“Ladder” Lane, who had been staring straight up at the poles of the bunk above his head, had not moved or glanced to right or left since the brusque, tyrannical voice outside had begun to declaim. Now he swung his feet off the bunk and sat on its edge. He fumbled behind him for the rifle and dragged it across his knees.
The night had fallen. The one window of the office camp admitted a sallow light. From the main camp came the drone of an accordion and the mumble of many voices. Lane realized that supper had been eaten.
“You’re right about business, Mr. Barrett,” Withee went on, a touch of resentment in his voice. “Your Bangor scale is ‘business.’ You talk about wasting tops! If an operator leaves the taper of the top on a log, he’s hauling a third more weight to the landing, and then your Bangor scale gives him a third less measure than on the short log.”
“The legislature established the scale; I didn’t,” retorted Barrett.
“Yes, but you rich folks can tell the legislature what to do, and it does it! We fellows that wear larrigans haven’t anything to say about it.” In his grief and despair he allowed himself to taunt his tyrant. “Your legislature has peddled away all the rights on the river to men with power enough to grab ’em. Look here, Mr. Barrett, while you toasted your shins last winter we worked here like niggers, in the cold and the snow, the frost and the wet—and the first man to get his drag out of our work was you. You got your stumpage-money. And when my logs were in the water, first the Driving Association that you’re a director in, with its legislative charter all right and tight, took its toll. Then the River Dam and Improvement Company took its toll, and you’re a director in that. Then the Lumbering Association, owned by your bunch, had its boomage tolls. Then the little private inside clique had its pay for ‘taking care of logs,’ as they call it. Then on top of all the rest, the gang had its tolls for running and shoring logs in the round-up boom, and finally the man who bought ’em scaled down the landing-measure on which you drew stumpage. I couldn’t help myself. None of us fellows that operate can help ourselves. It’s all tied up. We had to take what was given. Your tolls for this, that, and the other figured up about as much as stumpage. And when the last and final drag was made out of my little profits—there were no profits! I came out in debt, Mr. Barrett. That’s all there was to show for a winter’s hard work away from my home and family, in these woods that you say ain’t fit for a human bein’ to live in. That’s what you’re doin’ to us—and you’re all standin’ together against us poor fellows to do it.”
“Same old whine of the old crowd of operators,” drawled Mr. Barrett. “If you old-fashioned chaps can’t keep up with the modern business conditions you’d better get into something else and give the young fellows a chance.”
“Get into the poor-house, perhaps,” Withee replied, bitterly. “My father lumbered this river. I worked with him, before the big fellows had to have both crusts and the middle of the pie. I don’t know how to do anything else. Every cent I’ve got in the world is tied up in my outfit. For God’s sake, Mr. Barrett, be fair with me!”
It was the pitiful appeal of the toil of the woods at its last stand. But “Stumpage John” Barrett resolutely reflected the autocracy of giant King Spruce.
“This whole matter was gone over at our last directors’ meeting, Withee. We have decided, one and all, that we won’t have our timber lands butchered and gashed and devilled to make profit for you fellows. Our charters give us our rights, and business is business. We’ve got to stand stiff, and we’re going to stand stiff until we show you what’s what. I told my associates I would come up here and make an example, and I’m going to do it. Now, that’s all, Withee! It’s no good to argue. The timber interests can’t afford to do any more fooling.”
“Gents,” broke in the voice of “Dirty-apron Harry,” “cook sent me to say that your supper is ready.”