"To cut 'em up for chemical wood wouldn't get out what you've put into them, would it? No—anybody could do that." He leaned back, locking his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. "There isn't any possibility of trucking them out by team or tractor without eating up their value. I don't know of a portable mill that's available, and with deliveries on machinery as they are, you couldn't depend on getting one for months—
"By George, Taylor, I don't know!"
A man smeared with ink appeared from the back office and the editor excused himself. He had no more than disappeared when the outer door opened and Sim Burns entered. He did not recognize Taylor until he had approached the desk; then he flushed and sniffed.
"Mornin'," he said, rather timidly. John nodded. Silence, while Burns shuffled—He cleared his throat. "I expect I owe you an apology, Mr. Taylor," he said with a servile whine in his voice.
"No, I don't think so."
This reassured the man, who said with more confidence: "All of us makes mistakes. I didn't know who you was or—"
Bryant reëntered the room in time to interrupt Burns' attempt to ingratiate himself with the son of the rich Luke Taylor, whose identity he had learned soon after reaching Pancake the night before.
"Want to pay what I owe, Hump," he said, drawing out a purse. "It's two dollars."
"Just the price of a fifty-cent work shirt," said the editor with a chuckle. Sim did not respond. "Is this an election bet, Sim, or a promise?"
"I don't notice you're spreadin' yourself on congratulations."
