“Hain’t no time to lose. Got to git there swift, so I fetched Tiffany. You’re goin’ to ride behind a hoss now, young feller.” Jim did not smile. Zaanan was not joking, but speaking with firm faith in his ancient steed. What Tiffany had been in his youth Tiffany still was to the old judge. The horse had not changed in his eyes. They had grown old together, but Zaanan’s love for the creature, his admiration for qualities long vanished, were steadfast as ever. “Lemme tell you some facts,” said Zaanan. “There’s times when facts is better ammunition ’n bullets. Moran’s consid’able spraddled out financially. He’s made every dollar that belongs to him git to work and do more ’n any dollar ought to do. He’s a reacher. Been a-reachin’ out and a-reachin’ out till it looks like his arm must ’a’ got stretched. Owns stock in the railroad—not a majority, but consid’able. Gits control by proxies. Then along come this Diversity Hardwood Company, and he must git his hands on to it. He’s got some money, but ’tain’t enough. So he puts up his railroad stock for collateral and buys a block of Diversity Company. Then he talks the stockholders into thinkin’ he’s consid’able big punkin. Two fellers in Grand Rapids that owns control up and makes him president and general manager of the outfit—and takes over his notes and collateral for him. They’re a-carryin’ him, ’cause they figgered he was a man could make money for ’em. Got that all down, eh?” “Yes.” “Know what to do with it?” “No.” “Then p’int your ears and listen.” While Tiffany jogged along at the breakneck pace Zaanan attributed to him the old justice instructed Jim. Eleven stockholders in the Diversity Hardwood Company were present at the meeting, including Zaanan and Jim. Moran was in the chair. He had raised objection when Jim entered, but was referred to the company’s stock-book. The meeting was called to order and routine business completed. The election of directors was imminent. Jim stood up. “Mister Chairman,” he said, “before we start on this election there is a matter I want to lay before the stockholders.” “We have more important business than to listen to you now,” snapped Moran. “The most important business this meeting can attend to is what I have to lay before them.” “Go ahead, go ahead,” said a burly, grizzly-haired man who lounged back in his chair smoking a huge and powerful cigar. “What’s on your mind?” “As a stockholder in this company I charge the president with more than one act prejudicial to the interest of the company and with more than one act reflecting on the honor and business integrity of the concern.” Moran leaped to his feet. “This is the man who hired a gang of toughs to raid our camps and steal our railroad. He’s stolen our timber; he’s on the verge of bankruptcy—owing us money—and last night he went on to our property and set fire to Crab Creek Trestle. He’ll see the inside of jail for that.”