hem now," and Bannon commenced dictating his reply to
the one on top of the stack.

"Hold on," said the clerk, "I ain't a stenographer."

"So?" said Bannon. He scribbled a brief memorandum on each sheet. "There's
enough to go by," he said. "Answer 'em according to instructions."

"I won't have time to do it till tomorrow some time."

"I'd do it tonight, if I were you," said Bannon, significantly. Then he
began writing letters himself.

Peterson and Vogel came into the office a few minutes later.

"Writing a letter to your girl?" said Peterson, jocularly.

"We ought to have a stenographer out here, Pete."

"Stenographer! I didn't know you was such a dude. You'll be wanting a
solid silver electric bell connecting with the sody fountain next."

"That's straight," said Bannon. "We ought to have a stenographer for a
fact."

He said nothing until he had finished and sealed the two letters he was
writing. They were as follows:--

DEAR MR. BROWN: It's a mess and no mistake. I'm glad Mr. MacBride didn't
come to see it. He'd have fits. The whole job is tied up in a hard knot.
Peterson is wearing out chair bottoms waiting for the cribbing from
Ledyard. I expect we will have a strike before long. I mean it.

The main house is most up to the distributing floor. The spouting house is
framed. The annex is up as far as the bottom, waiting for cribbing.

Yours,
BANNON.

P.S. I hope this letter makes you sweat to pay you for last Saturday
night. I am about dead. Can't get any sleep. And I lost thirty-two pounds
up to Duluth. I expect to die down here. C. B.

P.S. I guess we'd better set fire to the whole damn thing and collect the
insurance and skip. C.

The other was shorter.

MACBRIDE & COMPANY, Minneapolis:

Gentlemen: I came on the Calumet job today. Found it held up by failure of
cribbing from Ledyard. Will have at least enough to work with by end of
the week. We will get the house done according to specifications.

Yours truly,
MACBRIDE & COMPANY. CHARLES BANNON.

CHAPTER II

The five o'clock whistle had sounded, and Peterson sat on the bench inside
the office door, while Bannon washed his hands in the tin basin. The
twilight was already settling; within the shanty, whose dirty, small-paned
windows served only to indicate the lesser darkness without, a wall lamp,
set in a dull reflector, threw shadows into the corners.

"You're, coming up with me, ain't you?" said Peterson. "I don't believe
you'll