“Some books and things was carted from the office to Denver a-Wednesday,” said the know-all who had spoken about the mortgage.
“Why?”
The storekeeper’s tone was ominous, and the other man grinned uneasily.
“Guess it’s what they call an audit,” he said.
“Thar’s been two audits a year fer ten years at Bison, an’ the books hev never gone ter Denver afore.”
“Page has been nosin’ around, too, like as if he was takin’ stock,” put in a feeder, whose task it was to guide and shovel ore into the rolls.
“Page oughter know what’s in the mill by this time,” said MacGonigal, and indeed, the personage under discussion being the manager, the statement was almost excessively accurate.
“Thar was talk in the papers awhile sence about some new process fer treatin’ low-grade ores,” commented the feeder, apropos of nothing in particular. Then he seemed to wake into cheerful activity. “But what’s the use o’ meetin’ trouble halfways?” he cried. “Goldarn it! people said the mines was peterin’ out more’n a year ago, an’ we’re workin’ full spell this yer week.... Who’s fer a fizz? I go on at six, an’ I hev to eat a line fust.”
That evening, before the store filled with the day men, and Power alone was listening, MacGonigal was more outspoken.
“I’ve a notion that the mill is goin’ ter close down, Derry,” he said glumly.