The Secret of the Reef

This is a white man’s country. All aliens warned to leave. Those who stay and those who keep them will take the consequences.

“I suppose our keeping the Japs on is their only quarrel with us?”

“It’s all they state.”

“Well,” Aynsley said slowly, “if we give way in this, I dare say they’d find something else to make trouble about. When you begin to make concessions you generally have to go on.”

“That’s so,” agreed Jevons. “It looks to me as if the boys were driving their bosses, who can’t pull them up; but those I’ve met are reasonable men, and when the crowd cools off a bit they’ll get control again. They’d give us leave to run the mill if you fired the Japs.”

Aynsley frowned.

“I have received their deputations civilly, and during the last week or two I’ve put up with a good deal. We pay standard wages and I don’t think there’s a man about the place who’s asked to do more than he’s able. But I can’t have these fellows dictating whom I shall employ!”

“You have some good orders on the books for delivery on a time limit,” Jevons reminded him. “You’ll lose pretty smartly if we have to stop the mill.”

“That’s the trouble,” Aynsley admitted. “I’d hate to lose the orders; but, on the other hand, I hired these Japs when I couldn’t get white men, and I promised their boss I’d keep them until we’d worked through the log boom.”

“You might call him up and ask what he’d take to quit. It might work out cheaper in the end.”

Aynsley pondered this. Though he had not suspected it until lately, he had inherited something of his father’s character. He had seldom thought much about money before he entered the mill, but since then he had experienced a curious satisfaction in seeing the balance to his credit mount up, and in calculating the profit on the lumber he cut. Now he found the suggestion that he should throw away part of his earnings frankly impossible. It was, however, not so much avarice as pride that influenced him. He had taken to business seriously, and he meant to show what he could do.

“No,” he said decidedly. “I don’t see why I should let the mob fine me for being honest. I’d rather fight, if I’m forced to; and I’m afraid you’ll have to stand in.”

Jevons laughed.

“I don’t know that I’m anxious to back out. I tried to show you the easiest way, as a matter of duty; but there’s a good deal to be said for the other course. I don’t think there are any union boys still in the mill, and my notion is that the rancher crowd don’t mean to quit.”

Labor had been scarce that year, and Aynsley had engaged a number of small ranchers and choppers, who, as often happens when wages are high, had come down from their homesteads in the bush. They were useful men, of determined character, and were content with their pay.

“Well,” he said, “we may as well ask what the Japs think of doing; but they’re stubborn little fellows, and seem to have some organization of their own. Anyway, they whipped the mob pretty badly in Vancouver a day or two ago.”

Their leader, being sent for, explained in good English that, as their honorable employer had hired them to do certain work which was not yet completed, they meant to stay. On being warned that this might prove dangerous, he answered darkly that they had taken precautions, and the danger might not be confined to them. Then, after some ceremonious compliments, he took his leave; and Aynsley laughed.

“That settles the thing! They won’t go and I can’t turn them out. I have some sympathy with the opposition’s claim that this is a white man’s country; but since they couldn’t give me the help I wanted, I had to get it where I could. Now, we’ll interview the white crowd.”

They found the men gathered in the big sleeping-shed where the lamps had just been lighted. They were sturdy, hard-looking fellows, most of whom owned small holdings which would not support them in the bush, and they listened gravely while Aynsley spoke. Then one got up to reply for the rest.

“We’ve seen this trouble coming and talked it over. So long as you don’t cut wages, we’ve nothing much to complain of and see no reason for quitting our job. Now, it looks as if the Vancouver boys were coming to turn us out. We’ll let them – if they can!”

There was a murmur of grim approval from the rest; and Aynsley, dividing them into detachments, sent them off to guard the saws and booms and engine-house. Then he turned to the manager with a sparkle in his eyes.

“I think we’re ready for anything that may happen. You’ll find me in the office if I’m wanted.”

On entering it he took down a couple of books from a shelf and endeavored to concentrate his attention on the business they recorded. It was the first serious crisis he had had to face, and he felt that hanging idly about the mill while he waited for the attack would be too trying. Somewhat to his surprise, he found his task engross him, and an hour had passed when he closed the books and crossed the floor to the open window.

It was a calm, dark night, and warm. A star or two glimmered above the black spires of the pines, but the mist that drifted along the waterside blurred the tall stacks and the lumber piles. There was no sign of the men; and the deep silence was emphasized by a faint hiss of steam and the gurgle of the river.

Leaning on the sill, Aynsley drank in the soft night air, which struck on his forehead pleasantly cool. He admitted that he was anxious, but he thought he could keep his apprehensions under good control.

As he gazed into the darkness, a measured sound stole out of the mist, and, growing louder, suggested a galloping horse. It approached the mill, but Aynsley did not go down. If anybody wanted him, it would be better that he should be found quietly at work in his office; and he was seated at his table with a pen in his hand when a man was shown in. The newcomer was neatly dressed except that his white shirt was damp and crumpled. His face was hot and determined.

“I’ve come to prevent trouble,” he explained.

“I’m glad to hear it, because, as we both have the same wish, it ought to simplify things,” Aynsley responded. “Since yours is the party with a grievance, you’d better tell me what you want.”

“A written promise that you won’t keep a Jap here after to-morrow morning.”

“I can’t give it,” said Aynsley firmly. “I’ll undertake to hire no more and to let these fellows go when they have finished the work I engaged them for, if that will do.”

“It won’t; I can’t take that answer back to the boys. You must fire the Japs right off.”

Aynsley leaned forward on the table with a patient sigh.

“Don’t you understand that when two parties meet to arrange terms they can’t both have all they want? The only chance of a settlement lies in a mutual compromise.”

“You’re wrong,” said the stranger grimly. “The thing can be settled straight off if one of them gives in.”

“Is that what you propose to do?”

“No, sir! I don’t budge an inch! The boys wouldn’t let me, even if I thought it wise.”

“Then, as I can’t go as far as you wish, there’s no use in my making a move,” Aynsley answered coolly. “It looks as if we had come to a standstill and there was nothing more to be said.”

“I’ll warn you that you’re taking a big responsibility and playing a fool game.”

“That remains to be seen. I needn’t keep you, though I’m sorry we can’t agree.”

He went down with the man, and as they crossed the yard the fellow raised his voice.

“Come out from the holes you’re hiding in, boys!” he cried. “Are you going to back the foreigners and employers against your friends?”

Aynsley touched his shoulder.

“Sorry, but we can’t allow any speeches of that kind. You have an envoy’s privileges, so long as you stick to them, but this is breaking all the rules.”

“How will you stop me?” the fellow demanded roughly.

“I imagine you had better not satisfy your curiosity on that point,” Aynsley answered. “The man yonder has your horse. I wish you good-night.”

The envoy mounted and rode away into the darkness; and Aynsley sought his manager.

“I suspect his friends are not far off,” he said. “We had better go round again and see that everything’s ready.”

CHAPTER XIII – THE REPULSE

The night was dark and the road bad, and Clay leaned forward in the lurching car, looking fixedly ahead. The glare of the headlamp flickered across wagon ruts and banks of tall fern that bordered the uneven track, while here and there the base of a great fir trunk flashed suddenly out of the enveloping darkness and passed. Where the bush was thinnest, Clay could see the tiny wineberries glimmer red in the rushing beam of light, but all above was wrapped in impenetrable gloom. They were traveling very fast through a deep woods, but the road ran straight and roughly level, and talking was possible.

“You had trouble in the city lately. How did it begin?” Clay asked the driver. “I’m a stranger, and know only what’s in your papers.”