The Pit-Prop Syndicate. John Curran
doesn’t seem to be much to miss at present,’ Merriman answered, looking idly over the deserted space.
About a quarter to eight a man appeared where the lane from the road debouched into the clearing. He walked towards the shed, disappearing presently behind it. Almost immediately blue smoke began issuing from the metal chimney in the shed roof. It was evident he had come before the others to get up steam.
In about half an hour those others arrived, about fifteen men in all, a rough-looking lot in labourers’ kit. They also vanished behind the shed, but most of them reappeared almost immediately, laden with tools, and, separating into groups, moved off to the edge of the clearing. Soon work was in full swing. Trees were being cut down by one gang, the branches lopped off fallen trunks by another, while a third was loading up and running the stripped stems along a Decauville railway to the shed. Almost incessantly the thin screech of the saws rose penetratingly above the sounds of hacking and chopping and the calls of men.
‘There doesn’t seem to be much wrong there,’ Merriman said when they had surveyed the scene for nearly an hour.
‘No,’ Hilliard agreed, ‘and there didn’t seem to be much wrong when I inspected the place on Sunday. But there can’t be anything obviously wrong. If there is anything, in the nature of things it won’t be easy to find.’
About nine o’clock Mr Coburn, dressed in gray flannel, emerged from his house and crossed the grass to the mill. He remained there for a few minutes, then they saw him walking to the workers at the forest edge. He spent some moments with each gang, afterwards returning to his house.
For nearly an hour things went on as before, and then Mr Coburn reappeared at his hall door, this time accompanied by his daughter. Both were dressed extraordinarily well for such a backwater of civilisation, he with a gray Homburg hat and gloves, she as before in brown, but in a well-cut coat and skirt and a smart toque and motoring veil. Both were carrying dust coats. Mr Coburn drew the door to, and they walked towards the mill and were lost to sight behind it. Some minutes passed, and between the screaming of the saws the sound of a motor engine became audible. After a further delay a Ford car came out from behind the shed and moved slowly over the uneven sward towards the lane. In the car were Mr and Miss Coburn and a chauffeur.
Hilliard had been following every motion through his glass, and he now thrust the instrument into his companion’s hand, crying softly:
‘Look, Merriman. Is that the lorry driver you saw?’ Merriman focused the glass on the chauffeur and recognised him instantly. It was the same dark, aquiline featured man who had stared at him so resentfully on the occasion of his first visit to the mill, some two months earlier.
‘By Jove, what an extraordinary stroke of luck!’ Hilliard went on eagerly. ‘All three of them that know you out of the way! We can go down to the place now and ask for Mr Coburn, and maybe we shall have a chance to see inside of that shed. Let’s go at once, before they come back.’
They crawled away from their point of vantage into the wood, and retracing their steps to the boat, put it together and carried it to the river. Then rowing up-stream, they reached the end of the wharf, where a flight of wooden steps came down into the stream. Here they went ashore, after making the painter fast to the woodwork.
The front of the wharf, they had seen from the boat, was roughly though strongly made. At the actual edge, there was a row of almost vertical piles, pine trees driven unsquared. Behind these was a second row, inclined inwards. The feet of both rows seemed to be pretty much in the same line, but the tops of the raking row were about six feet behind the others, the arrangement, seen from the side, being like a V of which one leg is vertical. These tops were connected by beams, supporting a timber floor. Behind the raking piles rough tree stems had been laid on the top of each other horizontally to hold back the earth filled behind them. The front was about a hundred feet long, and was set some thirty feet out in the river.
Parallel to the front and about fifty feet behind it was the wall of the shed. It was pierced by four doors, all of which were closed, but out of each of which ran a line of narrow gauge railway. These lines were continued to the front of the wharf and there connected up by turn-tables to a cross line, evidently with the idea that a continuous service of loaded trucks could be sent out of one door, discharged, and returned as empties through another. Stacks of pit-props stood ready for loading between the lines.
‘Seems a sound arrangement,’ Hilliard commented as they made their inspection.
‘Quite. Anything I noticed before struck me as being efficient.’
When they had seen all that the wharf appeared to offer, they walked round the end of the shed. At the back were a number of doors, and through these also narrow gauge lines were laid which connected with those radiating to the edge of the clearing. Everywhere between the lines were stacks of pit-props as well as of blocks and cuttings. Three or four of the doors were open, and in front of one of them, talking to some one in the building, stood a man.
Presently he turned and saw them. Immediately they advanced and Hilliard accosted him.
‘Good-morning. We are looking for Mr Coburn. Is he about?’
‘No, monsieur,’ the man answered civilly, ‘he has gone into Bordeaux. He won’t be back until the afternoon.’
‘That’s unfortunate for us,’ Hilliard returned conversationally. ‘My friend and I were passing up the river on our launch, and we had hoped to have seen him. However, we shall get hold of him later. This is a fine works you have got here.’
The man smiled. He seemed a superior type to the others and was evidently a foreman.
‘Not so bad, monsieur. We have four saws, but only two are running today.’ He pointed to the door behind him as he spoke, and the two friends passed in as if to have an idle look round.
The interior was fitted up like that of any other sawmill, but the same element of design and efficiency seemed apparent here as elsewhere. The foreman explained the process. The lopped trunks from the wood came in by one of two roads through a large door in the centre of the building. Outside each road was a saw, its axle running parallel to the roads. The logs were caught in grabs, slung on to the table of the saws and, moving automatically all the time, were cut into lengths of from seven to ten feet. The pieces passed for props were dumped on to a conveyor which ran them out of the shed to be stacked for seasoning and export. The rejected pieces by means of another conveyor moved to the third and fourth saws, where they were cut into blocks for firewood, being finally delivered into two large bins ready for loading onto the lorries.
The friends exhibited sufficient non-technical interest to manage to spend a good deal of time over their survey, drawing out the foreman in conversation and seeing as much as they could. At one end of the shed was the boiler house and engine room, at the other the office, with between it and the mill proper a spacious garage in which, so they were told, the six lorries belonging to the syndicate were housed. Three machines were there, two lying up empty, the third, with engine running and loaded with blocks, being ready to start. They would have liked to examine the number plate, but in the presence of the foreman it was hardly possible. Finally they walked across the clearing to where felling and lopping was in progress, and inspected the operations. When they left shortly after with a promise to return to meet Mr Coburn, there was not much about the place that they had missed.
‘That business is just as right as rain,’ Merriman declared when they were once more in the boat. ‘And that foreman’s all right too. I’d stake my life he wasn’t hiding anything. He’s not clever enough for one thing.’
‘So I think too,’ Hilliard admitted. ‘And yet, what about the game with the number plates? What’s the idea of that?’
‘I don’t know. But all the same I’ll take my oath there’s nothing wrong about the timber trade. It’s no go, Hilliard. Let’s drop chasing wild geese and get along with our trip.’
‘I feel very like it,’ the other replied as he sucked moodily at his pipe. ‘We’ll watch for another day or so, and if we see nothing suspicious