"I guess that's about it," Peterson replied.
"I've been figuring a little on this bill. I take it there's something over two million feet altogether. Is that right?"
"It's something like that. Couldn't say exactly. Max takes care of the lumber."
Bannon's brows came together.
"You ought to know a little more about this yourself, Pete. You're the man that's building the house."
"I guess I've been pushing it along as well as any one could," said Peterson, sullenly.
"That's all right. I ain't hitting at you. I'm talking business, that's all. Now, if Vogel's right, this cribbing ought to have been here fourteen days ago—fourteen days tomorrow."
Peterson nodded.
"That's just two weeks of lost time. How've you been planning to make that up?"
"Why—why—I reckon I can put things together soon's I get the cribbing."
"Look here, Pete. The office has contracted to get this house done by a certain date. They've got to pay $750 for every day that we run over that date. There's no getting out of that, cribbing or no cribbing. When they're seeing ten or twenty thousand dollars slipping out of their hands, do you think they're going to thank you for telling 'em that the G.&M. railroad couldn't get cars? They don't care what's the matter—all they want of you is to do the work on time."
"Now, look here, Charlie—"
"Hold on, Pete. Don't get mad. It's facts, that's all. Here's these two weeks gone. You see that, all right enough. Now, the way this work's laid out, a man's got to make every day count right from the start if he wants to land on his feet when the house is done. Maybe you think somebody up in the sky is going to hand you down a present of two extra weeks so the lost time won't count. That would be all right, only it ain't very likely to happen."
"Well," said Peterson, "what are you getting at? What do you want me to do? Perhaps you think it's easy."
"No, I don't. But I'll tell you what to do. In the first place you want to quit this getting out on the job and doing a laborer's work. The office is paying out good money to the men that should do that. You know how to lay a corbel, but just now you couldn't tell me how much cribbing was coming. You're paid to direct this whole job and to know all about it, not to lay corbels. If you put in half a day swinging a sledge out there on the spouting house, how're you going to know that the lumber bills tally, and the carpenters ain't making mistakes, and that the timber's piled right. Here today you had a dozen men throwing away their time moving a lot of timber that ought to have been put in the right place when it first came in."
Peterson was silent.
"Now tomorrow, Pete, as soon as you've got the work moving along, you'd better go over to the electric light company and see about having the whole ground wired for arc lamps,—so we can be ready to put on a night shift the minute the cribbing comes in. You want to crowd 'em, too. They ought to have it ready in two days."
Bannon sat for a moment, then he arose and looked at his watch.
"I'm going to leave you, Pete," he said, as he put on his collar.
"Where're you going?"
"I've got to get up to the city to make the ten o'clock train. I'm going up to Ledyard to get the cribbing. Be back in a couple of days."
He threw his shaving kit into his grip, put on his overcoat, said good-night, and went out.
CHAPTER III
Next morning at eight o'clock Charlie Bannon walked into the office of C. H. Dennis, the manager of the Ledyard Salt and Lumber Company.
"I'm Bannon," he said, "of MacBride & Company. Come up to see why you don't get out our bill of cribbing."
"Told you by letter," retorted Dennis. "We can't get the cars."
"I know you did. That's a good thing to say in a letter. I wanted to find out how much of it really was cut."
"It's all cut and stacked by the siding, taking up half the yard. Want to see it?"
Bannon smiled and nodded. "Here's a good cigar for you," he said, "and you're a good fellow, but I think I'd like to see the cribbing."
"Oh, that's all right," laughed Dennis. "I'd have said the same thing if it wasn't cut. Come out this way."
Bannon followed him out into the yard. "There it is," said the manager.
There was no need of pointing it out. It made a pile more than three hundred feet long. It was nothing but rough hemlock, two inches thick, and from two to ten inches wide, intended to be spiked together flatwise for the walls of the bins, but its bulk was impressive. Bannon measured it with his eye and whistled. "I wish that had been down on our job ten days ago," he said, presently. "I'd be taking a vacation now if it had."
"Well, it was ready then. You can tell by the color."
"What's the matter with the G.&M. anyway? They don't seem to be hauling very much. I noticed that last night when I came up. I'm no good at sleeping on the train."
"Search me," said Dennis. "They've tied us up for these two weeks. I've kicked for cars, and the old man—that's Sloan—he's kicked, but here we are yet—can't move hand or foot."
"Who's Sloan?"
"Oh, he's the whole thing. Owns the First National Bank and the trolley line and the Ledyard Salt and Lumber Company and most of the downtown real estate."
"Where can I find him? Is he in town?"
"I guess so. He's got an office across the river. Just ask anybody where the Sloan Building is."
"Likely to be there as early as this?" asked Bannon, looking at his watch.
"Sure, if he's in town."
Bannon slipped his watch into his pocket. "Much obliged," he said. "Glad to have met you. Good morning;" and, turning, he walked rapidly away down the plank wagon road.
In Sloan's office he stated his errand as briefly as on the former occasion, adding only that he had already seen Dennis.
"I guess he told you all there is to tell," said the magnate. "We can't make the G.&M. give us cars. I've told Dennis to stir 'em up as hard as he could. I guess we'll have to wait."
"I can't wait."
"What else can you do? It's every bit as bad for us as it is for you, and you can rest assured that we'll do all we can." As if the cadence of his last sentence were not sufficiently recognizable as a formula of dismissal, he picked up a letter that lay on his desk and began reading it.
"This isn't an ordinary kick," said Bannon sharply. "It isn't just a case of us having to pay a big delay forfeit. There's a reason why our job's got to be done on time. I want to know the reason why the G.&M. won't give you cars. It ain't because they haven't got them."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because there's three big strings of empties within twenty miles of here this minute. I saw them when I came up this morning."
For a minute Sloan said nothing, only traced designs on the blotter with his pencil. Bannon saw that there was no longer any question of arousing his interest. At last he spoke:—
"I've suspected that there was something in the wind, but I've been too busy with other things to tend to it, so I turned it over to Dennis. Perhaps he's done as well as I could I don't know much about G.&M. these days. For a long time they were at me to take a big block of treasury stock, but the road seemed to me in bad shape, so I wouldn't go in. Lately they've reorganized—have got a lot of new money in there—I don't know whose, but they've let me alone. There's been no row, you understand. That ain't the reason they've tied us up, but I haven't known much about what was going on inside."
"Would they be likely to tell you if you asked? I mean if you took it to headquarters?"
"I couldn't get any more out of them than you could—that is, not by asking."
"I guess I'll go look 'em up myself. Where can I find anybody that knows anything?"