On all sides were large lots of logs, varying from eighteen to forty inches in diameter. There seemed to be more sticks than could possibly be used on the flume, yet additional lumber was coming up every day—lumber that Dale felt should have gone down to the Columbia to help fill the all-important railroad contract.
"It's nothing short of criminal to send that lumber here," thought the young lumberman. "If the company has a forfeit up with the railroad company Mr. Balasco must be insane to do it."
It was on the following morning that Ulmer Balasco sent for Dale and Owen to come to his private office, a small structure built as an annex to the book-keeper's den. Mr. Balasco had sent the book-keeper off on an errand, so the young lumbermen found him alone when they called.
"Something is in the wind, that is certain," said Owen. "Perhaps he smells a mouse."
"I guess he'll smell more when we hear from Mr. Wilbur," answered Dale.
"We mustn't say much until we are sure of what we are doing."
Ulmer Balasco was walking up and down his office, puffing away furiously at a black-looking cigar. He looked sharply at each of them as they entered.
"You sent for us, I believe," began Dale.
"I did," was the short reply. "Sit down."
A bench was handy, and Dale dropped on this, while Owen took a chair. Ulmer Balasco continued to pace the floor for a few seconds, then sat down in the chair in front of his roller-top desk.