In the weeks which followed the settling of the trouble in the camp, Kay flourished and grew. Great trainloads of supplies were daily dumped on the platform of the railway station, to be checked off and sorted, before the final haul up to camp. The old rough road to the station had become hard and smooth by the continual pounding of the heavy, six-mule wagons. Under McKay’s master direction, the framework bridges on the route had been replaced by substantial structures. Wherever a cañon or gulch opened, sluice boxes had been buried beneath the road surface, so that a heavy rain no longer meant washouts and consequent stoppage of coke and supplies. The coke teams struggled back to the railroad almost as heavily laden with matt, as on the upward trip they had been with coke. Each day saw new framework houses built, and new families settling their possessions. Wagons were driven into camp laden with battered stoves, broken chairs, a stray dog or two, and in general the household belongings of new settlers; for the growth of the “lilies of the field” is as nothing compared with that of a prosperous mining camp. Each day the office was filled with men clamoring for lumber: “Only a little, Boss! Just to put in a flooring. We can get along with two boards on the sides. Anything just so as we can get settled.” And Loring sat behind his desk, speaking with kindly but evasive words, telling each that the Company longed to build him a perfect palace, but that under the present conditions he must wait. For fast as lumber was hauled into camp, still faster came the need for it for mine timbering, for storehouses, and for a thousand and one necessities. The construction work had been rushed to completion. The huge new ore cribs were a triumph of McKay’s ingenuity, built by a clever system of bracing from the unseasoned lumber that had been at hand, and supporting with perfect safety the enormous strain to which they were subjected. The Company was rapidly becoming the controlling factor in the copper output of the district. It was the time for the arrival of the evening mail and the office was full of men and tobacco smoke. McKay had pre-empted the safe and sat on the top of it, clanking his heels against the sides. His sandy colored hair matched the color of the pine boards of the wall against which he was propped. The draughting tables carried their load of men, as did each of the well-worn chairs, and the three-legged stool. A babel of voices prevailed. Every now and then Reade opened the door from the back office, and poking his head into the room with a disgusted expression upon his face, called out: “Soft pedal there, soft pedal! How in hell can a man do any work with you fellows raising such a racket?”