"Sure," said Gard. "I am Chief Wilkinson himself."
"Wilkinson, nothing," said Hansen. "His name is Wilkie."
"Wilkie, your eye," argued the special agent. "Don't you suppose I read detective stories? His name is Wilkinson."
But the sampler was sure of his facts and the apparent error of the other man disarmed him.
"Well," he said, "as you're so curious and as I have the tip that you are to be a sampler next season, I might as well put you wise. We are all taken care of by the refiners because we look after their interests on the dock."
The big fellow looked carefully about, but there was nobody near except the frowsy dramatist, who was absorbed in his manuscript. He threw off another big drink of whisky and with it all discretion.
"You see," he said, "a sampler on Government wages would be in a pretty fix if he were let out after seven months and had to stand a chance of loafing for five. So the company passes the word that if the boys do the right thing they will be given work during the off season. I happen to know Gottrell himself and he takes me aside. That was eight years ago.
"'Hansen,' he says to me, 'pass the tip to the boys to sample right,' he says, 'and there will be work for them between seasons.'
"'What do you mean, sample right?' I says.