“What do you need in the way of help?” asked the State chairman.

“Nothing.”  Thornton turned again to survey his unruly flock.  It was plain that they were baiting their overlord.  Presson’s acumen in politics enlightened him.  An angry man may be made to antagonize the neutrals and even to insult his friends—­and Thelismer Thornton was not patient when provoked.  There was shrewd management behind this revolt.

Suddenly the yard was full of men, new arrivals.  It was an orderly little army, woodsmen with meal-sack packs, an incoming crew on its march to the woods.  A big man plodded ahead and marshalled them.  Thornton hastened out upon the porch, and the chairman followed.  The big man halted his crew, and leaned his elbows on the porch rail.

“Thought I’d walk ’em early in the cool of the day,” he explained, “and lay off here for dinner and a rest.  Pretty good lot of gash-fiddlers, there, Mr. Thornton.  I picked the market for you.”

“And I’ll sample ’em right now,” said the Duke, grimly.  “Ben, tell ’em to drop those duffel-bags and rush that gang of steers out of my yard.”  He pointed at the flock of constituents.  Niles had begun fresh harangue in regard to despots, addressing the new arrivals.  They did not seem to be especially interested.  There were a few long-legged Prince Edward Islanders, but most of them were wiry little French Canadians, who did not seem to understand much of the orator’s tumultuous speech.

“If you’ve got a crew that’s any good on a log-landing, we’ll find it out,” added the Duke.  “Get at ’em!”

“Good gaddlemighty!” gasped Presson, “you ain’t going to do anything like that!”

“You watch.”

“Politics?” queried the big boss, swinging about to go to his crew.  He grinned.  It was evident that he considered that anything under that general head was in the Duke’s supreme control, and that his employer’s orders absolved him.

“It’s just what they’ve been trying to prod into you—­it’s their game,” adjured Presson, beating expostulating palms upon Thornton’s breast.

“Then it has worked,” the old man replied, calmly.  He pushed the chairman aside.  “Rush’em, Ben, and, if they don’t go easy, toss ’em over the fence.”

The big boss sauntered among his crew and growled a few crisp commands.  The smile he wore gave the affair the appearance of a lark, and the woodsmen took it in that spirit.  But the mob was sullen.  Those who were not active rebels had been stung by the contempt that their leader now displayed.  Some resisted when the woodsmen pushed them half playfully.  A burly fellow stood his ground.  Ivus Niles lurked at his back.

“The folks up in the Jo Quacca Mountains will snicker in good shape when I tell ’em that Fightin’ MacCracken let himself be dumped out of Duke Thornton’s dooryard by a pack of lard-eating Quedaws,” he sneered in the giant’s ear.

MacCracken swept away the first three men with swinging cuffs.  He was thinking of his reputation at home.  The taunt pricked him.