The upshot of this heart-to-heart talk between the father and daughter had been a letter to Silas Plegg, which followed David Vallory so promptly in his westward flight as to be in the first assistant’s hands when he made his introductory round over the big job with the new chief. It was a letter to be read, remembered, and burned; but if David Vallory could have seen it, it would have explained Plegg’s attitude, and many other things which grew more and more puzzling as time went on.
X
The Miry Clay
HAVING himself so recently made the journey from Chicago to the Timanyoni, David Vallory knew that he could count upon at least two clear days in which to gather up the loose ends and otherwise to prepare his huge working machine for a critical inspection by the president of the company. To that end he called a conference of the members of his staff and applied the spur. The big boss was coming, and it was up to them to show him the machine in perfect working order. If there were any loose ends, now was the time to tie them in.
“There’s only one thing that I’d like to see changed,” said Crawford, the grading expert who had charge of the line building on the lower end of the cut-off; “that is this crazy practice of paying off every two weeks instead of once a month. I count on at least a ten per cent reduction in my gangs for two or three days after every second Saturday—which is about the length of time it takes the high-rollers to get rid of their money in the Powder Can dives.”
“Leaks of that kind are precisely what we are trying to find and stop,” the new chief broke in. “Any suggestions?”
There were several made by different members of the staff, but they were all variations upon the same theme, namely, some method by which the too-frequent pay-days might be abolished.
“I’m afraid the twice-a-month basis will have to stand,” was David Vallory’s decision. “I talked that matter out with Mr. Grillage before I left Chicago. He is opposed to the fortnightly pay-day, but he has been forced to establish it on all of his contracts because other companies have adopted it, and if we don’t keep step we lose our men.”
“Zat Powder Can—she is one blot on zee face of zee eart’!” spat out Regnier, the fiery little French-Canadian engineer who was handling the gangs in the rock cuttings.
David Vallory nodded. “I’m new to this country,” he admitted. “Are there no laws by which these man-trappers can be put out of business?”
It was Plegg who made answer to this.