# When Titans Drive/Chapter 11

pp. 24–26
CHAPTER XI.
NO QUITTER.
THE letter dropped into Bob’s lap, and for a long minute he sat staring into the yellow, dancing flames. His face was blank, and just a little white, for the blow had been a heavy one, and totally unexpected. He could not seem to understand it. It was unbelievable that he and Tweedy, who had been fair and square in every one of their business dealings, could be forced to the wall by such a monster of corruption as Elihu Crane.
There must be some mistake. Tweedy must have been thrown into one of his unjustifiable panics. That was it, of course.
Bob picked up the letter to read it carefully again.
He perused it to the last word, and then leaned back against the sapling, his face drawn and somber. It really did not sound like a mistake. It was all clear and logical, and singularly cohesive. It was the sort of thing Crane would delight in planning and putting into execution—the cutting of prices on a competitor. Tweedy had written that if they attempted to cut under the trust’s present rates, there would be a further reduction. That was quite true. Bob knew, because he had had a vast deal of experience with the trust’s method of doing business. They would ruin him, no matter how great the cost, because he was dangerous to their continued well-being. With Bainbridge in the ring, and fighting vigorously against the graft and wholesale theft of timberlands, those juicy melon cuttings which had been so pleasing to the stockholders would cease—therefore Bainbridge must go.
Presently Bob’s eyes fell again to the letter, and somehow that single sentence seemed to stand out as if written in capitals: “It hurts like sin to say it, boy, but there’s nothing left to do but give in and make the best terms we can.”
For a second Bob stared, the blood rushing into his face, a crimson flood. Make terms with Crane? Go on his knees to that scoundrel, who had long ago parted with the last shred of decency and self-respect? Not much!
They must have resources enough to meet that note, at least. The trust could not keep the price of lumber down indefinitely. They must weather the storm in some way. And when this drive was safe at the mills, ready to be cut into lumber, they would have the laugh on Elihu Crane.
Oblivious to the men about him, even to the fact that the cook had some time ago announced supper, Bainbridge began to search his mind for means of staving off the evil day. Most of the stocks and bonds constituting his private fortune had been already pledged as collateral for loans to the firm. He still had a few thousand dollars’ worth of Steel Preferred which could be sold; and there was Pinecrest, the beautiful and costly home on the outskirts of Bangor, which had been left him by his father. It should not be difficult to raise a mortgage of ten thousand, at least, on the place.
“The note’s for ten thousand, so that’s all straightened out,” Bainbridge murmured, with a snap of his fingers. “The money from the stock can go for current expenses. I’ll fix it up this very night.”
He did. Fortunately Tweedy held his power of attorney with the right to sign checks and execute papers of any sort, so it was possible for him to put through these deals without his returning to Bangor. That another note for nearly as much as the first fell due in little more than a fortnight Bainbridge knew quite well. By that time, however, he fully intended to have the drive down as far as their mill at Lancaster, fifty miles or so above Bangor. And it is always possible to raise money on timber, even in the rough.
Of course, if the trust continued their campaign of cutting prices Bob’s plans would be materially affected. He could not believe, however, that they would do such a thing for any great length of time. A dollar meant as much to them as to any one, and even the pleasure of ruining a competitor would scarcely compensate for the loss of so much money.
A long letter of instruction and explanation was written to Tweedy that night, and despatched the first thing in the morning by the trusty hand of Joe Moose, the Indian. That off his mind, Bob returned to his drive with renewed vigor, for the necessity for haste was now even greater than before. It was a question of getting the logs down in double-quick time or being dragged into the bankruptcy court; and that sort of notoriety did not appeal in the least to the young man.
It was this feeling of necessity which got Bob up next morning before the blackness of the night was more than faintly tinged by streaks of pale gray in the east. He wanted to be off and doing; even necessary inaction chafed. It seemed an eternity before the men had finished breakfast, and were ready for the day’s work. As a matter of fact, they took less time than usual, for something of Bainbridge’s intense eagerness for speed seemed to have made itself felt.
All morning Bob worked like a Trojan getting the drive out into the Katahdin River. He did not storm and swear at his men, as many bosses do. Instead he had a way of jollying them along in a manner which might sound superficially like fun, but which held more than an undercurrent of seriousness. He treated them as human beings, not as if they were slaves from whom every last atom of work was to be extracted. And yet, when the need arose, he could hand out a rebuke, the caustic sting of which was enough to make a man’s hair stand on end. The result was that the crew soon admired him, and when they found how urgent was the need for haste they fell to with a will, and gave the best that was in them.
Bainbridge was not long in perceiving their attitude, and it gratified him intensely. He had never actually had charge of a drive before. He knew the theory, of course, but that is very different from the practical operation; and the discovery that he could handle a rough-and-ready crowd like this in a manner so totally different from that generally practiced by bosses of crews gave him no small satisfaction.
By dint of constant labor, at which Bob spared neither himself nor his men, the drive was successfully swung into the slightly larger river by two o’clock. There was no real respite even then. The stream was almost as difficult as the Megantic, and constant watchfulness was necessary to prevent fresh jams at a number of points. Consequently the men snatched a hurried dinner in relays and hustled back to work again.
It was about three, and Bob had just left the spot where only the most strenuous personal labor on the part of himself and four river jacks had kept the drive from jamming. He was hot and sweaty, and generally weary as he continued his way downstream, and his wrath was naturally instant when, on suddenly rounding a bend, he came upon Curly Kollock, cool, calm, and unruffled, sitting comfortably on a rock, enjoying a cigarette.
As the latter saw Bainbridge, he flushed slightly, and half rose from the bowlder. Then, with a stubborn twist of his lips, he sank back again, pulling hard on the cigarette, and doing his best to look unconcerned.
Bob walked straight up to him, and stopped.
“Well,” he said bitingly, “I’m sorry you’ve lost the use of your feet and hands. Is it paralysis?”
Kollock’s flush deepened, and he mumbled something inane about taking a smoke. He found that he had arisen, apparently without volition, and was standing before the other man, who stared at him a long half minute.
“This is no rest cure,” said Bob at length. “You’re paid for helping the drive along. I don’t want any loafers in this gang. Understand? Now, get down to the head of the drive—and do something!”
Kollock’s face was flaming, and his eyes gleamed angrily. “I don’t take that line of talk from anybody!” he growled, clenching his fists threateningly. “I’ll——”
“You’ll do what I said, and do it quick!” Bainbridge’s voice was not raised above a conversational pitch, but there was a ring in it which seemed to take the fight and bluster out of the big riverman with the effectiveness of a keen knife thrust into an inflated bladder. For a second he stood in awkward silence, swallowing hard in his embarrassment. Then he raised his head again.
“I don’t need your job,” he said, in a poor imitation of devil-may-care defiance. “I’ll get my time, and——”
Bainbridge cut him short. “You’ll get down to the drive and work. Beat it now—quick!”
Without another protesting word, Kollock turned meekly and obeyed.