“Yes, sir, they are,” nodded Dugan.
“What’s that nearest one, that having a sign on top?”
“That’s not a sawmill. The man who runs that place works over old rubber and culls out the best of it. He makes it into rubber tubes and pipes.”
“What’s that name on the sign?”
“Ardley,” said Dugan unsuspiciously. “His name is Ben Ardley.”
“You’re acquainted with him, I suppose?”
“Well, not overmuch,” Dugan vouchsafed, with somewhat sharper scrutiny. “He ain’t the kind I fancy.”
“No?”
Dugan did not respond to the insinuating query. He seemed to go into his shell, as it were, and he didn’t speak again until Nick, after vainly waiting for him to do so, decided that he would not become too inquisitive. Instead, he remarked carelessly, as if the other topic had passed out of his mind:
“I suppose I must tramp to the town in order to get across the river.”