from him there
seemed to spread out into the wilderness long filaments over which
there trickled an unending stream of information.

"I didn't hear 'blast furnaces' mentioned either," piped Riggs.

"Cut it out for the present. The time hasn't come, but it will."
Stoughton got up and began to walk up and down. "We've got to hear all
he has to say. That's the wise thing. Let him talk himself out. He
can't talk for ever."

Riggs shook his head. "Can't he?"

"No, nor any man, and be continuously to the point; and if you get a
bit shaky and converted just think of dividends on seven millions.
That's what we came here for. I don't care how much bluffing it costs
or how many days it takes. We're here now and the only thing to do is
to wait till Clark's well runs dry and then give our ultimatum. But up
to that time we must do whatever he wants us to do. It's going to hurt
him--that's unavoidable--it will hurt us a lot more if we don't carry
our job through." All of which was a long speech for Stoughton, so he
sat down and was looking defiantly truculent when Clark came in smiling.

"You fellows have had enough for to-day so I've arranged a fishing trip
for this afternoon. It's a good river, only six miles out, and I own
it. It's an easy drive. You leave right after lunch and won't see me
again till to-morrow. Rods and things are ready, and there's a French
halfbreed at the camp to cook for you. What do you say?"

The suggestion came like sudden balm in Gilead. Stoughton's face
cleared. "What's your biggest fish--trout, aren't they?"

"Well," said Clark slowly, "I've never had time to fish myself, but
people who come to see me like a day off. Four pounds and a half is
the record so far."

It was a magic touch. Riggs and Wimperley were, like Stoughton, keen
fishermen, and while Birch fished for only one prize, all felt alike
that here was a surcease after a trying morning. They could pull
themselves together.

With this reflection moving in his brain, Stoughton felt a stab of
compunction.

"I wish you could come, old man," he jerked out to Clark.

"Thanks," said Clark with a curious light in his gray eyes, "but I
think I'd better not."

Five hours later Wimperley sat under a spruce tree and gloated over his
catch. Close by were the rest, each arranging a row of speckled
beauties on the cool green moss. They had caught some forty trout, the
biggest being a trifle over the record, and this was