“One spring house-cleaning time--I generally put in the early mornings and evenings there--G. Hyde called me in--I was putting down the hall rugs just then--he called me in to light the gas. I had a match ready to strike and he reached over and took it away from me and put it back in the box. 'Young man,' he said--he never liked to remember my name--'do you know how I rose from nothing to be the owner of this property?' Then he picked up a burnt match, held it down to the grate, and lighted the gas with that.” Hal-loran smiled a far-away smile. “Aren't some of his steamers up at Pewaukoe now?” The question was asked in the same careless voice, and it took the Captain a moment to realize that the subject had been changed. Then he answered with a puzzled expression: “Yes; the G. H. Bigelow should have come in there two or three days ago. The other boats are at Chicago or up on Lake Superior.” “Big boat, isn't it?” “Yes.” “Got a good crew for her?” The Captain, all at sea, could think of nothing but an affirmative to this. “What's the Captain's name?” “Carpenter.” “Who's the engineer?” “Robbie MacGregor.” “Good man?” “Robbie? Certainly. None better.” Halloran slid down off the post and looked at his watch. “Old G. Hyde is getting up just about now. He's a great hand at early rising--preaches a good deal about it--likes to say that if he hadn't been brought up on a good old gentleman known as B. Franklin he'd never be where he is now. Well, maybe he wouldn't.” The Captain's temper was hanging on the edge of an explosion, but Halloran went on. “There's nothing to be done here now. Try to keep everything ready--if you can pick up a man to fire up, I should--and we'll probably get off this afternoon sometime.” And he strolled off, leaving the Captain to stare after him and give vent to the first rumblings of a storm. Halloran, in his old clothes and faded purple sweater and college cap, was headed for the railroad station. At the station he took the Pewaukoe train; at Pewaukoe he walked down to the mills, fairly certain that none of Bigelow's men there would recognize him. The _G. H. Bigelow_ lay at the wharf, as Craig had said. She was taking on a cargo. The mills were on the low ground by the river. From the road he could overlook them and the great piles of lumber that crowded close to the water's edge for hundreds of yards up and down stream, and he leaned on the fence to take it in. As far up as he could see the river was blocked with logs. The mills were singing and buzzing and humming--it was plain that the Bigelow vitalizing process had begun, and that all hands were being crowded on the work in order to sell lumber at a loss to Higginson's customers. He thought he would walk down through the yards toward the steamer. As the unknown man, wearing a purple sweater and somewhat in need of a shave, walked past the shore end of the nearer mill, the eyes of the Superintendent fell upon him. A moment later the two met.