Halloran, in his old clothes and faded purple sweater and college cap, was headed for the railroad station. At the station he took the Pewaukoe train; at Pewaukoe he walked down to the mills, fairly certain that none of Bigelow's men there would recognize him. The G. H. Bigelow lay at the wharf, as Craig had said. She was taking on a cargo.
The mills were on the low ground by the river. From the road he could overlook them and the great piles of lumber that crowded close to the water's edge for hundreds of yards up and down stream, and he leaned on the fence to take it in. As far up as he could see the river was blocked with logs. The mills were singing and buzzing and humming—it was plain that the Bigelow vitalizing process had begun, and that all hands were being crowded on the work in order to sell lumber at a loss to Higginson's customers. He thought he would walk down through the yards toward the steamer.
As the unknown man, wearing a purple sweater and somewhat in need of a shave, walked past the shore end of the nearer mill, the eyes of the Superintendent fell upon him. A moment later the two met.
“How are you?” said the Superintendent, suspicious but civil.
“First rate. How are you?”
“Want to see any one?”
“No; just looking around.”
“Where were you going?” asked the Superintendent, trying to veil his suspicions.
“Nowhere especially. I didn't suppose they'd be any objection if I watched 'em loading the steamer.”
“No—certainly not.” This reluctantly.