by A. Stone
CHAPTER III
My shock at seeing Howard Byng in such a place was distinctlydepressing. My soul cried out for the boy for whom I had formed astrong attachment and I leaned against the narrow ditch entrance for amoment, overcome. There are pigeon holes in our memories for everysort of information, the pleasant things and the unpleasant. I hadplaced Howard Byng in a warm, honest, hopeful compartment, and tosuddenly learn that I had warmed a viper produced a conflict ofemotions. They seemed a jangle of sharp, ear-splitting sounds, ashammers played upon steel to produce discord. I was overcome for themoment. I felt Howard Byng had done me a personal wrong as I vividlyrecalled again his honest, fearless, cordial gaze, when he bade megood-bye. I had looked into his eyes and felt sure he was clean; Iknew he had a big, tender heart. Now he had gone back, and worse--hehad become a notorious outlaw and I--I was to take him, dead or alive.
This went through my mind in seconds. How far was I to blame for notwanting to take that boy with me there and then? I could let himescape, but the law--it must be fulfilled. I could not neglect my dutyto the state. I don't mind confessing personal ambition, pride andlove of adventure; and for audacity and boldness, this Federalviolation had no equal. I wanted this to be my last and best work forthe Excise Department before I was transferred to the CounterfeitDivision.
It doesn't affect Howard Byng's history much how I let off a stick ofdynamite on one side of the establishment, and by a flare of lighttook both men chained to their drunken sentinel in their own boat withthe copper "still" and a dozen or more jugs of moonshine for evidence.Another heavy charge of explosive left a deep hole where the "still"house stood.
My prisoners were sullen and uttered no sound. They knew their prisondays were at hand. I put them in their own boat, towing mine, andhurried quickly down the creek to the river. Though manacled hand andfoot and chained to a cleet, I felt none too safe.
I knew Howard Byng was powerful, likely cunning and treacherous now,and the strain was considerable. Three o'clock in the morning I passedthe old camp ground. The night packet, due at the county seat early inthe morning, was landing at the big plant when I got there. Why notget my prisoners aboard it and be sure?
I ran to the landing and in a few minutes I had them on deck. Thecaptain fixed it with the foreman to look out for my boats. I wouldcame back for them on the packet's return trip that night.
Well, when I got my men in a good light on the packet, the man Ithought was Howard Byng resembled him only in physique and hair. Iwas more delighted at that discovery than I was at the completesuccess of my night's work. Byng had a bold, fighting aquiline noseand a big man's ear, brain and features to back it. This man's nosetraveled down like a roller coaster, blank, horsey features, adish-faced, vicious animal, his ears like the flap of a tent, his eyesburning like a cornered wolf.
Whether it was thinking so much of Howard Byng or the geography, I hadan impression of his nearness and it bothered me. I asked thesomnolent sheriff about him after delivering to him the "swamp angels"next morning. He said he wasn't much of a traveler, never heard of anysuch man and didn't even know about the big plant where I left theboats, though only thirty miles up the river.
The packet carried me back there about ten at night, and, having nofreight, only touched to let me off. My boats were on one end of thewell-built landing wharf paralleling the river, and now at the otherend was a little schooner of perhaps two hundred tons burden. It wasall lit up and everyone was busy, paying no attention to me. Doorswide open, I went about to satisfy my curiosity. The long,electric-lighted building was a paper mill. The sheet it made was notvery wide, perhaps four and half feet, but it came white as snow ontobig rolls as fast as a horse could gallop. I saw some finished andmarked for a big New York newspaper. That explained the schooneroutside. "Where in the name of Heaven do they get the material to makesuch paper?" I asked myself.
Back of the paper mill was a great surprise, an acre of blazingfurnaces lighted up the night and leviathan steel retorts, throbbingwith life and pressure, emitted the pleasant odor of turpentine,served by standard-gauge tracks, and, behind them, mountain high, wasa pile of blackened pine-tree stumps with long roots, apparentlyplucked from the earth. They were piled by an up-to-date derrick, withsteel arms a hundred and fifty feet in length. On a platform opposite,paralleling the tracks, were tiered cotton bales, shining white inthe furnace lights.
I returned to the paper-machine room, thoughtful indeed. The immensecut-over stump lands of Georgia, stretching to the horizon over thetide-washed river, took on a distinctly different aspect.
That sheet of paper, coming down over the long row of steam-heateddryers, through the calenders wound into perfect rolls at expressspeed, dropped to the floor automatically, as sheaves of wheat from aharvester. A giant Corliss engine, seen through the door, ponderouslyand merrily answered to the life-giving ether from the roaringboilers. Happily married to its task an electric generator beside itsuggested a sparrow, saucily singing a tune to an eagle. I leanedagainst a pillar, transported to another world, the world of use, andfelt some of its joy. Then I became conscious of being observed, butdid not turn.
The paper machine, all new and perfectly geared, was so long that itseven width appeared to narrow at the far end where the sheetoriginated as wet pulp. The concrete floor was like a newly planedboard. The machinery was not noisy, it sung. Every belt, gear andbearing was timed. The place actually hypnotized. It was divine.Divinity and usefulness are the same. The machines seemed to besinging a hymn to some master-mind.
Behind me an order was given. There was something familiar in thevoice, the sureness of a natural commander, which I associated at oncewith the wonderful operation going on before me. A stalwart back wastoward me. The lower brain, neck, shoulders and torso belonged to aman, perhaps not quite as wide or tall as our big Highlanders. Myinterest intensified until suddenly he appeared to turn at my will fora face view. This time there could be no mistaking the delicatelychiseled, fighting, aquiline nose, marvelous jaw and chin of HowardByng.
