Part 25 (1/2)
The brute in Moncrossen held subservient the more human emotions, else he must surely have betrayed his surprise when, twelve hours ahead of schedule, the greener swung the long-geared tote team to a stand in front of the office door.
Not only had he made the trip without mishap, but accomplished the seemingly impossible in persuading Daddy Dunnigan to cook for a log camp, when in all reason the old man should have scorned the proposition in a torrent of Irish profanity.
Moncrossen dealt only in facts. Speculation as to cause and effect found no place in his mental economy. His plan had miscarried. For that Creed must answer later. The fact that concerned him now was that the greener continued to be a menace to his scheme.
Had Creed in some manner bungled the job? Or had he pa.s.sed it up? He must find out how much the greener knew. The boss guessed that if the other had unearthed the plot, he would force an immediate crisis.
And so he watched narrowly, but with apparent unconcern, while Bill climbed from the sled, followed by Daddy Dunnigan. On the hard-packed snow of the clearing the two big men faced each other, and the expression of each was a perfect mask to his true emotions.
But the greener knew that the boss was masking, while Moncrossen accepted the other's guileless expression at its face value, and his pendulous lips widened into a grin of genuine relief as he greeted the arrivals.
”Hullo! You back a'ready? Hullo, Dunnigan! I'm sure glad you come; we'll have some real grub fer a change.
”Hey, LaFranz!” he called to the pa.s.sing Frenchman. ”Put up this team an' pack the gear to the bunk-house.”
As the man drove away in the direction of the stable, Moncrossen regarded the others largely.
”Come on in an' have a drink, boys,” he invited, throwing wide the door. ”How's the foot?”
”Better,” replied Bill. ”It will be as good as ever in a week.”
”I'm glad of that, 'cause I sure am cramped fer hands. I'll let Fallon break you into sawin' an put Stromberg to teamin'; he's too pot-gutted fer a sawyer.”
Moncrossen produced a bottle as the others seated themselves.
”What--don't drink?” he exclaimed, as Bill pa.s.sed the bottle to Dunnigan. ”That's so; b'lieve I did hear some one say you didn't use no booze. Well, every man to his own likin'. Me--about three good, stiff jolts a day, an' a big drunk in the spring an' fall, is about my gait.
Have a _see_gar.” Bill accepted the proffered weed and bit off the end.
”How!” he said, with a short sweep of the arm; then, scratching a match on the rung of his chair, lighted the unsavory stogie.
Thus each man took measure of the other, and Daddy Dunnigan tilted the bottle and drank deep, the while he took shrewd measure of both.
It was in the early afternoon of the following day that Bill Carmody tossed aside his magazine and yawned drowsily. Alone in the bunk-house, his glance roved idly over the room, with its tiers of empty bunks and racks of drying garments.
It rested for a moment upon his bandaged foot propped comfortably upon Fallon's bunk, directly beneath his own, and strayed to the floor where just under its edge, still wrapped in the soiled newspaper, sat the gallon jug that Fallon suggested in case the greener saw fit to heed his warning.
Bill smiled dreamily. Unconsciously his lips spelled out the words of some head-lines that stared at him from the rounded surface of the jug:
POPULAR MEMBERS OF NEW YORK'S FOUR HUNDRED TO WED.
”Wonder who?” thought Bill. Reaching for his crutch, he slipped the end through the handle of the jug and drew it toward him. He raised it to his lap and the words of the succeeding line struck upon his brain like an electric shock:
_Engagement of Miss Ethel Manton and Gregory St. Ledger Soon to be Announced._
Feverishly his eyes devoured the following lines of the extended heading:
_Time of Wedding Not Set. Will Not Take Place Immediately, 'Tis Said. Prospective Bridegroom to Sail for Europe in Spring._