Chapter 6

TIME WAS BEGINNING TO HANG HEAVY ON CHET'S HANDS.  He had driven, hiked, and photographed to his heart's content when he was first laid off; but now the weather and the roads were not very good.  He spent a considerable amount of time in the large nearby town and occasionally went back to the campsite, looked over the uncompleted dam, and recalled the strenuous summer.  He watched the water dashing, white and foaming, between small islands, rocks and boulders and could foresee another strenuous summer coming.  Perhaps he should have gone east for the winter.  But travel costs money and he had been too big-hearted and had paid the taxes for too many unappreciative people.  He would need what was left to winter in Power City.  He was hoping for an early spring, and by keeping himself available, he would be one of the first engineers to go back to work.

Chet was proud of his snapshots.  He had taken pictures of beautiful scenery, interesting views of the camp, the dam, and the implements used in building the dam.  He took a collection of these as samples and started out to visit his neighbors.  He showed his pictures and, surprisingly enough, received many orders.  Many people wanted to remember the dam country in the years to come.  He was amazed at the demand.

Chet sold the pictures practically at cost, just making them an excuse to call on his neighbors and see them in their homes.  Some were real homes, others makeshift, and some were merely rags and boards.  There was still quite a camp at Ragtown.  Here the squatters had not bought land but were paying from two to five dollars per ;month rent for a small lot on which to pitch their tents or construct cheap shacks.  Chet's pictures of Ragtown showed up in all its oddity and ugliness.  It was in a draw or swale, and at high water, after the dam was completed, it would be below the immersed waterline.

Chet found buyers for his pictures even in Ragtown.  There is sentiment attached to even a hovel when years have been spent in it, and the Ragtowners wanted a memento against the day when the water would obliterate the site.  There were those, however, who said they wanted nothing with which to remember such a god-forsaken place; they wanted to forget it as soon as possible.

Ragtown was a town of surprises and contrasts.  At one makeshift shack, sordid and mean, Chet knocked and was told to enter.  Inside was a beautiful, queenly young lady just putting on the last touches of her make-up, preparatory to meeting the world at her door or stepping out to conquer it.  In another shack was an elderly lady with her dog.  In one hovel were a young mother and three babies, aged one, two and three, with prospects for another soon.  In still another tent was a lady caring for a collection of unusual potted plants.  In another was a crusty old bachelor.  Chet had a smile and pictures for them all.

In the last tent he entered... the last because he chose to go no farther... he finally met the girl.  No queen, this one... rather plain, in fact... but somehow unusually attractive.  She came to the homemade door, which was tied shut with a string, and innocently asked him in.

"Brother has just gone to town," she told him.  "The fire was out and I've been in bed to keep warm."  She primped a bit.  "I'll bet I look a fright," she said archly.

Chet murmured something polite in reply... thinking to himself that she looked delightful to him... and then asked her if she would care to look at his pictures.  She was most pleased with them but was especially enthusiastic over the one that showed the glistening sands, the majestic, towering rocks, and the rippling waters of the damsite.

"It's my favorite view," she said.  "I climb the rise to look at it almost every day.  And you've caught it when the sun was just right.  Wellington will like it too.  He has often thought of painting that scene.  Wellington is an artist, you see."  She smiled.  "Of course, just now he's painting for the construction company... structural steel, danger signs, and so forth."

Chet smiled with her and asked her what she did with her time.  She sighed and shrugged prettily.  "There really isn't much to do since it became so cold.  Times are so dull in the winter.  I don't care to be seen at those wild dances, and the movies are too expensive.  At least in the springtime there were sunshine and flowers to be enjoyed.  But now... I don't even have anything to read."

"Why, I have a whole trunk full of books," Chet told her.  "What do you like to read?"

"Oh, most anything, though I especially like poetry."

Chet hastened to offer his entire collection.  She'd be pleased to find, he said, that there was quite a sprinkling of poetry in it.  He admitted that he was a little daffy over poetry himself.  In fact, sometimes his head got to rattling, and he wrote it down.  Of course, it wasn't poetry or even verse, but doggerel or worse.

"No, it wasn't doggerel," she defended.  She had read some of his work in the local papers.  "I like your ?ode to the Apple Kingdom' especially.  I can recall that you dedicated it to the queen.  I wondered who she might be.  I've written some verse too.  My brother just received his pink slip, and I've written a verse about it."  She repeated part of it, and Chet expressed his admiration of it.

"What?" said Chet suddenly, "getting dark already?  I must be going.  But you come and get some of those books, or if you like, I'll bring them to you."

The next evening Mr. and Mrs. Wellington Wilson... or so they introduced themselves... came calling on Chet and visited for some time, going through his trunk of books, picking out those in which they thought they would be interested.  Mrs. Wilson picked those that had verse.  Also among Chet's collection were several books of a course in writing.  Chet, like many others at one time or another, had had the writing bug.  He had spent plenty of money for courses on how to write short stories, screen plays, and songs.  Mrs. Wilson seemed much interested in these and asked to use them.  Chet told her that she was welcome to them and hoped they might help her.  They had helped him to get a few rejection slips, but there was very little satisfaction in that.  He wished her better luck.

The days were growing shorter, the wind was cold and sharp, and several inches of snow had fallen.  Though, as it was, it was a mild winter, yet it was too severe for the comfort of the poor people.  Those who lived in the makeshift houses had only makeshift fuel, or perhaps none at all, except for what they could beg or borrow.  The Concrete Construction Company had discontinued letting people get scrap wood, partly because it was a nuisance to the company and partly because the local fuel dealers had objected strenuously that the practice had ruined their business.

So now for weeks and months as the clean-up work progressed, men had been busy piling and burning used and splintered boards and broken panels.  Much of the wood was hauled away down the track by the dozens of carloads each day.  A huge crane dumped the cars, and the men worked busily moving the wood away from the tracks and watching that the fire did not burn the ties.  This cost the company lots of good money, and enough heat was dissipated on the breeze to warm Power City, while two miles away children cried, cold and hungry.

There were a few widows and orphans in the town.  Those widows by accidents on the dam were fairly-well cared for by the insurance and compensation... and by public-spirited citizens, for they were in the public eye.  But there were others les fortunate, especially those who were not real widows and orphans.  Some of the husbands and fathers who had been laid off left the few dollars they had and struck out to look for other work.  Most of them had failed to find anything and were still tramping and looking.  They thought their families would be better taken care of in a civilized country if there was no husband around that if they were there, eating and loafing.  So some hid out and hoped for the best.  Many of these families had worked the charities before and knew the ropes.

In this new town there were no rich, well-established charities, but many people who had food and fuel shared with those that had none.  Chet shared his fuel and groceries, split and re-split his supplies, and then bought more until he was in need of help himself.  Most people out of work were getting into the same condition and were becoming hardened to the poverty and suffering of others about them.  Want was now a common thing.  Robberies, housebreaking, and store breaking had become all too frequent.

There was one family especially that Chet felt sorry for and tried to help in every way he reasonably could: a mother with a young baby and two daughters, seven and sixteen.  The father had made his way to Virginia to attempt to sell a small imaginary equity in their old home.  For some time now the family had been out of money.  Chet cut up some knots, the last of their fuel, and when this was gone occasionally hauled them some of his.  The girls helped to load and unload.  They insisted that he eat with them, as he had furnished most of the groceries.  The older girl innocently told her mother, before Chet, that she believed they needed him and should keep him all the time.  Their baby was rather sickly and cross.  With no funds, it was a problem, the mother said, to obtain suitable milk to feed it properly.  Chet let the woman do his laundry and paid her for it in advance, that she might have money for milk.  Chet would have made them a small loan, but he was now broke himself.  Besides, they were expecting the return of the husband and father any day now, or at least a letter from him enclosing money.

Chet continued to take in the dances.  He did not get as much out of them as he did at the start.  He liked to study humanity, and here was the place to observe it in the raw, but dances and fights began to pall on him.

The father of the destitute family returned, worn out and discouraged.  He had crossed and recrossed the continent in the dead of winter with only fifteen dollars in his pocket. He had been sick and had suffered, but not having made a sale returned empty-handed to find his family destitute.  He said he was desperate, about ready to take a gun and do something.  His wife tried to cheer him, telling him times would soon be better.  A short two years before, they had been worth over $15,000 in money and property, but now only a little jewelry was left.  She gave him this jewelry to try to pawn or sell.

Chet and some of the neighbors helped them out again, and then, thinking that the man was home, left them to manage.  Chet was rudely shocked a few days later to hear that the baby had died.  They had been unable to get a doctor, and it had died of digestive trouble, but Chet suspected that it was malnutrition.  Meanwhile, the father had left again, this time for the Coast to seek work.  They had been looking for him; broadcasting everywhere for the strayed, tramp father of a starved child.

A subscription list was started to raise money for the burial.  Too late, people hard-pressed and callous now loosened up and came forward with donations and help.  Many found that they were brothers and sisters in the same lodge or church and were sorry that they had not known conditions sooner.

A few days later, Chet decided to call on Mrs. Wilson to see how she was getting along with her books of instruction on writing.  She was not at home.  He asked at the general store if they knew where she could be found.  They knew of no one by that name.  They thought a Mr. Wilson was still working at the dam.  There was no Mrs. Wilson, but a woman named Anna Adams did his housework.

Chet decided to go on to go the city but to go stop in again on his return that evening.  He did so and again found the tent-house apparently deserted.  There was no light gleaming through the canvas.  But he knocked and heard the bed springs creak.  Someone was getting up to go answer.  It was she.

She recognized his voice as he said, "I'm sorry to go have bothered you if you have retired."

"No bother at all," she replied.  "Come on in.  We hadn't really gone to go bed for the night, but the evenings are so long and cold, we were just spending part of this one in bed to go save fuel and light.

She hurriedly lighted the lamp and put on more fuel, stirring up the fire before she did so.

"How are you, Mr. Wilson?" asked Chet.

"All tuckered out.  There's entirely too much climbing around on this paint job.  Today we were painting the steel that sticks out of the piers and bulkheads, working right out over the seething, boiling water.  We had to be tied on with long ropes.  It's some job to climb about like a monkey on a string and keep the string clear of entanglements.  If you'll pardon me, I'll just stay in bed."

"Yes, of course, I must be going anyway.  By the way, how are you getting along with your reading, Anna?" asked Chet.

"I've been eating it up.  I've done some more writing too."

"Could I see it to get a sample of what kind of style you have?" begged Chet.

"Yes, you may if you let me read some of yours to get a line on you and your style."

"I took typing in high school but never got very fast at it," laughed Anna.

"I have a portable Corona which I don't use very much.  I might loan it to you, if you wish."

"I do wish it, very much.  I have no typewritten copies of my valuable works," she joked.

"All right, I'll bring it tomorrow evening, along with a copy of some of my valuable works.  I also have a letter or two that I might let you type, if you like.  So long, I'll be seeing you."

"A budding romance," mused Chet to himself as he drove home.  "A budding romance between two romance writers.  And me a married man... although I guess not a soul knows it, not even Dan and Bill.  I wonder why I never discuss family affairs.  Perhaps because of my own clouded ancestry I've always had the habit of keeping mum.  Yes, a budding romance, me married, and she?...  The storekeeper said there was no Mrs. Wilson.  I wonder!  Well, I should worry!

He found himself thinking sadly of his wife.  It was unfortunate, but her affliction was incurable, or so the doctors said.  It was too bad the company hadn't seen fit to call him back to headquarters and give him work near her for the winter.  How wonderful it would be, though, if she somehow recovered and joined him in Power City.  The two of them could settle down and grow up with the country.  IF only her eyes were better she might at least write to him.  Letters dictated to a sister were most unsatisfactory.  He was beginning to feel uncomfortably lonesome.

He drew up before his cold, dark shack.  Brr!  Not very inviting.  What was home without a woman?  He should hire a housekeeper.  Maybe Bill and Dan would get laid off.  They couldn't expect to hand on much longer.  They had had their hands in the pockets of the Concrete Construction Company quite a while now.  How much more cheerful it would be if he could get them to come and stay with him again.

The next evening found him with manuscripts and typewriter before that magnetic door in tent town.  He knocked.  Again she came to the door.

"Come on in.  Mr. Wilson is sick this evening.  I was just giving him some medicine.  Here, roll over and take your medicine," she said to Wilson, holding out a half-filled tablespoon.

"Agh! That's nasty dope, but I guess I have to take it.  I've caught cold.  Got the flu too, I guess."

"Well, I guess I'd better not stay," Chet said.  "Here is the typewriter, and the first edition of my valuable works."

"And here is my first book," she said, handing him a good-sized composition book.  "Tomorrow is the ski tournament.  I suppose you'll be going," she said longingly.  "Good night."

Chet drove home, built the fire, and seated himself comfortably with his new reading material.  The outside of the composition book was decorated artistically.  The first page was a table of contents listing the titles of the Poems and the dates on which they were written.  At the top of the page was a simple "By Sunbeam".  He was puzzled by "Sunbeam" for a moment, but then realized it was her pen name.  There were two dozen titles, produced rather regularly over a period of three years, although a few were written in childhood about childish play.

Chet read her verses and also read between the lines.  Three short years before, she had been just starting high school in a small farming town, wrestling with algebra, Latin, and kindred subjects.  Some verses dealt with studies, some with picnics, others with trips in search of work... the struggle of a proud, sixteen- year-old girl to find work and become independent and self-supporting.  She must have found work, for now came vivid pictures of things as seen by a girl in her first day's work in the orchards.  Verses about the picking, sorting, and packing... the apple-knocker's story in simple, sweet verse, as the sweating, hurrying girls see and live it.  She was getting down to the heart of things, commencing to feel the throb and pulse and rhythm of everyday things, of the common places.  Thus she sang the songs of the common people as they went about their work.

Next in her book came verses on love.  The apple-knocker was getting ripe and ready for picking.  Hard work, hot hours, and packing-house conditions mature and ripen the girls to match the red, ripe apples they handle.  A few more verses of recent date on miscellaneous subjects; then came the last, of quite recent date, the end of the apple-knocker's verses: "The Lost Girl's Lament."  She had gambled in the game of life and lost.  Yes, there was the girl's complete life story in a nutshell, even to the confession of her fall and the very date, and she had given it to him too read!  A "True Concession" story!  She must have wanted him to know.  Of course, he could have written some of it off as poetic license, but he didn't need to.  He could see and understand.  It was the truth, pure, simple and straight from the heart of an honest, unsophisticated girl, who feared that she had lost all.  Chet read and reread.  He pondered over those verses, noting their perfect rhyme, regular form, and sweet simplicity.  Here was a real poet, who with education would go far, and she was getting her education in the school of hard knocks, with hare, brutal men.

The next day dawned stormy and blustery.  Chet didn't think it would be a good day for the ski tournament, but never having attended one, he decided to make the thirty mile drive into the mountains to see some new country and the tournament.  He hated to make the drive alone.  He wished "she" was free to go.  She had been the first to mention it, and he was sure she would have liked to go, but Wilson was sick in bed, and she would probably be too loyal to leave him.

He made the drive alone.  It was snowing and blowing when he reached the high, mountainous region where the tournament was to be held.  The drifts became deep and the roads dangerous to the great procession of cars that was forming.  Chet stopped in the last town to put on his chains and plowed on.  At last he arrived at the large field that was prepared for the parking of thousands of cars.  Here the snow was five or six feet deep on the level.  Driveways had been cleared out to that stalls for cars could be fashioned.  From a distance it appeared that there were hundreds of cars driven into the deep snow with only the tops sticking out.

People were arriving by the hundreds from all over the Pacific Northwest and were filing through a gate over which was a rustic, artistic arch.  Under this arch were ticket sellers.  One dollar per ticket was the price, and they sure were taking in the dollars.  Chet got by the gate without paying... his long suit now... as he appeared to be an official photographer.  It had quit storming, and the sun was trying to shine.

"Going to be an ideal day," said an enthusiast.  "The hill and jump will be in perfect condition.  There will probably be some records broken.

Chet thought he would dry to get some good pictures of the clubhouse and of the crowd in their loud-colored sport clothing.  He asked a couple of smartly clad girls to pose for him in the foreground, promising them a picture for their accommodation if they would give him their addresses.  There were contestants from clubs all over the Northwest and noted jumpers from all over the world, including ex-world champions.

Most of the main contestants on the program or score cards were Swedish, Norwegian, or Finnish, with unpronounceable names.  The amateur contestants were mostly local persons and those from nearby clubs.  There were sprinklings of many other nationalities.  The women and boys held their contests in the morning.  In the afternoon came the main events.  At the blare of a bugle as a starting signal, skiers dashed down an extremely steep incline then out into an elevated platform that tossed them high into the air, where they poised, in mid-air.  It seemed that their skis carried them out as on straight, graceful, but stiffly-held wings.  Over and down the hill they sailed to a landing perhaps a hundred feet below.  If they were lucky, they continued to skim over the snow down the beaten track to the bottom and up on the other side before the momentum was completely dissipated.  Of course, there were some unlucky landings, a few broken bones, and a woman badly hurt by being thrown from a toboggan that was upset on purpose by a smart alec.

In writing to his wife... he did write to her... Chet explained the events of the day.  He grew poetic and jokingly made up a short raving rhyme, which he included with the tourney pictures.  He also sent a copy to the girl who had posed.  He romantically called her his Ski Tourney Queen.

Yes, he was getting romantic.  His wife should be here to protect her interests.  Couldn't he be trusted with the queens and poetesses?  God only knew.  He hardly knew what to do with himself sometimes.  He was sure that she understood him pretty well and would take his jokes and confessions all right.  However, he wanted here to wonder a bit.  He hoped that she would strive to overcome her affliction and be able to follow him on his jobs, instead of thinking she was a burden and insisting on remaining with her family.  He did get a reaction from her; in her letter she included a poem of her own.  From the lines, he knew she knew his thoughts.

Lonesome and loveless, homesick and womanless, idle and discontented, Chet could not keep his thoughts at home.  His mind went romancing, his thoughts ran in jumbled jingles, and he lazily scrawled them on paper.

He thought so much of his effort that he decided to show it to "her", it's inspiration.

She read it... with a lump in her throat, a gasp, a swallow.

"It's fine!" she said.  "I feel flattered to be the subject of a good verse.  Let me keep it.  I want to type a copy for myself."

So, he left the copy with here and went on his way.  Little did he think of the damage that that small piece of paper would do... the effect it would have on people's lives.  Was it for better or worse, or just fool fate?  That carelessly penned verse was the spark that ignited the dynamite.  Perhaps ?twas better so.

Chet decided that he must have a change.  He must do something different.  He was moping and musing too much.  He was the lone wolf scorned by some, feared and evaded by others who still thought he was a federal plain-clothes man on some secret mission or after some special information.  Many thought he was wealthy.  He had paid people's taxes, befriended the poor, and was a man of influence and power with the company and the town.  Why did he not do more for the poor and destitute, they wanted to know.  Nearly every day he was bothered by people who wanted help or a small loan for a short time.  He had to tell them that he was out of money and unable to help them now.  Almost no one believed him, and this was the basis of more hard feelings and misunderstanding.  Even Mr. Elsworth and Mrs. Henry seemed to shun him.  Perhaps it was because they needed money so badly, and he was not making payments on his home.  But how could he when he had no money?  Perhaps it was because he had been too friendly with Mr. Elsworth's private secretary.  A would-be adviser warned him.

"You had better stay away from the office and Mrs. Henry.  I know you're sweet on her, but so was another young guy, and he's now in the penitentiary.  I warn you, you're flirting with the undertaker or pen-keeper when you flirt with her!  Elsworth will get you!"

Chet thanked him for his advice but continued to stop and chat with Mrs. Henry whenever so inclined.  He told her of his warning but said he was lonesome and felt a little inclined to flirt with the undertaker or jailer, and that was why he had stopped in.  Anything beat loneliness and stagnation.

He must have a change.  He needed exercise.  He needed money.  By golly! He knew what he would do.  He would go to work.  There were still a few hundred men, a mere handful to what there had been on the dam, who were still working on the powerhouse.  Of course, he had pull enough to get a job, if he would take labor or any odd or menial work that there might be to do.  He'd be the laughing stock of all who watched him... a white-collar guy, an engineer, laboring and sweating at ordinary work.  It would be humble pie, but it would be good for him; he would eat it.

The employment agent and the bosses thought it was a huge joke.  The honorable Chester Evans, reclamation engineer, working with a gang of cement finishers, sweating and grinding, troweling, painting, pointing up, and rubbing up in the interior of the powerhouse to earn a few dollars.  He was awkward and inefficient.  Dan was in this gang now, and they worked side by side.  Dan was hard and skillful and did his work with ease and helped Chet out on the sly.

Chet was working away with his air-driven grinder, taking down high rough points and inhaling plenty of injurious, lung-plugging dust, and getting his eyes filled, despite his goggles and respirator.  The goggles had soon dusted and steamed over as he perspired at his work; the respirator plugged, choked, and smothered him.  They were so uncomfortable that he wore his goggles on his forehead above his eyes and his respirator under his chin, as they were usually packed by the men while resting.  Chet decided that was the real place for them, they or in hell, they were such a nuisance.  But he had to keep them on so he could quickly slip one up and the other down into their regular places when the safety man was around.  They were regular health and safety appliances, and anyone not wearing them was subject to immediate dismissal.  Chet had already been caught and warned.

The straw boss was pushing the gang.  The head boss thought they were not making the headway that they should, so when Chet stopped the grinder for a few seconds to wipe the sweat, steam and cement off the glass in his goggles, the shrill voice of his Swede boss would yell: "Keep dat grinder goin'."  So, Chet was between the devil and the deep blue sea.  He wondered if it would be better to start his grinder before getting his goggles cleaned and returned to his eyes.  He began to realize what it means to be a hard-driven working man.

As he toiled away, he was startled by a hand placed on his shoulder.  It was Wilson in his read paint-smeared overalls.  His hands were twitching and his eyes snapping.

"What is your little game, anyway mister?  You're apt to get in bad.  Her brother is talking of getting the sheriff after you.  You'd better come up tonight and square yourself," he threatened.

Chet flushed, stammered, and said "Okay.  I don't understand, but I'll be at your service."

"Well, I can't explain now; I've got to get back to may work or I'll be missed.  Wait for me at the gate tonight and I'll explain what I know," said Wilson.

Chet, tired, dust-choked, and worried, was among the first to the clock and punch out after the five o'clock whistle blew.  He watched the six or seven hundred tired, hungry specimens of humanity file by... each with his problems, prides, troubles, and cares.  Each had his hopes and fears partly concealed, partly revealed in his walk, his tools, his clothes, or his continence.  A last Wilson, who had taken time to remove his coveralls and clean up, arrived.  They walked and talked together through the viaducts, past the commissary, and out to where the cars were parked.  It was late dusk.  The days were short now, and the men had quite a time finding their respective cars in the large, unlighted park.  Chet was riding with a neighbor, as the battery in his own car had gone bad.  Men were chasing about, bellowing and shouting to each other in the dark like lost sheep; lambs calling to mothers, and mothers for lambs.

Where in the devil did I leave that car?  I thought I left it right here."  "Oh, Jack, here she is."  "I wonder if Bill has run off and left me."  "Why don't tom hurry?"  "I wish Fred would show up.  He must be working overtime."  "Harry must have run off and left me."

"Chet must have got his pink slip and went home at quartering time," said his driver.  "I won't wait any longer."

So it happened that, when Chet and Wilson arrived, most of the cars had gone and they were both left afoot.  Of course, if they got to the gate quickly they could stand by the gate-light and get a ride with a neighbor.  They had no luck, but it gave them more time to talk and thrash out the misunderstanding as they walked toward Ragtown.  Together, these two men, who were so alike yet so different, reached Anna's home.

Wellington Wilson was an advertising expert, a window decorator.  He was a real artist with paint or canvas or wood.  He was also a real artist with women.  He had a way with them.  He knew how to advertise, to put himself forward, to promote himself with the women... or so he boasted.  He didn't know exactly how he did it, but he did.  They couldn't resist him.  He had had many women.  To be truthful, he said he was married but had not lived with his wife much, though he was paying for a home and expected to live with her sometime.  She had a good job teaching school and as she would have to give it up if it became known that she was married, she still went by her own name.  Until recently he had made big money and lived fast.  He was away from his wife so much that he decided to have his women.  He couldn't be expected to do without them.  They were so easy, anyway; all he had to do was to feed them his line and it was a pushover.  He didn't care for the experienced type.  He wanted them young, fresh, tender, and exclusive.  He had broken in many a one for someone else, he boasted.  Wonderful, beautiful girls, from exclusive homes, had fallen under his spell and yielded to his wishes.  He had even won a woman twenty-four or twenty-five years old and untouched, in two hours' time and without previous acquaintance.  None were too cold or too distant for him.  Just let him at them.  All this and more Chet learned in the short space of their walk to Ragtown.  Yes, he was a self-promoter, this Wellington Wilson.

But now he was worried, ans so was Anna.  She wanted to marry him, and he had had to put her off.  Times were too hard to marry, he had told her.  They should not have tried to pass themselves off o Chet as married folks, but he had caught them in a pretty compromising situation.  They were only joking when they said they were Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.

"No, we're not married... not yet," said Anna afterwards, explaining to Chet, "but I really consider myself Mrs. Wilson."

"Now the trouble is this," said Wilson, "her brother got hold of that letter or poem, or whatever that was you wrote about her.  Of course, he didn't know we were trying to pass ourselves off to you as Mr. and Mrs.  He doesn't know of our relations, so he thinks you slandered his sister.  He si loyal and hot-tempered, and I'm afraid he'll start something.  I tried to pacify him and explain that you didn't catch on that the Mr. and Mrs. Stuff was a joke.  She and he have their own tent, and, actually, she is just doing my housework.  I really don't believe he is suspicious.  Nor is it his or your business," he flared.  "I don't want a mess stirred up that will expose us.  Of course, she's not of age.  I know that makes it dangerous, and my wife would probably murder or divorce me.  She has learned of some of my escapades, and I faithfully promised her, never, never, again; so this would be the end.  So please come and apologize or explain to Mat, her brother, because she's worried sick.  She doesn't want her mother to hear of this.  It may not be the first time for her either.  I didn't force here, after all.  I didn't need to.  She and her brother were hungry and out of work.  I took them in; she liked me.  I've been good to her and careful with her.  I think she is still okay.  If she isn't, she can find some sap kid to marry her.  I would if I was free.  Her brother is a sap, or he wouldn't stir up a fuss.  When I was sick... or pretending to be... she came to my bed to get warm, after stirring up the boys breakfast.  What does he think I am?  It isn't my fault.  So please come and pacify Mat before he makes trouble for all of us."

Chet hardly knew what to do about the situation but decided it would do no harm to try to make amends for what the verse had started.  He entered the tent with Wellington, for the first time meeting here when he was dressed as a common, dirty, tired laborer.  She was busily preparing the evening meal, and she appeared to be clean, capable cook.  Her cupboard was a couple of apple boxes, one above the other.  A few shelves built of boxes hear the cheap stove held the provisions.  Everything was compact and shipshape in order to make this one small tent a complete kitchen, dining room, sitting room and bedroom.  She looked up and tried to smile, but seemed sheepish, distressed and worried.

Just then Mat Adams came in from town.  He was a slight, hatchet-faced lad, with a cowboy hat and a bravado air.

"Mat, this is Chet Evans," Wilson said.  "He has come to explain and apologize."

"Yes," said Chet, "I'm sorry this foolish doggerel has caused so much misunderstanding.  It was written as a joke in the first place.  I doubted that your sister was Mrs. Wilson the first time and I supposed it was a joke at my expense.  I joked back, but perhaps I didn't use good taste or judgement.  I might have used a good deal too much poetic license.  Let's shake and forget it."

"Nothing doing," said Mat, drawing back.  "That explanation may satisfy Anna and Wellington, but I think it was a mean thing to do.  I'm going to get the sheriff after you and tell him how you've written this slander about my sister.  My sister is a good girl."  Mat was loyal to his sister, or a good actor or blackmailer himself.  Chet would never know.

Anna said, "Oh come, now, don't blame Mr. Evans too much.  We started it by leading him to think we were married.  Take his hand and forgive and forget.  There is so much good in the worst of us and so much bad in the best, that it behooves us to try to get along."

"No, I won't shake, but I will see a lawyer and the sheriff," raved Mat.

"Go ahead to the sheriff," chet said calmly.  "It might be better for the sake of all concerned for you to talk to a lawyer and the sheriff.  I know I've done no wrong, so I have no fear of either of them.  In fact, I've worked for Uncle Sam and I've had contact with both lawyers and sheriffs.  I welcome both as friends.  But let me warn you, they're rather expensive for amateurs to monkey with.  Be sure you know all there is to know about the situation before you get the sheriff.  If I were you I'd learn your sister's and Mr. Wilson's wishes before I acted.  You're young and rash, but your also a loyal brother; so be careful or you'll have things out of the frying pan and into the fire."

Chet went home, tired and worried.  He felt sorry for the poor girl.  He tried to figure what he should do.  Perhaps he had already done too much, but he would like to help the girl out of her predicament, ot at least try to make amends for the harm he had done.  He did not know what to do about it... she, innocently expecting marriage when times got better, and Wilson, already tired and looking for an opportunity to change.

Chet returned to his work the next morning, tired, stiff, sore in body and worried in mind.  He had spent a feverish, sleepless night, rolling over and over in bed as he turned the situation over in his mind.  Wilson had done wrong, but Anna would fight for him and protect him.  He was a good-hearted fellow, and he had taken her in and fed her and been good to her... for a purpose.  Of course, here work paid for her keep.  The rest was charity o her part.  So much velvet for him, who made it a customs thus to have all the pleasures and advantages of a frequent marriage, with none of the responsibilities.  Chet had heard before that it was a common practice among dam builders, and that many a good-looking young woman could be had in the cold winters or hard times for a pot of beans.  This was his first contact with a real case, and the woman was very different from the type that he had always supposed was usually involved.  This sweet, pathetic, poetical girl... was she to be pitied or censured?  Was she out for experience or local color, consorting with artists and, perhaps, willing to consort with would-be authors, or was she really a poor girl in trouble, a creature of circumstance?

Because of his inefficiency as a cement-finisher, or because some of the bosses wanted to discomfort him further by getting him all painted up and then laughing at him, Chet ws shifted to the paint gang.  This group was working on the outside now, painting steel.  The men swung high over the raging water, working from scaffolds and bos'n's chairs.  As luck would have it, he was to work with Wilson.  Since Chet was green and ignorant about the work, Wilson, of course, was the boss.  He prepared the scaffolding and rigging, which job he understood and ws competent to do.  But he was in a nasty temper all morning.  He evidently had not had much sleep and probably had spent the night arguing with the angry Mat or the sobbing, frightened Anna.  At the sight of Chet his brows knot together, his eyes snapped, and his fingers and the corners of his mouth twitched convulsively.

"A pretty kettle of fish!  A nice mess you got me into," he growled menacingly to Chet.  "What did you mean by telling that sap, Mat, to go ahead and get the sheriff?  I'm afraid he's going to do it.  He's as crazy as his old man, and he's dynamite.  You should have left that outfit alone.  If their old man ever gets hold of this, it will be too bad for you.  She's afraid Mat will stir up a fuss and you'll write her folks.  You had better keep my name out of it, or by God... You're to work from that bos'n's chair, that swinging perch today, so you had better decide to watch your step or you'll wish you had."

Chet read what was in Wilson's mind.  He was scared.  He was not yellow, but he knew what he was up against.  He knew he was entirely at Wilson's mercy.  They were working on the pier together away from the others.  There were no witnesses.  How simple it would be for Wilson to drop something from above or fasten the cable so that it would give way.  He would be gone; no one would know where, why or how.  Of course Wilson might be questioned, but he could pretend ignorance and would be who would be the wiser?  If he went out there in that chair, Wilson would have him in the palm of his hand.

Yet, he was unafraid.  Life was such a mess anyway.  Wilson would be the judge and jury, and a mad one at that, it seemed this morning.  He would be hanged to paint or hanged to drop a hundred feet into raging torrent, just as Wilson decided.  Chet could see what this was running through Wilson's mind; he could see too that Wilson understood that he saw.

He climbed into his seat with paint bucket and brush tied on to be hoisted far up into the air.  It was a sensation entirely new to him to dangle between heaven and earth on a long, thin cable.  A mere few threads of steel and a block and tackle with which to raise or lower himself as he worked up and down.  His arms grew tired, but he raised himself up slowly and surely.  The ropes and cables were strong and safe; the company saw to that.  Nevertheless, Wilson was up there on the tip top of the dam, holding a life in his hands.  He remembered a nearly disastrous accident that he had witnessed just last summer.  On a high, swinging scaffold two cement finishers were working away some fifty feet in the air.  Suddenly, one end of the scaffold dropped eight or ten feet.  The men screamed and clutched the hand rail, miraculously hanging on, although their scaffold was now hanging perpendicularly by but one cable.  It was an accident, pure and simple.  It happened this way.  Another scaffold was just beyond them, on which two finishers had lowered themselves to the floor of the spillway.  A rigger had gone up to loosen the cables, preparatory to moving them to another location.  One of the cables was crossed over and was directly above the workmen.  The rigger loosened two cables, but the second one belonged to the scaffold in mid-air instead of the one that was down.  That was why the one end made the drop.

Chet was being supported by only one cable.  He could imagine he saw a small, dark fellow sawing, sawing away at the small, fast-parting threads of steel.  Well, he should worry!  He wasn't afraid to die.  Somehow, in fact, he was strangely elated.

He couldn't paint; he didn't even know how to dip his brush lightly.  He dropped it into the bucket, into the paint up to the handle, and then without wiping it tried to paint with the paint running down his arm and up his sleeve.  He was getting more paint on himself than on the steel.  Well, he hadn't been dropped yet.  It even made him giddy to look down.  Then, too, the Swede finisher boss wasn't riding him this morning.  He was up here in the fresh air with his own thoughts.  He needed to be washed up anyway.  Let worse come to worst.  What was the matter with him?  Was he going nuts?  He had heard it was not good for a man to live alone.  Was he falling in love with this girl?  He, a married man, and she, in such a position?  Why couldn't he think of something else?  He began to feel that he was a dam-maniac in more ways than one.

The noon whistle let out its welcome shriek.  He slowly and carefully let himself down, the loose rope passing between his legs and going up as he released it hand by hand, arm's length by arm's length.  He let go and dropped himself to tighten up again and come to a sharp stop as he neared the bottom.  Nothing had happened, and the first half of the day was over.  Some of the newness and fear had worn off.  He would not quit for a thousand dollars, although there were those in camp who wouldn't go up even once for that sum, even if they knew the fastening above was safe and would be unmolested.

He hunted up his pail and ate his lunch with the painters, as all red birds, and birds of a feather flock together.  He seated himself on a boulder near the fire, close to Wilson, and a little apart from the rest.  In an undertone, he began to assure Wilson that he was sorry for the whole mess and didn't wish to see anyone have trouble.  However, he let him know that he was sorry for the girl and didn't think Wilson had treated her right.  Wilson had thawed out or decided to use different tactics.

He chuckled, "Don't worry about the girl.  She's okay.  She's quite a smart little thing."

"Yes, I know," sighed Chet.  "I read her book of poetry, I saw her life story and the sweet thoughts and pure mind.  Did you ever read any of her poems?"

"Ah, I believe you're in love with her and care more for her than I ever did.  I admit I was a little goofy over her at first and would have married her if I had been free.  But I'm getting fed up on that Mat.  He's been driving my car and charging up gas and tobacco and cigarettes to my account.  I think I'll give them enough money to get home and get rid of them for a while at least.  Trouble is, I'm afraid she'll want to come back and stay with me.  I'm tired and through.  Boy, I sure have got a swell new neighbor.  Swell and beautiful and a widow.  She's the one for me!  Perfectly safe.  No fool brother and no chance for trouble.  Boy!  Has she got a form!"  He smiled slyly.  "Come on down again and see Anna.  She'll be glad to see you.  I believe she falls for that silly verse stuff of yours.  I've read some that she wrote to me, but I can't see much of it.  Just wasted words."

The one o'clock whistle blew.  Chet went back to his high perch, preoccupied.  He was trying not to think, but a least he was no longer afraid.  Wilson was a changed man in half a day.  Chet wondered if it were booze, dope, or worry.  Well, he should worry.  He was earning a little money now.  Earning it was right!  But again he wondered about Wilson's changed attitude.  Why had he asked him to come and see Anna?  Was he going to try to shove off on him the troubles that Wilson had started?  Was it a clever blackmail scheme that hatched up by him and Mat to get some money out of him?

After work, he went to see Anna, who was sorry and said, "It seems that Mat and wilson can't get along.  I'm worried for your safety.  You'd better take your books and typewriter.  I'm sorry, but it's best that we don't see each other again."  So slowly and sadly Chet finally left.

Spring would soon be here, and Chet would be working at his old job.  He was educated for that, and it was child's play in comparison to this.  Besides, he would earn more money.  No wonder it was called a white-collar job.  He would write to his wife tonight and unburden himself.  Yes, he would forget this bothersome mess.

He wrote an ordinary letter, then got to pondering and started off this unthinkingly, unloading his troubles and secret sorrows upon her.

He also addressed a copy of the verse to Anna, waited a few days for a reply, then asked Wilson if she had got it.  Wilson thought Mat had been watching the mail and had probably read it and torn it up.

Deciding to try again, Chet wrote to Anna and explained things more fully.  Let Mat intercept it, read it if he wished.  But if she didn't respond before long, he would show Mat where he got off for tampering with the U.S. mail.

This, too, he decided to enclose in the letter to his wife.  He felt guilty about writing to another woman without Claire's knowledge or consent, and the copy would show how harmless it really was.  

The cement-finishers were getting pretty well along on the powerhouse.  The painting was almost done, and now again came talk of more layoffs.  Pink slips were again plentiful and conspicuous.  Hard-driving bosses and straw bosses flourished the slips and used jibes as a whip to drive the dog-tired men on to faster work and harder efforts.

How they had half of the dam and the powerhouse almost finished.

"The work was all wasted," said Dan, "But I'm several hundred dollars to the good, so I don't care a rap.  I earned it honestly.  The big crooks that started all this are the grafters, not me.  There is no power and there never will be."