“No, sir!”
“What is it going to be—a fight to a finish?”
“If you keep your hands off us saw-log fellows, Mr. Craig, there’ll be no fight. We were here first, you know!”
“That’s got nothing to do with the present situation, Latisan. We’ve built a million-dollar paper mill on the Toban, and it’s up to me to feed it with pulp stuff. We can’t lug our plant off in a shawl strap if supply fails.”
“Nor can the folks who have built villages around the sawmills lug away their houses if the mills are closed.”
“Paper dominates in this valley nowadays, instead of lumber. Latisan, you’re old-fashioned!”
The young man, feeling his temper flame, lighted his pipe, avoiding too quick retort.
“You stand to lose money in the lumber market, with conditions as they are,” proceeded Craig, loftily counseling another man about his own business. The Comas director, intent on consolidation, had persistently failed to understand the loyalty, half romantic, which was actuating the old-line employers to protect faithful householders. “Let the workers move down the river to our model town.”
“And live in those beehives of yours, paying big rent, competing with the riffraff help you hire from employment agencies? We can’t see it that way, Mr. Craig!”
“Look here! I’ve got some news for you. I’ve just pulled five of the independents in with us—Gibson, Sprague, Tolman, Brinton, and Bodwell. The Comas now controls the timber market on the Toban. How about logs for your mills?”