“Yes, I am off now,” and the junior partner headed for the traveling-bag, feeling in his pocket for a time-table.
CHAPTER IV—Mr. Babcock Breakfasts Late
The thirteenth was a storm-centre at Wauchung. At six in the morning, while Mr. William H. Babcock was sleeping peacefully in a Grand Rapids hotel, dreaming sweet dreams and smiling childlike smiles, conscious even in slumberland that his work was accomplished; while the Martin L. Higginson No. 1 was lying at the Higginson wharves with two hundred and fifteen thousand feet of lumber aboard, Halloran was up and tumbling into his clothes. Captain Craig, master of the Higginson No. 1, was sitting grimly on the corner of the bed.
“Do you know the man?” Halloran was asking.
“No.”
“Did he say whom he was acting for?”
The Captain shook his head.
At seven o'clock the No. 1. should be leaving the harbour; but here was her master sitting on Halloran's bed, his seamed old face set hard with the thoughts that were boiling behind it. Down by the mills, where the first early risers were lounging in, where the lumber piles stretching far along the wharves were glistening yellow under the light of the new sun, all was quiet even to the steamer, whose stoke-room was cold, whose boilers were giving out no sounds of preparation for the twelve-hour journey. Over at Grand Rapids Mr. Babcock was still sleeping the sleep of the just, dreaming once more that his man had come in by a late train to report that all was well at Wauchung. And still Halloran was jerking himself into his clothes, pulling on his old purple sweater rather than waste time over collar and tie.