Halloran, Crosman and Du Bois met for a moment near the office where they could overlook the yards. The Inspector was shaking his head at the still, blue sky.
“I'd like to see a few clouds up there, Mr. Halloran. We ain't had any rain since the devil knows when.”
Halloran, for reply, stirred up the sawdust with his foot. It was dry and loose.
“I don't like it, myself.”
“Are we going to pile it in all through here? You ain't figuring on taking any outside, are you?”
“No; we can't do that. Fill in the strip yonder”—indicating the narrow end of the peninsula—“before you take up the ground around the mills.”
“How about the insurance?” suggested Cros-man. “I haven't done anything about it yet. Shall I see to it?”
“No; we'll carry it ourselves.”
Crosman and the Inspector were silent for a time after this, and all three looked down at the activity on the wharf. Neither of the assistants knew what a relief it was to the Manager to see that one load of lumber and to know that there was a score of other loads already on the way. It was his first glimpse of the tangible cause of the fighting, and the sight of it gave him the feeling of actually getting his hands on something. There was still to be considered the guarding it from fire, and, at the right moment, the putting it on the market. He did not know what new move Bigelow might be considering, but he could not see how any living man could block him now. Every order had been delivered to a lake port, so that he had no need to call on the railroads. And an attempt to restrain him from using the lake carriers, in view of the fact that the Higginson steamers alone could do the work with an extra allowance of time, seemed out of the question. Bigelow would resort to rascality, of course, whenever he could see or make an opening; but it was a question whether he could find any more openings.