Dawson took a fresh chew.
"Yes, it's the mill, I guess," he said slowly. "That an' this yer strike. We're goin' to feel it—the strike, I mean. The engineers and firemen are going 'out,' I hear, sure."
"That doesn't hit us," said Dave sharply. But there was a keen look of inquiry in his eyes.
"Don't it?" Dawson raised his shaggy eyebrows.
"Our stuff is merely to be placed on board here. The government will see to its transport."
The foreman shook his head.
"What o' them firemen an' engineers in the mill? Say, they're mostly union men, an'——"
"I see." Dave became thoughtful.
"Guess that ain't the only trouble neither," Dawson went on, warming. "Strikes is hell-fire anyways. Ther' ain't no stoppin' 'em when they git good an' goin'. Ther's folk who'd hate work wuss'n pizin when others, of a different craft, are buckin'. I hate strikes, anyway, an' I'll feel a sight easier when the railroaders quits."
"You're alarming yourself without need," Dave said easily, closing his books and rising from his seat. "Guess I'll get to supper. And see you remember I look to you to shove her. Are you posting the 'tally'?"