# "Timber"/Chapter 21

CHAPTER XXI
Humphrey Bryant had not eaten, had not left his desk. He watched the supervisors trail toward the Commercial House with Jim Harris in the lead, watched the town merchants one by one lock their doors and go home for dinner—and then sat there, staring blankly at the picture of Pingree on the blue calcimined wall.
He was not conscious that so much time passed. Time seemed to speed that day, drawing events after it in a dizzying swirl, portentous events, carrying great consequence for him and Helen Foraker beneath their surface, and he roused with a start as Sim Burns strolled along the walk on his way back from dinner. Wes Hubbard was behind him and Art Billings and the others. Finally Henry Wales, fretting with his pale cigar, hastened along as the clock on Bryant's office wall struck one.
The old man rose and went to the door. Through the open court house window he saw the supervisors moving about their room—he watched and waited. Jim Harris did not emerge from the poolroom.
Bareheaded he crossed the street, breath a trifle short, heart thumping.
The aimless chatter of the group frazzled to a tell-tale silence as the editor appeared in the doorway. He stood a moment, counting them. Each township was represented. He stepped inside, drawing the door shut behind him and stood with his hand on the knob. His white, ​stiff-bosomed shirt was open at the throat, his vest unbuttoned.
"Gentlemen," he said, and bowed.
They were all old men, except Sim; some white headed, some grizzled; some withered, a few portly; of the old order in body and thought.
Wes Hubbard took his feet from the chairman's desk.
"Mornin' Hump'," he said and picked up the gavel. "Lookin' for a piece for th' Banner?"
There was something malicious in the casual question.
"Yes, for the Banner—perhaps."
"Ought to make a good write-up. We're goin' to resolute for a new court house an' for lots of roads this afternoon."
"That's commendable. We've managed to stagger along with the old tin shack and our sand trails for quite a while.
"You think, do you gentlemen, that the electorate will vote the bonds?"
"Sure thing!" It was Sim Burns, rather defensive in his manner. "Why shouldn't they?"
The editor shrugged. His blue eyes were very bright, but unsmiling; very quick in their darting from face to face, but not shifting—just prying, roving, alive and alert.
"There's only one thing to stand in the way," he said, "Taxes."
Wes Hubbard rose.
"I guess that th' people understand pretty well that th' country's goin' to be better fixed for funds."
"That's why I came over, gentlemen, to ask, as a representative of the press, about the revised assessments."
There was a stir in the group; men drew closer together.
​"That'll come out when th' boards of review meet."
"And maybe it'll come out sooner!" There was a snap to the old editor's voice; he moved a step nearer the faces which had slowly formed in a group before him. The attitudes of lounging had given way to a tensity—like the tensity of his own manner. "I want to know who's going to pay the bill."
Some one coughed. Henry Wales sniffed and eyed his cigar.
"That's all fixed, Hump," Hubbard said. "There won't be any hardship for anybody that ain't got it comin'."
"Let's understand one another, gentlemen. Let's get down to brass tacks. I understand that the valuation on Foraker's Folly is to be raised until the sum realized will pay interest and create sinking funds for all these bonds."
Sim Burns snapped: "No more 'n fair! No more 'n legal; I've only followed the law in makin' my assessment."
The editor's blue eye whipped to him. "Only followed what law?"
"State tax law," color mounting, lower lip drooping. "You stood by Foraker; you stood by his girl. You believed they could grow timber out there an' they have. Now do you want to stand between 'em an' th' bill for that privilege? Want to be a party to defrauding the people of this county out of their just tax income?"
There was menace in him as he stepped forward, fists half clenched. Others glanced at him as though his challenge gave them assurance.
"You, Burns, and all of you know my attitude on the matter of taxing timber. There's no need of discussing that. I'm here to discuss a matter of justice."
​"Justice!" scoffed Sim. "Justice? You think it's fair for a big rich property like that to get out of paying its share?"
"I think it is illegal for any large interest to shirk its share of public expense. I think it is criminal for tax officers to aid and abet any interest in avoiding its just burden. That is why I have come—on a matter of justice."
He moved forward again and drew his pudgy figure up. His face was flushed, his eyes flashing cold fire. He seemed to grow in stature as his voice mounted. The old man poised there, face to face with Burns, and then let his gaze travel the group, as though finished with the one man. The silence was acute. A fly, bumping against the window, sounded large in it. There was portent in the gesture of Bryant's half-lifted hand.
He relaxed suddenly, and a smile ran down into his beard.
"Understand me, gentlemen, I came not as a trouble maker, not as a kicker against improvements, but on a simple matter of simple justice. The people of this country understand your plan thoroughly. Foraker's Folly is to pay the bill for these improvements. Chief Pontiac Power and Jim Harris are to benefit by them directly, and the people are to benefit by boasting a new public building.
"I want to call your attention to this fact; Chief Pontiac Power, all its holdings, its three dams, its three power plants, its flowage rights, its unused key positions, its monopoly of the power possibilities in this country, its subsidiary, the Harris Development Company, is assessed at a valuation of two hundred thousand."
He paused and his eyes sought the face of Art Billings ​which had paled suddenly and who seemed to shrink from Bryant's scrutiny.
"I haven't heard you making a noise about raising the assessment of Chief Pontiac in your township to a cash-value basis, Art!"
Even the fly was silent.
The blue eyes swept the faces again and the editor's voice rose a bit, not quite steady, as he strove to hold his anger down.
"I haven't heard any of you objecting to the low assessment of this corporation, which, as any of us know, will run over six million dollars cash value! More, market value! I've heard a mighty roar against Foraker's Folly; I haven't heard a whisper against Chief Pontiac—I'm not going to discuss this; I'm not going to ask you why?" a ripple of relief ran over the group. "I'm going to tell you why!"
His voice had leaped to a roar and his hand went quickly to his pocket, bringing forth the worn notebook. The silence was painful as he drew down his spectacles from his forehead and fumbled the pages.
"I have here memoranda which interests me, and will interest you, and will interest perhaps—perhaps, the electorate, perhaps the tax commission, perhaps the prosecuting attorney of this county if properly urged by the governor of our great state."
He looked into the book.
"I read at random: At the top of the page, I find this date: January 4, 1915. Below is written the name of Oliver Burns, uncle of the present supervisor from Lincoln township, veteran member of this body until his death. In the next column is written the time, 1.32 p.m.; which ​means at that moment he entered the Commercial House and ascended the stairs to the room of Jim Harris, local representative of a great corporation." He paused, for his throat had tightened. He looked about almost fiercely but the amazement in those faces gave him strength.
"I turn, the pages. The date is August 9, 1917. The first name is again Oliver Burns; the hour is 9.16 a.m. and he went up to the same place, up the same stairs to the same room, still occupied by Jim Harris, local representative of Chief Pontiac Power.
"The next notation is 9.47 a.m. and the name opposite is Wes Hubbard; the next is twenty minutes to eleven and the name is Art Billings. The next was Oren Culman at eleven four, and so on.
"Try another page: March 5, 1918. Art Billings was early, at 8.22. Until after eleven Mr. Harris had no callers, but he remained in his room waiting, looking through the window now and then. At three minutes past eleven Wes Hubbard went up the stairs, at 11.22 Oliver Burns, and at one minute to noon, Oren Culman.
"And so on, with little change, until April 6, 1920 when a new name appears: that of Sim Burns."
He stopped, jaw trembling.
"You are all there, gentlemen, on every page—"
Those who watched thought that the quivering of his jaw and the tremor in his voice was the unsteadiness of righteous wrath; but it was not that, not by far. It was misgiving. Like a stud-poker player he let them look at the high cards which lay face up—but the one in the hole—the one on which he was risking his stack, was an unknown quantity to him—and for all he knew it might be a marked card and recognizable to these men.
​Slowly he closed the book and stood with it between his palms. No word of reply came for an instant and then Sim Burns spoke.
"You've mentioned my uncle's name." His voice was thin. "You'd accuse the dead of takin' Chief Pontiac's money? You'd slander the dead?"
The editor's heart pelted at his ribs. He had wrung it from them!
"The dead? Aye, the dead! And the living, equally smirched, will stand for it!" he cried, and his hand clutching the notebook lashed out in a furious gesture as he stepped backward to fling open the door.
"Two columns of these notes I've read, gentlemen. Do you want me to read the third? Do you want me to shout down these halls the exact value of your thirty pieces of silver? The price that Chief Pontiac has paid and that you have accepted so the people of this country might be defrauded to help a great corporation?"
A movement, sharp and quick and certain as Wes Hubbard skipped from the chairman's platform.
"Shut up, Bryant!" he panted. "Hold your mouth!"
His voice was husky and he trembled as he backed against the door to close it.
The old man did not look at him. He pushed his spectacles upward and his eyes firm, assured and penetrating, ran from face to face slowly before he turned to look at the chairman who stood there, pale and shrunken.
"If I don't choose to shut up? What then?"
"I'll—we'll—," stammered Hubbard, floundering for a threat.
"You'll go, every last one of you, to a larger, finer building than this; but it's a tighter building, more ​imposing than any your bonds would have built; and as for roads—you may build them with your hands, you blackguards!"
The epithet popped from his lips and he moved forward. This brought him in line with the window and from the poolroom he saw Jim Harris emerge, hat back, face red with laughter.
"We understand one another," he said, halting. "I came on an errand of justice. I am leaving now. If Chief Pontiac wants to bear its equitable share of taxation for the fruits that it will enjoy, I have no argument. Chief Pontiac Power does not want to be fair, gentlemen. You've put yourself in the hands of rascals. Vote these resolutions this afternoon that mean the ruin of Foraker's Folly—and," he gave the notebook just the suggestion of a brandish.
"Otherwise, the matter of the value of your pieces of silver—may wait."
He went from the room with no further word and his feet echoed on the light boards of the stairway as he descended. Until he was gone from the building, no man stirred.
"Here comes Jim," rasped Art Billings.
"I move we adjourn!" This in a whisper from Sim Burns.
"You can't adjourn; we ain't been called to order," mumbled Hubbard.
"To hell with that!" cried Sim. "He's got it on us, th' old basterd! Do you all want to rot in jail? Clear out before Harris gets here or you'll be hoppin' from the fryin' pan into th' coals!"
They went with a thundering of feet down the stairway and scattered in the dusty thoroughfare of Pancake.
​Jim Harris stopped and watched them go.
"All through?" he asked Henry Wales.
"Through—er—you see, Jim—"
Briefly and nervously the landlord told his guest the story, and Harris' face darkened. He made no threats then, for he knew that like mercy, corruption touches him who gives and him who receives. He stood still, gazing blankly at the office of the Blueberry Banner.
Hump Bryant was at the telephone, tongue roving his lip, eyes smiling happily as he listened to the glad response of Helen Foraker.
"How'd it happen?" he asked. "Lord knows—I guess He had a hand in it, my dear—