The Pit-Prop Syndicate | Page 6

dark colored and uninviting from the
shadow of the trees. On its bank, forming a center to the cleared
semicircle, was a building, evidently the mill. It was a small place,
consisting of a single long narrow galvanized iron shed, and placed
parallel to the river. In front of the shed was a tiny wharf, and behind it
were stacks and stacks of tree trunks cut in short lengths and built as if
for seasoning. Decauville tramways radiated from the shed, and the
men were running in timber in the trucks. From the mill came the hard,
biting screech of a circular saw.
"A sawmill!" Merriman exclaimed rather unnecessarily.
"Yes. We cut pit-props for the English coal mines. Those are they you
see stacked up. As soon as they are drier they will be shipped across.
My father joined with some others in putting up the capital, and -
voila!" She indicated the clearing and its contents with a
comprehensive sweep of her hand.
"By Jove! A jolly fine notion, too, I should say. You have everything
handy - trees handy, river handy - I suppose from the look of that wharf
that sea-going ships can come up?"
"Shallow draughted ones only. But we have our own motor ship
specially built and always running. It makes the round trip in about ten

days."
"By Jove!" Merriman said again. "Splendid! And is that where you
live?"
He pointed to a house standing on a little hillock near the edge of the
clearing at the far or down-stream side of the mill. It was a rough, but
not uncomfortable-looking building of galvanized iron, one-storied and
with a piazza in front. From a brick chimney a thin spiral of blue smoke
was floating up lazily into the calm air.
The girl nodded.
"It's not palatial, but it's really wonderfully comfortable," she explained,
"and oh, the fires! I've never seen such glorious wood fires as we have.
Cuttings, you know. We have more blocks than we know what to do
with."
"I can imagine. I wish we had 'em in London."
They were walking not too rapidly across the clearing towards the mill.
At the back of the shed were a number of doors, and opposite one of
them, heading into the opening, stood the motor lorry. The engine was
still running, but the driver had disappeared, apparently into the
building. As the two came up, Merriman once more ran his eye idly
over the vehicle. And then he felt a sudden mild surprise, as one feels
when some unexpected though quite trivial incident takes place. He had
felt sure that this lorry standing at the mill door was that which had
passed him on the bridge, and which he had followed down the lane.
But now he saw it wasn't. He had noted, idly but quite distinctly, that
the original machine was No. 4. This one had a precisely similar plate,
but it bore the legend "The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 3."
Though the matter was of no importance, Merriman was a little
intrigued, and he looked more closely at the vehicle. As he did so his
surprise grew and his trifling interest became mystification. The lorry
was the same. At least there on the top was the casting, just as he had
seen it. It was inconceivable that two similar lorries should have two

identical castings arranged in the same way, and at the same time and
place. And yet, perhaps it was just possible.
But as he looked he noticed a detail which settled the matter. The
casting was steadied by some rough billets of wood. One of these
billets was split, and a splinter of curious shape had partially entered a
bolt hole. He recalled now, though it had slipped from his memory, that
he had noticed that queer-shaped splinter as the lorry passed him on the
bridge. It was therefore unquestionably and beyond a shadow of doubt
the same machine.
Involuntarily he stopped and stood staring at the number plate,
wondering if his recollection of that seen at the bridge could be at fault.
He thought not. In fact, he was certain. He recalled the shape of the 4,
which had an unusually small hollow in the middle. There was no
shadow of doubt of this either. He remained motionless for a few
seconds, puzzling over the problem, and was just about to remark on it
when the girl broke in hurriedly.
"Father will be in the office," she said, and her voice was sharpened as
from anxiety. "Won't you come and see him about the petrol?"
He looked at her curiously. The smile had gone from her lips, and her
face was pale. She was frowning, and in her eyes there showed
unmistakable fear. She was not looking at him,