Arriving there, the visitors were astonished at the extent of the plant so recently established in this practically unknown district.  The great mill, where the wood pulp was made, was a building constructed from pine slabs and cobblestones, material gathered from the clearing in which it stood, but it was quite substantial and roomy.  Adjoining the mill was the factory building where the pulp was rolled into print paper.  Surrounding these huge buildings were some sixty small dwellings of the bungalow type, for the use of the workmen, built of rough boards, but neat and uniform in appearance.  Almost in the center of this group stood the extensive storehouse from which all necessary supplies were furnished the mill hands, the cost being deducted from their wages.  The electric power plant was a building at the edge of Royal Waterfall, the low and persistent roar of which was scarcely drowned by the rumble of machinery.  Finally, at the edge of the clearing nearest the mills, stood the business office, and to this place Mr. Merrick and Arthur at once proceeded.

They found the office a busy place.  Three or four typewriters were clicking away, operated by sallow-faced girls, and behind a tall desk were two bookkeepers, in one of whom Uncle John recognized—­with mild surprise—­the tramp he had encountered at Chazy Junction on the morning of his arrival.  The young fellow had improved in appearance, having discarded his frayed gray suit for one of plain brown khaki, such as many of the workmen wore, a supply being carried by the company’s store.  He was clean-shaven and trim, and a gentlemanly bearing had replaced the careless, half defiant attitude of the former hobo.  It was evident he remembered meeting Mr. Merrick, for he smiled and returned the “nabob’s” nod.

Mr. Skeelty had a private enclosed office in a corner of the room.  Being admitted to this sanctum, the visitors found the manager to be a small, puffy individual about forty-five years of age, with shrewd, beadlike black eyes and an insolent assumption of super-importance.  Skeelty interrupted his task of running up columns of impressive figures to ask his callers to be seated, and opened the interview with characteristic abruptness.

“You’re Merrick, eh?  I remember.  You want to buy power, and we have it to sell.  How much will you contract to take?”

“I don’t know just how much we need,” answered Uncle John.  “We want enough to run a newspaper plant at Millville, and will pay for whatever we use.  I’ve ordered a meter, as you asked me to do, and my men are now stringing the cables to make the connection.”

“Pah! a newspaper.  How absurd,” said Mr. Skeelty with scornful emphasis.  “Your name, Merrick, is not unknown to me.  It stands for financial success, I understand; but I’ll bet you never made your money doing such fool things as establishing newspapers in graveyards.”

Uncle John looked at the man attentively.