The Rules of the Game

by White, Stewart Edward

  "Nary prosecution, as far as I am concerned."

  "But the Modoc Land case----"

  "Take back your lands," chaffed Baker dramatically. "Kind of bum lands, anyway. No use skirmishing after the battle is over. Your father would tell you that."

  "Then you don't fight the suit?"

  "That," said Baker, "is still a point for compromise. You've got us, I'm willing to admit that. Also that you are a bright young man, and that I underestimated you. You've lifted my property, legally acquired, and you've done it by outplaying my bluff. I still maintain the points of the law are with me—we won't get into that," he checked himself. "But criminal prosecution is a different matter. I don't intend to stand for that a minute. Your gang don't slow-step me to any bastiles now listed in the prison records. Nothing doing that way. I'll fight her to a fare-ye-well on that." His round face seemed to become square-set and grim for an instant, but immediately reassumed its customary rather careless good-nature. "No, we'll just call the whole business off."

  "That is not for me to decide," said Bob.

  "No; but you've got a lot to say about it—and I'll see to the little details; don't fret. By the way," mentioned Baker, "just as a matter of ordinary curiosity, did Oldham have anything on you, or was he just a strong-arm artist?" He threw back his head and laughed aloud at Bob's face. At the thought of Pollock the young man could not prevent a momentary expression of relief from crossing his countenance. "There's a tail-holt on all of us," Baker observed.

  He flipped open a desk drawer and produced a box of expensive-looking cigars which he offered to his visitors. Orde lit one; but Bob, eyeing the power-man coldly, refused. Baker laughed.

  "You'll get over it," he observed—"youth, I mean. Don't mix your business and your personal affairs. That came right out of the copy book, page one, but it's true. I'm the one that ought to feel sore, seems to me." He lit his own cigar, and puffed at it, swinging his bulky form to the edge of the desk. "Look here," said he, shaking the butt at the younger man. "You're making a great mistake. The future of this country is with water, and don't you forget it. Fuel is scarce; water power is the coming force. The country can produce like a garden under irrigation; and it's only been scratched yet, and that just about the big cities. We are getting control; and the future of the state is with us. You're wasting yourself in all this toy work. You've got too much ability to squander it in that sort of thing. Oldham made you an offer from us, didn't he?"

  "He tried to bribe me, if that's what you mean," said Bob.

  "Well, have it your way; but you'll admit there's hardly much use of bribing you now. I repeat the offer. Come in with us on those terms."

  "Why?" demanded Bob.

  "Well," said Baker quaintly, "because you seem to have licked me fair and square; and I never want a man who can lick me to remain where he is likely to do so."

  At this point Orde, who had up to now remained quietly a spectator, spoke up.

  "Bob," said he, "is already fairly intimately connected with certain interests, which, while not so large as water power, are enough to keep him busy."

  Baker turned to him joyously.

  "List' to the voice of reason!" he cried. "I'm sorry he won't come with us; but the next best thing is to put him where he won't fight us. I didn't know he was going back to your timber—"

  Bob opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again at a gesture from his father.

  Baker glanced at the clock.

  "Well," he remarked cheerfully, "come over to the Club with me to lunch, anyway."

  Bob stared at him incredulously. Here was the man who had employed against him every expedient from blackmail to physical violence; who had but that instant been worsted in a bald attempt at larceny, nevertheless, cheerfully inviting him out to lunch as though nothing had happened! Furthermore, his father, against whose ambitions one of the deadliest blows had been aimed, was quietly reaching for his hat. Baker looked up and caught Bob's expression.

  "Come, come!" said he; "forget it! You and I speak the language of the same tribe, and you can't get away from it. I'm playing my game, you're playing yours. Of course, we want to win. But what's the use of cutting out lots of bully good people on that account?"

  "You don't stick to the rules," insisted Bob stoutly.

  "I think I do," said Baker. "Who's to decide? You believe one way, I believe another. I know what you think of my methods in business; and I'd hate to say what I think of you as the blue ribbon damn fool in that respect. But I like you, and I'm willing to admit you've got stuff in you; and I know damn well you and your father and I can have a fine young lunch talking duck-shooting and football. And with all my faults you love me still, and you know you do." He smiled winningly, and hooked his arm through Bob's on one side and his father's on the other. "Come on, you old deacon; play the game!" he cried.

  Bob laughed, and gave in.

  * * *

  XXXIX

  Bob took his father with him back to headquarters. They rode in near the close of day; and, as usual, from the stovepipe of the roofless kitchen a brave pillar of white smoke rose high in the shadows of the firs. Amy came forth at Bob's shout, starched and fresh, her cheeks glowing with their steady colour, her intelligent eyes alight with interest under the straight, serene brows. At sight of Orde, the vivacity of her manner quieted somewhat, but Bob could see that she was excited about something. He presented his father, who dismounted and greeted her with a hearty shake of the hand.

  "We've heard of you, Miss Thorne," said he simply, but it was evident he was pleased with the frankness of her manner, the clear steadiness of her eye, the fresh daintiness of her appearance, and the respect of her greeting. On the other hand, she looked back with equal pleasure on the tanned, sturdy old man with the white hair and moustache, the clear eyes, and the innumerable lines of quaint good-humour about them. After they had thus covertly surveyed each other for a moment, the aforesaid lines about Orde's eyes deepened, his eyes twinkled with mischief, and he thrust forth his hand for the second time. "Shake again!" he offered. Amy gurgled forth a little chuckle of good feeling and understanding, and laid her fingers in his huge palm.

  After this they turned and walked slowly to the hitch rails where the men tied their horses.

  "Where's the Supervisor?" Bob asked of Amy.

  "In the office," she replied; and then burst out excitedly: "I've the greatest news!"

  "So have I," returned Bob, promptly. "Best kind."

  "Oh, what is it?" she cried, forgetting all about her own. "Is it Mr. Welton?"

  "It'll take some time to tell mine," said Bob, "and we must hunt up Mr. Thorne. Yours first."

  "Pollock is free!"

  "Pollock free!" echoed Bob. "How is that? I thought his trial was not until next week!"

  "The prosecuting attorney quashed the indictment—or whatever it is they do. Anyhow, he let George go for lack of evidence to convict."

  "I guess he was relying on evidence promised by Oldham, which he never got," Bob surmised.

  "And never will," Orde cautioned them. "You two young people must be careful never to know anything of this."

  Bob opened his mouth to say something; was suddenly struck by a thought, and closed it again.

  "Why do you say that?" he asked at last. "Why do you think Miss Thorne must know of this?"

  But Orde only smiled amusedly beneath his white moustache.

  They found Ashley Thorne, and acquainted him with the whole situation. He listened thoughtfully.

  "The matter is over our heads, of course; but we must do our best. Of course, by all rights the man ought to be indicted; but there can be no question that there is a common sense that takes the substance of victory and lets the shadow go."

  Orde stayed to supper and over night. In the course of the evening California John drifted in, and Ware, and Jack Pollock, and such other of the rangers as happened to be in from the Forest. Orde was at his best; and ended, to Bob's vast pride, in getting himself well liked
by these conservative and quietly critical men of the mountains.

  The next morning Bob and his father saddled their horses and started early for the mill, Bob having been granted a short leave of absence. For some distance they rode in silence.

  "Father," said Bob, "why did you stop me from contradicting Baker the other day when he jumped to the conclusion that I was going to quit the Service?"

  "I think you are."

  "But—"

  "Only if you want to, Bob. I don't want to force you in any way; but both Welton and I are getting old, and we need younger blood. We'd rather have you." Bob shook his head. "I know what you mean, and I realize how you feel about the whole matter. Perhaps you are right. I have nothing to say against conservation and forestry methods theoretically. They are absolutely correct. I agree that the forests should be cut for future growths, and left so that fire cannot get through them; but it is a grave question in my mind whether, as yet, it can be done."

  "But it is being done!" cried Bob. "There is no difficulty in doing it."

  "That's for you to prove, if you want to," said Orde. "If you care to resign from the Service, we will for two years give you full swing with our timber, to cut and log according to your ideas—or rather the ideas of those over you. In that time you can prove your point, or fail. Personally," he repeated, "I have grave doubts as to whether it can be done at present; it will be in the future of course."

  "Why, what do you mean?" asked Bob. "It is being done every day! There's nothing complicated about it. It's just a question of cutting and piling the tops, and—"

  "I know the methods advocated," broke in Orde. "But it is not being done except on Government holdings where conditions as to taxation, situation and a hundred other things are not like those of private holdings; or on private holdings on an experimental scale, or in conjunction with older methods. The case has not been proved on a large private tract. Now is your chance so to prove it."

  Bob's face was grave.

  "That means a pretty complete about-face for me, sir," said he. "I fought this all out with myself some years back. I feel that I have fitted myself into the one thing that is worth while for me."

  "I know," said Orde. "Don't hurry. Think it over. Take advice. I have a notion you'll find this—if its handled right, and works out right—will come to much the same thing."

  He rode along in silence for some moments.

  "I want to be fair," he resumed at last, "and do not desire to get you in this on mistaken premises. This will not be a case of experiment, of plaything, but of business. However desirable a commercial theory may be, if it's commercial, it must pay! It's not enough if you don't lose money; or even if you succeed in coming out a little ahead. You must make it pay on a commercial basis, or else it's as worthless in the business world as so much moonshine. That is not sordid; it is simply common sense. We all agree that it would be better to cut our forests for the future; but can it be done under present conditions?"

  "There is no question of that," said Bob confidently.

  "There is quite a question of it among some of us old fogies, Bobby," stated Orde good-humouredly. "I suppose we're stupid and behind the times; but we've been brought up in a hard school. We are beyond the age when we originate much, perhaps; but we're willing to be shown."

  He held up his hand, checking over his fingers as he talked.

  "Here's the whole proposition," said he. "You can consider it. Welton and I will turn over the whole works to you, lock, stock and barrel, for two years. You know the practical side of the business as well as you ever will, and you've got a good head on you. At the end of that time, turn in your balance sheet. We'll see how you come out, and how much it costs a thousand feet to do these things outside the schoolroom."

  "If I took it up, I couldn't make it pay quite as well as by present methods," Bob warned.

  "Of course not. Any reasonable man would expect to spend something by way of insurance for the future. But the point is, the operations must pay. Think it over!"

  They emerged into the mill clearing. Welton rolled out to greet them, his honest red face aglow with pleasure over greeting again his old friend. They pounded each other on the back, and uttered much facetious and affectionate abuse. Bob left them cursing each other heartily, broad grins illuminating their weatherbeaten faces.

  * * *

  XL

  Bob's obvious course was to talk the whole matter over with his superior officer, and that is exactly what he intended to do. Instead, he hunted up Amy. He justified this course by the rather sophistical reflection that in her he would encounter the most positive force to the contrary of the proposition he had just received. Amy stood first, last and all the time for the Service; her heart was wholly in its cause. In her opinion he would gain the advantage of a direct antithesis to the ideas propounded by his father. This appeared to Bob an eminently just arrangement, but failed to account for a certain rather breathless excitement as he caught sight of Amy's sleek head bending over a pan of peas.

  "Amy," said he, dropping down at her feet, "I want your advice."

  She let fall her hands and looked at him with the refreshing directness peculiarly her own.

  "Father wants me to take charge of the Wolverine Company's operations," he began.

  "Well?" she urged him after a pause.

  "What do you think of it?"

  "I thought you had worked that all out for yourself some time ago."

  "I had. But father and Mr. Welton are getting a little too old to handle such a proposition, and they are looking to me—" he paused.

  "That situation is no different than it has been," she suggested. "What else?"

  Bob laughed.

  "You see through me very easily, don't you? Well, the situation is changed. I'm being bribed."

  "Bribed!" Amy cried, throwing her head back.

  "Extra inducements offered. They make it hard for me to refuse, without seeming positively brutal. They offer me complete charge—to do as I want. I can run the works absolutely according to my own ideas. Don't you see how I am going to hurt them when I refuse under such circumstances?"

  "Refuse!" cried Amy. "Refuse! What do you mean!"

  "Do you think I ought to leave the Service?" stammered Bob blankly.

  "Why, it's the best chance the Service has ever had!" said Amy, the words fairly tumbling over one another. "You must never dream of refusing. It's your chance—it's our chance. It's the one thing we've lacked, the opportunity of showing lumbermen everywhere that the thing can be made to pay. It's the one thing we've lacked. Oh, what a chance!"

  "But—but," objected Bob—"it means giving up the Service—after these years—and all the wide interests—and the work----"

  "You must take it," she swept him away, "and you must do it with all your power and all the ability that is in you. You must devote yourself to one idea—make money, make it pay!"

  "This from you," said Bob sadly.

  "Oh, I am so glad!" cried Amy. "Your father is a dear! it's the one fear that has haunted me—lest some visionary incompetent should attempt it, and should fail dismally, and all the great world of business should visit our methods with the scorn due only his incompetence. It was our great danger! And now it is no longer a danger! You can do it, Bob; you have the knowledge and the ability and the energy—and you must have the enthusiasm. Can't you see it? You must!"

  She leaned over, her eyes shining with the excitement of her thought, to shake him by both shoulders. The pan of peas promptly deluged him. They both laughed.

  "I'd never looked at it that way," Bob confessed.

  "It's the only way to look at it."

  "Why!" cried Bob, in the sudden illumination of a new idea. "The more money I make, the more good I'll do—that's a brand new idea for you!"

  He rose to his feet, slowly, and stood for a moment lost in thought. Then he looked down at her, a fresh admiration shining in his eyes.

  "Yours is the inspiration and the insight—as a
lways," he said humbly. "It has always been so. I have seemed to myself to have blundered and stumbled, groping for a way; and you have flown, swift as a shining arrow, straight to the mark."

  "No, no, no, no!" she disclaimed, coming close to him in the vigour of her denial. "You are unfair."

  She looked up into his face, and somehow in the earnestness of her disclaimer, the feminine soul of her rose to her eyes, so that again Bob saw the tender, appealing helplessness, and once more there arose to full tide in his breast the answering tenderness that would care for her and guard her from the rough jostling of the world. The warmth of her young body tingled in recollection along his arm, and then, strangely enough, without any other direct cause whatever, the tide rose higher to flood his soul. He drew her to him, crushing her to his breast. For an instant she yielded to him utterly; then drew away in a panic.

  "My dear, my dear!" she half whispered; "not here!"

  * * *

  XLI

  Bob rode home through the forest, singing at the top of his voice. When he met his father, near the lower meadow, he greeted the older man boisterously.

  "That," said Orde to him shrewdly, "sounds to me mighty like relief. Have you decided for or against?"

  "For," said Bob. "It's a fine chance for me to do just what I've always wanted to do—to work hard at what interests me and satisfies me."

  "Go to it, then," said Orde. "By the way, Bobby, how old are you now?"

  "Twenty-nine."

  "Well, you're a year younger than I was when I started in with Newmark. You're ahead of me there. But in other respects, my son, your father had a heap more sense; he got married, and he didn't waste any time on it. How long have you been living around in range of that Thorne girl, anyway? Somebody ought to build a fire under you."

  Bob hesitated a moment; but he preferred that his good news should come to his father when Amy could be there, too.