n like that is the purpose for
which nature designed him. He's an originator--but not an executive.
Dividends don't interest him half as much as the foundations of a new
mill."

Wimperley shook his head. "That may be all right, but from my point of
view he has become dangerous. He surmounts our resolutions, the ones
we make when our pulse is normal. I have never seen him fail to carry
his point. Take the matter of this railway. I don't mind betting that
if we go up there to-morrow to kill that road we'll be committed to it
in twenty-four hours."

"I'll take that for a thousand." There was a spot of faint color in
Birch's hollow cheeks.

Wimperley laughed. "I'm on. What about lunch and finish this
afterwards?"

But Stoughton sat tight. "You'll go too far. Suppose that Clark gets
on his ear and tells us to run the thing in our own way, and that he'll
get out. As I see it, he holds the works together and represents the
works in the mind of every one who knows him."

"Well, what if he does drop out? There's no living man who can't be
replaced."

"Except one called Robert Fisher Clark. As a first consequence our
stocks drop on the Philadelphia exchange like a wet sponge. You can
imagine the rest---you all know enough about the market, and, by the
way, does any one happen to remember the various things we have
publicly said about that same individual?"

This was food for thought. Wimperley, dismissing the idea of lunch,
sat down. The group became universally reflective, and for a little
while no one spoke. Stoughton threw away his cigar, rested his chin on
his hand and stared at the model of the pulp mill on Wimperley's desk.
Wimperley's eyes wandered to the big map and again he saw Clark's
finger sliding over its glazed surface. Riggs twisted his handkerchief
with a puzzled look in his bright eyes, and Birch leaned back,
stretching his long legs, while his tremulous lids began to flicker and
his lips moved inaudibly. To each man there seemed to come the rumble
of the mills, the wet grind of the huge stones against the snowy
billets of spruce, and behind it all the deep tones of the rapids.
Presently the voicelessness of Birch found speech.

"As I said there's nothing to worry about--yet. Two of us might go up
next week. I'll be one, if you like--and put the brakes on--but not so
that he'll feel them. If we only get out of the coach and take the
driver's seat the thing will be all right. Tro