“Do you hear ’em John?” called Britt, at last. He had long been awake, and had marked the restless stirrings of the other in the bunk below him.
“I’ve been listening an hour,” said Barrett, despondently, “and it’s big stuff that’s coming down. Our loss by fire was small change to what this means to us, Pulaski. Withee has devilled my lands until there isn’t a wind-break left.”
A roar like the awful voice of a park of artillery throbbed past them on the volleying wind.
“I feel as though it was kissing a thousand dollars good-bye every time I hear one of those noises,” said Britt. “The devil can play jack-straws in the Umcolcus region after this night, and find a new bunch every day.”
At last they looked dismally out on the dawn. The great gale had blown overhead and away, the rearguard clouds chasing it, and the hard growth, stripped of every vestige of leaf, gave pathetic testimony to the bitterness of the conflict of the night.
The two lumber barons, staring anxiously up at the slopes of the black growth for signs of ravage, were confronted by Tommy Eye, meek, repentant, and shaky.
“Sure, the witherlicks and the swamp swogons did howl last night, gents, and they all did say as how Tommy Eye ought to be ashamed of the size of his drink. And I’ve come back to you to get my kick.” He turned humbly.
The Honorable Pulaski D. Britt accepted the invitation with alacrity, and dealt the kick with a vigor that fetched a squawk from the teamster. The timber tyrant’s mood that morning welcomed such an opportunity, even as a surcharged cloud welcomes a lightning-rod or a farm-house chimney. But once the kick had been dealt the Honorable Pulaski felt less wire on the edge of his meat-axe temper.
“And now I’ll take my discharge,” said Tommy. “MacLeod gave me an order on you for my pay.”