"Is it true Pete killed Jenny last night?" asked young Tom Willett, who had just come in. Wong had told Long Mac all about it and he had told the others. They all told Tom Willett all about it at once. "Pete hadn't better run up agin Quin this day," said Ginger. "I've lost the best wedger-off I ever struck." He saw Skookum Charlie grinning in a corner. "And now I've got to put up with Skookum. I guess Pete has lighted out." "Pulled his freight for sure," said Tenas Billy. Then Scotty yanked the whistle lanyard and the men sighed and moved off. And as they moved Pete came in. "Oh, hell," said those that saw him. They scented trouble quick. There was no doubt there would be trouble. By all accounts Pete had only just failed to kill the little klootchman, and that he showed up afterwards, when he knew that Quin had cut him out, was proof enough of coming woe. Ginger White didn't like it. He had no nerve for rows, in spite of his nasty temper, and to have a murderous struggle between the wedger-off and Quin, with guns shooting it might be (though gun-play is rare in B.C.), made him shake. Even if no "guns" came in there would be blood and hair flying, and mauls and wedges and pickareens, and perhaps a jagged slab or two. Ginger remembered the huge nose with which outraged Simmons had decorated him. "I ain't goin' to let Quin come in ignorant," said Ginger. At the very first pause, while they were rolling a mighty five foot log on the carriage, he shoved his head through the wall to the Engine-Room. "Say, Scotty, send over to the Office and let Mr. Quin know that that swine Pete has turned up to work." Scotty nodded. "And say he looks mighty odd, likely to prove fightable," added Ginger. He went back to the lever. It was one of his off-days, when he couldn't drive the Mill or the Saws for sour apples. It's the same with everyone. It's no sacred privilege of artists to be off colour. And yet in his way Ginger was an artist. He played on the Mill and made an organ of it: pulled out stops, made her whoop, voix celeste, or voix diabolique. Or he waved his bâton and made the Stick Moola a proper old orchestra, wind and strings, bassoon, harp, lute, sackbut, psaltery and all kinds of raging music. Now he was at a low ebb and played adagio, even maestoso, and was a little flat with it all. The quick men of the Mill loafed. Long Mac flung off the tightener and put new teeth into his saw with nicely-fitting buckskin. He took it easy. So did everyone. The very Bull-Wheel never groaned. Down below the Lath Mill chewed slowly. The Shingle Mill, though it had all the cedar it could eat, said at slow intervals, "I cut-a-shingle, ah," ending with a yawn instead of a "Phit."