Joe Larochelle did not acknowledge defeat easily. No matter how red-handed one caught him in a bit of grafting, he was as firm as an early Christian martyr and as plausible as a street map in his denials. But now he said:
"It's too much for me. You boys can go home; I gotta see the boss."
Joe Larochelle repaired to Pringle's office, which was downstairs in his home. He told his story.
Dan Pringle was a small, plump man with a large watch chain decorated with an incisor tooth of Cervus canadensis—the wapiti. He asked: "You been drinking lately, Joe?"
"No, Mr. Pringle. I ain't touched a thing."
Pringle got up and sniffed. "Well, I guess maybe not. Do you suppose a union organizer was back of this?" -
"No, there ain't been any around. I been watching for them."
"Did you look between the piles and under the tramways?"
"Sure, I looked everywhere."
"Well, maybe. They're apt to sneak in no matter how careful you are, you know. Suppose you come back after supper and we'll take a look at these fancy boards. And bring a flashlight. We'll look around for union organizers, just in case."
Pringle and Larochelle arrived at the lumber yard as the sun was sliding down behind Gahato Mountain. Pringle insisted on creeping around the piles with his flashlight as if he were playing gangsters and G-men. He was, he explained, hoping to surprise a lurking union organizer. At Pile No. 1040 Larochelle said:
"That's her. See them boards lying in a heap on top?"
Pringle saw the boards. He also saw a young woman sitting on the edge of the pile, swinging her sandaled feet. Her green dress had obviously seen better days. About her hair, the kindest comment would be that it looked "nonchalant" or "carefree." It had apparently been red, but it had been singed off. It had grown out again but was still black at the ends and presented a distressing aspect.
"Good evening," said the young woman. "You are Mr. Pringle, the owner of the sawmill, are you not?"
"Why—uh—maybe," said Pringle suspiciously. "Who—I mean, what can I do for you?"
"Huh?" said a puzzled voice at his side. "What do you mean, Mr. Pringle?" Joe Larochelle was looking at him, ignoring the girl, whose feet were a few feet away on a level with his face.
"Why—I was talking—"
"You are the owner, Mr. Pringle? I have heard the men talking about you," said the girl.
"Just thinking out loud?" said Larochelle.
"Yes—I mean maybe," said the confused Pringle. "She just asked me—"
"Who's 'she'?" asked Larochelle.
"That young lady."
"What young lady?"
Pringle decided that his foreman was simply dithering and asked the girclass="underline" "You're not a union organizer, are you?"
The girl and Larochelle answered simultaneously: "I don't know what that is. I don't think so." "Who, me? Aw, come on, Mr. Pringle, you oughta know I hate 'em as much as you—"
"Not you, Joe!" cried Pringle. "Not you! I was just asking her—"
Larochelle's patience began to wear thin. "And I been asking you who 'her' is?"
"How should I know? I've been trying to find out myself."
"I think we're kinda mixed up. Here you talk about some skirt and I ask who and you say you don't know. That don't make sense, does it?"
Pringle wiped his forehead.
The girl said: "I would like to see you, Mr. Pringle, only without this M'sieu' Larochelle."
"We'll see, miss," said Pringle.
Larochelle spoke: "Say, Mr. Pringle, are you feeling well? Damned if you don't sound like you was talking to somebody who ain't there."
Pringle began to feel like a rat in the hands of an experimental psychologist who is, with the best of motives, trying to drive it crazy. "Don't be ridiculous, Joe. I sound as though I were talking to somebody who is there."
"I know; that's just the trouble."
"What's the trouble?"
"There ain't anybody there, of course!"
This statement, despite its alarming implications, gave Pringle a feeling of relief. Theretofore, this maddening dispute had been like fighting blindfolded with broadswords at sixty paces. Now he had a solid point of disagreement. He said sharply: "Are you sure you're feeling well, Joe?"
"Sure, of course, I'm well."
"Do you, or don't you, see a girl in a green dress sitting on the edge of the pile?"
"No. I just said there ain't anybody there."
"Didn't ask you whether anybody was there, but whether you saw anybody there."
"Well, if there was anybody there I'd see 'em, wouldn't I? Makes sense, don't it?"
"We'll waive that."
"Wave what? This green dress I'm supposed to see that ain't there?"
Pringle danced distractedly on his short legs. "Never mind, never mind! Have you heard a woman's voice coming from that pile?"
"No, of course not. What gives you the idea—"
"All right, all right, that's what I wanted to know. You can run along home now. I'll do the rest of the investigating myself. No"—as Larochelle started to protest—"I mean that."
"Oh, all right. But look out the union organizers don't get you." Larochelle grinned maliciously and trotted off. Pringle winced visibly at the last words but bravely faced the pile.
"Now, young lady," he said grimly, "are you sure you're not a union organizer?"
"Would I know if I was, Mr. Pringle?"
"You bet you would. I guess you aren't one, maybe. More likely an hallucination."
"Mr. Pringle! I did not ask to see you so you could call me bad names."
"No offense meant. But something's very funny around here. Either Joe or I are seeing things."
"If you have good eyes, you always see things. What is wrong with that?"
"Nothing, when the things are there. What I'm trying to find out is, are you real or am I imagining you?"
"You see me, no?"
"Sure. But that doesn't prove you're real."
"What do I do to prove I am real?"
"I'm not just sure myself. You could put out your hand," he said doubtfully. The girl reached down, and Pringle touched her hand. "Feels real enough. But maybe I'm imagining the feel. How come Joe didn't see you?"
"I did not want him to."
"Oh, just like that, eh? You don't want him to, so he looks right through you."
"Naturally."
"It may be natural to you. But when I look at somebody I generally see him. Let's forget that question for a while. Let's not even think about it. If I'm not nuts already, I will be soon at this rate. Just what is all this funny business?"
"I don't think it is funny to have my home broken up."
"Huh?"
"You broke up my home."
"I broke up your home. I broke up your home. Young lady—What's your name, by the way?"
"Aceria."
"Miss Aceria, or Aceria something?"
"Just Aceria."
"Oh, well, skip it. I used to consider myself a pretty intelligent man. Not any parlor-pink intellectual, you understand, but a good, competent American businessman. But I'm not sure anymore. Nothing seems to make sense. What in the name of the great horn spoon do you mean, I've broken up your home? Did I lead your husband astray, maybe?" -
"Oh, not like that. Like that!" She pointed to the tangle of boards behind her. "That was my home."
"Those boards? Come on, don't try to tell me some man of mine tore your house down and sneaked the boards onto the pile."
"Well, yes and no. Those boards were my tree."
"Your what?"
"My tree. I lived in it."
"I suppose you'll say next you were responsible for that commotion today?"
"I am afraid yes."
"Well." Others had testified to the occurrence of the commotion. Or had Pringle imagined that Joe Larochelle had told that story—No, no, no! He wasn't going to think about that anymore. "What was the idea?"