“Forestry!” he cried, taking the word off Barrett’s lips—“forestry is getting your men into the woods, getting grub to ’em, hiring bosses that can whale spryness into human jill-pokes, and can get the logs down to Pea Cove sortin’-boom before the drought strikes. That’s forestry! That’s my kind. It’s the kind I’ve made my money on. It’s the kind John Barrett made his on. What are you doin’, John—hirin’ a perfesser?” The new arrival asked this in a tone and with a glance up and down Wade that left no doubt as to his opinion of “perfessers.” “Are you one of these newfangled fellers that’s been studyin’ in a book how to make trees grow?” he demanded.
Wade had only a limited acquaintance with the notables of the State, but he knew this man. He had seen him in Stillwater frequently, and his down-river office was in “Castle Cut ’Em.” He was the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt. He had acquired that title—mostly for newspaper use—by serving many years in the State senate from Umcolcus County.
Wade gazed at the puffy red face, the bristle of gray beard, the hard little eyes—pupils of dull gray set in yellow eyeballs—and remembered the stories he had heard about this man who yelped his words with canine abruptness of utterance, who waved his big, hairy hands about his head as he talked, and with every gesture, every glance, every word revealed himself as a driver of men, grown arrogant and cruel by possession of power.
“Mr. Britt is executive officer for the lumber company in the north country,” explained Barrett, dryly. “We are all associated more or less closely, though many of our holdings are separate. We think it is quite essential to confer together when undertaking any important step.” His satiric dwelling on the word “important” was exasperating. “This young gentleman is the principal of our high-school, Pulaski, and he wants me to put a bunch of high-school boys in my woods as foresters—and pay ’em for it. You came in just as I was going to give him my opinion. But it may be more proper for you to do it, for you are the woods executive, and are better posted on conditions up there than I am.” His drawled irony was biting.
The Honorable John Barrett enjoyed sport of all kinds, including badger-baiting. Now he leaned back in his swivel-chair with the air of a man about to enjoy the spectacle of a lively affair. But Wade, glancing from Barrett to Britt, was in no humor to be the butt of the millionaire.
“I don’t think I care to listen to Mr. Britt’s opinions,” he said, rising hastily.
“Why? Don’t you think I know what I’m talking about?” demanded the lumberman. He had missed the point of Barrett’s satire, being himself a man of the bludgeon instead of the rapier.
“I’m quite sure you know, Mr. Britt,” said the young man, bowing to Barrett and starting away.
“I’ve hired more men than any ten operators on the Umcolcus, put ’em all together,” declared Britt, following him, “and I’d ought to know something about whether a man is worth anything on a job or not. And rather than have any one of those squirt-gun foresters cuttin’ and caliperin’ over my lands, I’d—”
Wade shut the door behind him, strode through the outer office, and hurried down-stairs, his face very red and his teeth shut very tight. He realized that he had left the presence of King Spruce in most discourteous haste, but the look in John Barrett’s eyes when he had leaned back and “sicked on” that old railer of the rasping voice had been too much for Wade’s nerves. To be made an object of ridicule by her father was bitter, with the bitterness of banished hope that had sprung into blossom for just one encouraging moment.