Part 3 (1/2)

”Beastly place for an office!” growled the engineer, as he unrolled a blue print, spread it upon the rough pine desk, and glanced with disapproval about the room. ”Your office in the main building was so much more convenient.”

”Yup,” answered Waseche. ”That was the trouble. About every five minutes in would pop one of you birds an' pester me with some question or 'nother. What I hire you-all for is to get results. What do I care whether you use a double-jointed conniption valve, or a reverse English injector on the donkey engine, so you get the water into them sluices?

Or what do I care whether the bookkeeper keeps all the accounts separate, or adds gum-boots, an' cyanide, an' sandpaper, an' wages all up in one colyumn? Or whether the chemist uses peroxide of magentum, or sweet spirits of rawhide, so he gits the gold? The way it is now, you-all's goin' to do a little figgerin' fer yourself before you'll wade through the water an' mud, or waller through the snow, to git over here.

An' besides I cain't think right without I can rare back with my feet on the table an' my back ag'in' a good solid log wall.”

Cain, who understood and loved his employer, chuckled heartily. A few minutes later he rolled up the blue print and b.u.t.toned his mackinaw. ”By the way, Waseche,” he said, with his hand in the door latch, ”I'm sending you over a stenographer----”

”_Me_ one!” cried Waseche Bill in alarm.

”Yes, you need one. Be reasonable, and let me talk for a minute. Here you are, one of the gold magnates of Alaska, and a lot of the correspondence that comes in you've got to handle yourself. You know your spelling and Mr. Webster's don't always agree, and your handwriting is almost illegible in pencil--and worse in ink----”

”Well, ain't we got a half dozen stenographers now?”

”Yes, but they're all up to their ears in work, and we've been paying them overtime to transcribe your scrawls into readable English. So I heard of this fellow in Fairbanks, and sent for him. He came in yesterday, with Black Jack Demeree's mail team.” Cain's eyes twinkled as he paused and grinned. ”He's only been in the country a few weeks--a rank _chechako_--but try to put up with him, because stenographers are hard to get and he seems to be a good one. I'll send him over with a couple of men to carry his outfit. I thought I ought to break the news to you----”

”An' I ort to break your neck,” growled Waseche. ”But send him along--mebbe my spellin' an', as the fellow says, chiropody, aint what it ort to be--anyway we'll try him.”

A few minutes later the door opened and a couple of miners entered with a chair and a table, upon which they deposited a typewriter. Waseche glared as the miners withdrew, and a young man of twenty-one or-two stepped into the room. He was a tall, pale young man with store clothes and nose gla.s.ses. Waseche continued to glare as the newcomer addressed him:

”Is this Mr. Antrim? I'm the new stenographer. You were expecting me, sir?”

Waseche eyed him from top to toe, and shook his head in resignation.

”Well--almost, from what Cain said--but not quite. Was you born in servitude?”

The newcomer s.h.i.+fted his weight to the other foot. ”Sir?” he asked, doubtfully.

Waseche deliberately filled his pipe and, tilting his chair against the wall, folded his arms. ”Yup--that's what I meant--that 'sir,' an' the 'Mister Antrim.' I ain't no Englishman. I'm an American. I ain't no 'sir,' nor likewise 'mister.' My name's Waseche Bill. It's a good name--good enough to live by, an' to be called by--an' good enough to write at the bottom of a check. What's yourn?”

”Percival Lafollette.”

”Percival Lafollette,” repeated Waseche, gravely rolling the name upon his tongue. ”'Was you in the original Floradora s.e.xtette?”

”Why, no, sir----”

”No what?”

”No--no--” stammered Percival, in confusion.

”That's it--no!--just plain _no_! When you've got that said, you're through with that there partic'lar train of thought.”

”No--they were girls--the Floradora s.e.xtette.”

”So they was,” agreed Waseche, solemnly. ”Did you bring the mail over?”

”Yes, s--yes, here it is.” He placed a handful of letters on the pine table that served as Waseche's desk.

”All right, just take off your cloak an' bonnet, an' pry the lid off that there infernal machine, an' we'll git to work.”

A few minutes later the new stenographer stood at attention, notebook in hand. Waseche Bill, who had been watching him closely, noted that he s.h.i.+vered slightly, as he removed his overcoat, and that he coughed violently into a handkerchief. Glancing into the pale face, he asked abruptly: ”Sick--lunger?”