The Iron Trail. Rex Beach

V

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      WHEREIN WE SEE CURTIS GORDON AND OTHERS

      Curtis Gordon's respect for his guest increased as they walked up the dock, for, before they had taken many steps, out from the crowd which had gathered to watch the ship's arrival stepped one of his foremen. This fellow shook hands warmly with O'Neil, whereupon others followed, one by one—miners, day laborers, "rough-necks" of many nationalities. They doffed their hats-something they never did for Gordon—and stretched out grimy hands, their faces lighting up with smiles. O'Neil accepted their greetings with genuine pleasure and called them by name.

      "We just heard you was shipwrecked," said Gordon's foreman, anxiously. "You wasn't hurt, was you?"

      "Not in the least."

      "God be praised! There's a lot of the old gang at work here."

      "So I see."

      "Here's Shorty, that you may remember from the North Pass." The speaker dragged from the crowd a red-faced, perspiring ruffian who had hung back with the bashfulness of a small boy. "He's the fellow you dug out of the slide at twenty-eight."

      "Connors!" cried O'Neil, warmly. "I'm glad to see you. And how are the two arms of you?"

      "Better 'n ever they was, the both av them!" Mr. Connors blushed, doubled his fists and flexed his bulging muscles. "An' why shouldn't they be, when you set 'em both with your own hands, Misther O'Neil? 'Twas as good a job as Doc Gray ever done in the hospittle. I hope you're doin' well, sir." He pulled his forelock, placed one foot behind the other, and tapped it on the planking, grinning expansively.

      "Very well indeed, thank you."

      O'Neil's progress was slow, for half the crowd insisted upon shaking his hand and exchanging a few words with him. Clumsy Swedes bobbed their heads, dark-browed foreign laborers whose nationality it was hard to distinguish showed their teeth and chattered words of greeting.

      "Bless my soul!" Gordon exclaimed, finally.

      "You know more of them than I do."

      "Yes! I seldom have to fire a man."

      "Then you are favored of the gods. Labor is my great problem. It is the supreme drawback of this country. These people drift and blow on every breeze, like the sands of the Sahara. With more and better help I could work wonders here."

      Unexpected as these salutations had been, O'Neil's greatest surprise came a moment later as he passed the first of the company buildings. There he heard his name pronounced in a voice which halted him, and in an open doorway he beheld a huge, loose-hung man of tremendous girth, with a war-bag in his hand and a wide black hat thrust back from a shiny forehead.

      "Why, Tom!" he exclaimed. "Tom Slater!"

      Gordon groaned and went on with the women, saying: "Come up to the house when you escape, Mr. O'Neil. I shall have dinner served."

      Mr. Slater came forward slowly, dragging his clothes-bag with him. The two shook hands.

      "What in the world are you doing here, Tom?"

      "Nothing!" said Slater. He had a melancholy cast of feature, utterly out of keeping with his rotund form. In his eye was the somber glow of a soul at war with the flesh.

      "Nothing?"

      "I had a good job, putting in a power plant for his nibs"—he indicated the retreating Gordon with a disrespectful jerk of the thumb—"but I quit."

      "Not enough pay?"

      "Best wages I ever got. He pays well."

      "Poor grub?"

      "Grub's fine."

      "What made you quit?"

      "I haven't exactly quit, but I'm going to. When I saw you coming up the dock I said: 'There's the chief! Now he'll want me.' So I began to pack." The speaker dangled his partly filled war-bag as evidence. In an even sourer tone he murmured:

      "Ain't that just me? I ain't had a day's luck since Lincoln was shot. The minute I get a good job along you come and spoil it."

      "I don't want you," laughed O'Neil.

      But Slater was not convinced. He shook his head.

      "Oh yes, you do. You've got something on or you wouldn't be here. I've been drawing pay from you now for over five minutes."

      O'Neil made a gesture of impatience.

      "No! No! In the first place, I have nothing for you to do; in the second place, I probably couldn't afford the wages Gordon is paying you."

      "That's the hell of it!" gloomily agreed "Happy Tom." "Where are your grips? I'll begin by carrying them."

      "I haven't any. I've been shipwrecked. Seriously, Tom, I have no place for you."

      The repetition of this statement made not the smallest impression upon the hearer.

      "You'll have one soon enough," he replied. Then with a touch of spirit, "Do you think I'd work for this four-flusher if you were in the country?"

      "Hush!" O'Neil cast a glance over his shoulder. "By the way, how do you happen to be here? I thought you were in Dawson."

      "I finished that job. I was working back toward ma and the children. I haven't seen them for two years."

      "You think Gordon is a false alarm?"

      "Happy Tom" spat with unerring accuracy at a crack, then said:

      "He's talking railroads! Railroads! Why, I've got a boy back in the state of Maine, fourteen years old—"

      "Willie?"

      "Yes. My son Willie could skin Curtis Gordon at railroad-building—and Willie is the sickly one of the outfit. But I'll hand it to Gordon for one thing; he's a money-getter and a money-spender. He knows where the loose stone in the hearth is laid, and he knows just which lilac bush the family savings are buried under. Those penurious Pilgrim Fathers in my part of the country come up and drop their bankbooks through the slot in his door every morning. He's the first easy money I ever had; I'd get rich off of him, but"—Slater sighed—"of course you had to come along and wrench me away from the till."

      "Don't quit on my account," urged his former chief. "I'm up here on coal matters. I can't take time to explain now, but I'll see you later."

      "Suit yourself, only don't keep me loafing on full time. I'm an expensive man. I'll be packed and waiting for you."

      O'Neil went on his way, somewhat amused, yet undeniably pleased at finding his boss packer here instead of far inland, for Slater's presence might, after all, fit well enough into his plans.

      "The Irish Prince" had gained something of a reputation for extravagance, but he acknowledged himself completely outshone by the luxury with which Curtis Gordon had surrounded