drive, the men began vigorously to urge the logs
forward. This they accomplished almost entirely by main strength, for
the sluggish current gave them little aid. Under the pressure of their feet
as they pushed against their implements, the logs dipped, rolled, and
plunged. Nevertheless, they worked as surely from the decks of these
unstable craft as from the solid earth itself.
In this manner the logs in the centre of the pond were urged forward
until, above the chute, they caught the slightly accelerated current
which should bring them down to the pike-pole men at the dam.
Immediately, when this stronger influence was felt, the drivers
zigzagged back up stream to start a fresh batch. In the meantime a great
many logs drifted away to right and left into stagnant water, where they
lay absolutely motionless. The moving of them was deferred for the
"sacking crew," which would bring up the rear.
Jack Orde wandered back and forth over the work, his hands clasped
behind his back, a short pipe clenched between his teeth. To the edge of
the drive he rode the logs, then took to the bank and strolled down to
the dam. There he stood for a moment gazing aimlessly at the water
making over the apron, after which he returned to the work. No cloud
obscured the serene good-nature of his face. Meeting Tom North's
troubled glance, he grinned broadly.
"Told you we'd have Johnson on our necks," he remarked, jerking his
thumb up river toward a rapidly approaching figure.
This soon defined itself as a tall, sun-reddened, very blond individual
with a choleric blue eye.
"What in hell's the matter here?" he yelled, as soon as he came within
hearing distance.
Orde made no reply, but stood contemplating the newcomer with a
flicker of amusement.
"What in hell's the matter?" repeated the latter violently.
"Better go there and inquire," rejoined Orde drolly. "What ails you,
Johnson?"
"We're right at your rear," cried the other, "and you ain't even made a
start gettin' through this dam! We'll lose the water next! Why in hell
ain't you through and gone?"
"Keep your shirt on," advised Orde. "We're getting through as fast as
we can. If you want these logs pushed any faster, come down and do it
yourself."
Johnson vouchsafed no reply, but splashed away over the logs,
examining in detail the progress of the work. After a little he returned
within hailing distance.
"If you can't get out logs, why do you take the job?" he roared, with a
string of oaths. "If you hang my drive, damn you, you'll catch it for
damages! It's gettin' to a purty pass when any old highbanker from
anywheres can get out and play jackstraws holdin' up every drive in the
river! I tell you our mills need logs, and what's more they're agoin' to
GIT them!"
He departed in a rumble of vituperation.
Orde laughed humorously at his foreman.
"Johnson gets so mad sometimes, his skin cracks," he remarked.
"However," he went on more seriously, "there's a heap in what he
means, if there ain't so much in what he says. I'll go labour with our old
friend below."
He regained the bank, stopped to light his pipe, and sauntered, with
every appearance of leisure, down the bank, past the dam, to the mill
structure below.
Here he found the owner occupying a chair tilted back against the wall
of the building. His ruffled plug hat was thrust, as usual, well away
from his high and narrow forehead; the long broadcloth coat fell back
to reveal an unbuttoned waistcoat the flapping black trousers were
hitched up far enough to display woollen socks wrinkled about bony
shanks. He was whittling a pine stick, which he held pointing down
between his spread knees, and conversing animatedly with a young
fellow occupying another chair at his side.
"And there comes one of 'em now," declaimed the old man
dramatically.
Orde nodded briefly to the stranger, and came at once to business.
"I want to talk this matter over with you," he began. "We aren't making
much progress. We can't afford to hang up the drive, and the water is
going down every day. We've got to have more water. I'll tell you what
we'll do: If you'll let us cut down the new sill, we'll replace it in good
shape when we get all our logs through."
"No, sir!" promptly vetoed the old man.
"Well, we'll give you something for the privilege. What do you think is
fair?"
"I tell ye I'll give you your legal rights, and not a cent more," replied
the old man, still quietly, but with quivering nostrils.
"What is your name?" asked Orde.
"My name is Reed, sir."
"Well, Mr. Reed, stop and think what this means.
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