“Stan, you’re a wonder!” gasped Bub, throwing up his hands in dismay. “Millions of feet of lumber, greeny. That first mill over there eats four hundred cords of spruce a day. That’s some eating, ain’t it? And if it ain’t fed to the top-notch you’ll hear something drop. Then we own the paper mill down where you tried to git work. Ha! ha!”
“Who is ‘we’? Are you a part of the company?” sneered Stanley, resenting the other’s reference.
“Sure,” stoutly replied Bub. “The company would have to close up shop if I wasn’t here to help old Abner Whitten on his trips.”
“And I suppose that that tramp coming along the road, the one who looks more unfortunate than I, also is one of the company,” ironically remarked Stanley, pointing to the slouching figure of a man.
Bub’s eyes danced gleefully. “That is Wilson, our buyer. The company pays him ten thousand dollars a year. He knows the lumber game and the timber lands of New England and Canada as no other man knows it. Stanley, remember this; clothes don’t cut much of a figure up here. The only thing that counts is results. If you deliver the lumber you git the
