“What does Brown look like?” interrupted Peterson.  “I never saw him.”

“You didn’t!  Oh, he’s a good-looking young chap.  Dresses kind of sporty.  He’s a great jollier.  You have to know him a while to find out that he means business.  Well, he came ’round and saw I was feeling pretty tired, so he asked me to knock off for a week and go fishing with him.  I did, and it was the hardest work I ever tackled.”

“Did you get any fish?”

“Fish?  Whales!  You’d no sooner threw your line over than another one’d grab it—­great, big, heavy fish, and they never gave us a minute’s rest.  I worked like a horse for about half a day and then I gave up.  Told Brown I’d take a duplex car-puller along next time I tackled that kind of a job, and I went back to the elevator.”

“I’d like to see Brown.  I get letters from him right along, of course.  He’s been jollying me about that cribbing for the last two weeks.  I can’t make it grow, and I’ve written him right along that we was expecting it, but that don’t seem to satisfy him.”

“I suppose not,” said Bannon.  “They’re mostly out for results up at the office.  Let’s see the bill for it.”  Vogel handed him a thin typewritten sheet and Bannon looked it over thoughtfully.  “Big lot of stuff, ain’t it?  Have you tried to get any of it here in Chicago?”

“Course not.  It’s all ordered and cut out up to Ledyard.”

“Cut out?  Then why don’t they send it?”

“They can’t get the cars.”

“That’ll do to tell.  ‘Can’t get the cars!’ What sort of a railroad have they got up there?”

“Max, here, can tell you about that, I guess,” said Peterson.

“It’s the G.&M.,” said the lumber checker.  “That’s enough for any one who’s lived in Michigan.  It ain’t much good.”

“How long have they kept ’em waiting for the cars?”

“How long is it, Max?” asked Peterson.

“Let’s see.  It was two weeks ago come Tuesday.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.  We got the letter the same day the red-headed man came here.  His hair was good and red.”  Max laughed broadly at the recollection.  “He came into the office just as we was reading it.”

“Oh, yes.  My friend, the walking delegate.”

“What’s that?” Bannon snapped the words out so sharply that Peterson looked at him in slow surprise.

“Oh, nothing,” he said.  “A darn little rat of a red-headed walking delegate came out here—­had a printed card with Business Agent on it—­and poked his long nose into other people’s business for a while, and asked the men questions, and at last he came to me.  I told him that we treated our men all right and didn’t need no help from him, and if I ever caught him out here again I’d carry him up to the top of the jim pole and leave him there.  He went fast enough.”

“I wish he’d knocked you down first, to even things up,” said Bannon.

“Him!  Oh, I could have handled him with three fingers.”