The news of Bergstein’s discharge demoralized the gang at the lower shanty.  They no sooner heard of it than Thayor became a target for their unwarranted abuse.  I say “the news” since Bergstein did not put in an appearance to officially announce it.  His mismanagement of the commissary department was laid at Thayor’s door.  The men’s grumbling had been of some weeks’ duration; their opinions wavering, swaying and settling under Bergstein’s hypnotic popularity as easily as a weather-vane in April.  Nowhere had they earned as good wages as at Big Shanty.  They, too, looked at Thayor’s purchase as a gold mine.  Morrison had done a thriving business with the stout little tumblers with bottoms half an inch thick.  Bergstein frequently treated—­when they growled over the bad food he treated liberally, and they forgot.  He blamed it on Thayor and they agreed.  They made no secret of the fact among themselves as well as outsiders, that if it were not for the high wages they would have deserted in a body long ago; no lumber boss they had ever known or worked for had dared feed them like this.  These lumber jacks were used to good, plain food and plenty of it.

It is needless to say neither the trapper nor the Clown complained.  They, like Holcomb, were fully aware of the fact that Bergstein was playing a dangerous game.  They were waiting for the denouement.  At times when the men gave vent to their grievances Hite Holt and Freme Skinner did their level best to smooth things over; they did not want to trouble Thayor.

The same afternoon of Bergstein’s discharge the gang at the lower shanty struck.  The bar-room at Morrison’s became packed.  Little else was talked of but the injustice of the owner of Big Shanty.  Later in the day a delegation of awkward, sinewy men came upon his veranda.  They were for the most part sober.  It might be said they were the soberest.  Le Boeuf was among them.  Men of the sea and men of the woods air their grievances in the same way—­a spokesman is indispensable.

This man’s name was Shank Dollard—­a man with a slow mind and a quick temper.  Their interview with Thayor was brief.  His polite firmness and his quiet manner made Shank Dollard lower his voice.

“I know precisely what you are going to say,” Thayor began as the deputation shuffled into his den.  “In the first place I hear there has been general dissatisfaction over the food at the lower shanty.”

“You ain’t fur from the p’int,” blurted out Dollard; “it hain’t been fit to feed to a dog.”

“One moment, Mr. Dollard—­you will wait until I get through speaking,” Thayor said as he lifted a pile of bills.  “These,” he went on, “are the complete list of supplies since Bergstein took charge of your commissary department.  A glance at the items and their cost will, I feel sure, force you men to acknowledge that they are the best money can buy.”  He passed half the file to Dollard, the remainder he handed to a big fellow next him for distribution.  The totals alone were startling.