Big Timber | Page 5

a
fool not to comprehend this.
Then they began filing down the gangway to the boat's deck. One
slipped, and came near falling into the water, whereat his fellows
howled gleefully. Precariously they negotiated the slanting passage. All
but one: he sat him down at the slip-head on his bundle and began a
quavering chant. The teamster imperturbably finished his unloading,

two men meanwhile piling the goods aboard.
The wagon backed out, and the way was clear, save for the logger
sitting on his blankets, wailing his lugubrious song. From below his
fellows urged him to come along. A bell clanged in the pilot house. The
exhaust of a gas engine began to sputter through the boat's side. From
her after deck a man hailed the logger sharply, and when his call was
unheeded, he ran lightly up the slip. A short, squarely-built man he was,
light on his feet as a dancing master.
He spoke now with authority, impatiently.
"Hurry aboard, Mike; we're waiting."
The logger rose, waved his hand airily, and turned as if to retreat down
the wharf. The other caught him by the arm and spun him face to the
slip.
"Come on, Slater," he said evenly. "I have no time to fool around."
The logger drew back his fist. He was a fairly big man. But if he had in
mind to deal a blow, it failed, for the other ducked and caught him with
both arms around the middle. He lifted the logger clear of the wharf,
hoisted him to the level of his breast, and heaved him down the slip as
one would throw a sack of bran.
The man's body bounced on the incline, rolled, slid, tumbled, till at
length he brought up against the boat's guard, and all that saved him a
ducking was the prompt extension of several stout arms, which
clutched and hauled him to the flush after deck. He sat on his haunches,
blinking. Then he laughed. So did the man at the top of the slip and the
lumberjacks clustered on the boat. Homeric laughter, as at some
surpassing jest. But the roar of him who had taken that inglorious
descent rose loudest of all, an explosive, "Har--har--har!"
He clambered unsteadily to his feet, his mouth expanded in an amiable
grin.

"Hey, Jack," he shouted. "Maybe y' c'n throw m' blankets down too,
while y'r at it."
The man at the slip-head caught up the roll, poised it high, and cast it
from him with a quick twist of his body. The woolen missile flew like a
well-put shot and caught its owner fair in the breast, tumbling him
backwards on the deck--and the Homeric laughter rose in double
strength. Then the boat began to swing, and the man ran down and
leaped the widening space as she drew away from her mooring.
Stella Benton watched the craft gather way, a trifle shocked, her breath
coming a little faster. The most deadly blows she had ever seen struck
were delivered in a more subtle, less virile mode, a curl of the lip, an
inflection of the voice. These were a different order of beings. This, she
sensed was man in a more primitive aspect, man with the conventional
bark stripped clean off him. And she scarcely knew whether to be
amused or frightened when she reflected that among such her life
would presently lie. Charlie had written that she would find things and
people a trifle rougher than she was used to. She could well believe that.
But--they were picturesque ruffians.
Her interested gaze followed the camp tender as it swung around the
wharf-end, and so her roaming eyes were led to another craft drawing
near. This might be her brother's vessel. She went back to the outer
landing to see.
Two men manned this boat. As she ranged alongside the piles, one
stood forward, and the other aft with lines to make fast. She cast a look
at each. They were prototypes of the rude crew but now departed,
brown-faced, flannel-shirted, shod with calked boots, unshaven for
days, typical men of the woods. But as she turned to go, the man
forward and almost directly below her looked her full in the face.
"Stell!"
She leaned over the rail.
"Charlie Benton--for Heaven's sake."

They stared at each other.
"Well," he laughed at last. "If it were not for your mouth and eyes, Stell,
I wouldn't have known you. Why, you're all grown up."
He clambered to the wharf level and kissed her. The rough stubble of
his beard pricked her tender skin and she drew back.
"My word, Charlie, you certainly ought to shave," she observed with
sisterly frankness. "I didn't know you until you spoke. I'm awfully glad
to see you, but you do need some one to