"We'll stand from under, and he'll be the only man to get hit." Foxy Hildan laughed coldly. "Why, Balasco, don't you know that this means at least ten thousand dollars to us?" "I know that." "And when the company goes to smash, you and I can buy it in on the quiet, for what that railroad contract brings. It's a dead-easy, open-and-shut proposition." "If we can keep Wilbur away for two weeks longer, Foxy. I'm holding back the lumber all I can, without creating too much suspicion." "Well, keep on holding it back. Don't get scared with the prize almost in your hand." "The trouble is, a couple of young fellows who are out here have written to him to come on, and----" "You said that before. Well, I'll send him an important telegram to come to San Francisco, and that will keep him away." So the talk ran on, in channels that were new to Dale. But he caught the gist of the matter. These men were going to keep Jefferson Wilbur away from this plant at all hazards--and ruin him. "They shan't do it! I'll telegraph for him to come on at once!" thought the young lumberman. "I'll show Mr. Ulmer Balasco and Foxy Hildan that they are not as smart as they imagine!" As soon as the men had departed, Dale left the tool house on the run. He made his way straight for the yard where Owen was at work, and called his chum to one side. "Can that be possible!" exclaimed Owen, when he had heard the story. "They are certainly a pair of rascals. Yes, we must send word to Mr. Wilbur just as quickly as we can." With Andy Westmore as foreman it was an easy matter to get away. Both jumped on a log train bound for the creek, and arriving at the end of the run, hurried on foot toward Tunley. "Hullo, you back here again?" cried the station master to Owen. "That's queer. Tolly just said he had taken down a mighty important message for you." Tolly was the operator at the station. "Where is he?" asked Owen, and looked meaningly at Dale. "Here he comes now." In a moment more the operator appeared. He carried in his hand a sealed telegram envelope. "Here is Owen Webb now!" called out the station master. "Are you Owen Webb?" asked the operator curiously, and he looked the young lumberman over from head to foot. "That's my handle," replied Owen, using an expression he had picked up since coming West. "Then this is for you." The operator handed over the message. "I wish you luck," he added. "I was counting on something happening before long," and he walked away. Trying to keep down his feelings, Owen tore open the envelope and took out the telegram. For such a communication it was quite long, and ran as follows: "OWEN WEBB, Tunley, Ore.