"Who said?" demanded Tim fiercely.
"I did," retorted Chepstow militantly.
The promptness of his retort silenced the lumberman. He grinned, and leered round at his companion.
"Well?" The parson's voice was getting sharper.
"Well, it's like this, passon. Ther' ain't goin' to be no prisoner-makin' if you'll act reas'nable. Ther' ain't nuthin' up to you nor the leddy but wot's good an' clean. You've see to our boys who's sick, an' just done right by us—we can't say the same fer others. We just want you to come right along down to the camp. Ther's a feller bin shot by that all-fired skunk Mason, an' I guess he's jest busy bleedin' plumb to death. Will you come?"
"Who is it?"
The shortness of Chepstow's tone was uncompromising.
The lumber-jack stirred uneasily. He glanced round at his companion. The churchman saw the look and understood.
"Come on, Mike Duggan, out with it. I'm not going to be played with," he said. "Your mate doesn't seem easy about it. I suppose it's one of the ringleaders of your strike, and you want me to patch him up so he can go on with his dirty work. Well? I'm waiting."
Duggan's eyes flashed.