“The Cap'n here,” pursued Stenzenberger, “is going to start to-morrow or next day for Spencer, to take on a load of timber and shingles.” His small brown eyes were fixed intently on the saloon keeper as he talked. “And I think we 'll have to keep him running up there for a good part of the summer. Queer character, that Spencer,” he added, addressing Dick. “He has lived all his life up there in the pines. They say he was a squatter—never paid a cent for his land. But he has been there so many years now, I guess any one would have trouble getting him out. He has got an idea that his timber's better than anybody else's. He cuts it all with an old-fashioned vertical saw, and stamps his mark on every piece.”
“Why should it be any better?”
“I don't know that it is, though he selects it carefully. The main thing is, he sells it dirt cheap,—has to, you know, to stand any show against the big companies. He's so far out of the way, no boats would take the trouble to run around there if he didn't. Well, McGlory, we've got a good thing to offer you. You can drop in here once a week or so, you know, to see how things are running. Come over to the office with us and we 'll settle the terms.” Stenzen-berger was rising as he spoke.
“Well, I don't know. I couldn't come over for a few minutes, Cap'n.”
“How soon could you?”
“About a quarter of an hour.”
“All right, we 'll be looking for you. Here, give me half a dozen ten cent straights while I'm here.”
McGlory walked to the door with them, and stood for a moment looking after them.
When he turned and pushed back through the swinging inner doors, he found Madge standing by the bar awaiting him, one hand held behind her, the other clenched at her side, her eyes shooting fire.
He paused, and looked at her without speaking.