Orde nodded briefly to the stranger, and came at once to business.
“I want to talk this matter over with you,” he began. “We aren't making much progress. We can't afford to hang up the drive, and the water is going down every day. We've got to have more water. I'll tell you what we'll do: If you'll let us cut down the new sill, we'll replace it in good shape when we get all our logs through.”
“No, sir!” promptly vetoed the old man.
“Well, we'll give you something for the privilege. What do you think is fair?”
“I tell ye I'll give you your legal rights, and not a cent more,” replied the old man, still quietly, but with quivering nostrils.
“What is your name?” asked Orde.
“My name is Reed, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Reed, stop and think what this means. It's a more serious matter than you think. In a little while the water will be so low in the river that it will be impossible to take out the logs this year. That means a large loss, of course, as you know.”
“I don't know nothin' about the pesky business, and I don't wan to,” snorted Reed.
“Well, there's borers, for one thing, to spoil a good many of the logs. And think what it will mean to the mills. No logs means no lumber. That is bankruptcy for a good many who have contracts to fulfil. And no logs means the mills must close. Thousands of men will be thrown out of their jobs, and a good many of them will go hungry. And with the stream full of the old cutting, that means less to do next winter in the woods—more men thrown out. Getting out a season's cut with the flood-water is a pretty serious matter to a great many people, and if you insist on holding us up here in this slack water the situation will soon become alarming.”