"My boy," said he. "When you get to be as old as I am, you'll never stir up trouble at night unless you can fix it then. What is it?"
Bob detailed his conversation with Plant.
"Do you mean to tell me that that old, fat skunk had the nerve to tell you he was going to send a ranger to look at our permit?" he demanded.
"Yes. That's what he said."
"The miserable hound! Why I went to see him a year ago about crossing this strip with our road—we had to haul a lot of stuff in. He told me to go ahead and haul, and that he'd fix it up when the time came. Since then I've tackled him two or three times about it, but he's always told me to go ahead; that it was all right. So we went ahead. It's always been a matter of form, this crossing permit business. It's meant to be a matter of form!"
After breakfast Welton ordered his buckboard and, in company with Bob, drove down the mountain again. Plant was discovered directing the activities of several men, who were loading a light wagon with provisions and living utensils.
"Moving up to our summer camp," one of them told Bob. "Getting too hot down here."
Plant received them, his fat face expressionless, and led them into the stuffy little office.
"Look here, Plant," said Welton, without a trace of irritation on his weatherbeaten, round countenance. "What's all this about seeing a permit to cross those government sections? You know very well I haven't any permit."
"I have been informed by my men that you have constructed or caused to be constructed a water flume through section 36, and a road through sections 14, 22, 28 and 32. If this has been done without due authorization you are liable for trespass. Fine of not less than $200 or imprisonment for not less than twelve months—or both." He delivered this in a voice absolutely devoid of expression.