“You’ll pay drivin’ fees for every stick.”
“And you’ll take our drive with yours?”
“No, sir. I won’t put the iron of a pick-pole into a log with your mark on it!” declared Britt.[5]
“Mr. Britt,” said Wade, his voice trembling in the stress of his emotions, “as an operator in this section, as a man who is asking you straight business questions as courteously as I know how, I am entitled to decent treatment, and it will be better for all of us if I get it.”
“Threats, hey?” demanded Britt, malignantly.
“No threats, sir. If you won’t take our drive for the usual fees and guarantee its delivery, will you let us drive it independently?”
“Not with my water—and you’ll pay fees just the same!”
“Your water! Who made you the boss of God’s rains and rivers? Have you any charter, giving you the right to turn the State waters of Blunder Lake from their natural outlet and keep everybody else from using them?”
Britt clacked his finger in his hard palm and blurted contemptuous “Phuh!” through his beard.