for me if I make good.”