"It was a letter from a man to his son away at school. In it he lamented
the good old times when he was young, and gave it as his opinion that
the world was going to the dogs."
Tally grinned slowly; and the others burst into a shout of laughter.
"All right, bub," said the riverman good-humouredly. "But that doesn't
get me a new foreman." He turned to Fox. "Smith broke his leg; and I
can't find a man to take charge. I can't go. The main drive's got to be
sorted."
"There ought to be plenty of good men," said Fox.
"There are, but they're at work."
"Dicky Darrell is over at Marion," spoke up one of the scalers.
"Roaring Dick," said Tally sarcastically, "--but there's no denying
he's a good man in the woods. But if he's at Marion, he's drunk; and if
he's drunk, you can't do nothing with him."
"I heard it three days ago," said the scaler.
Tally ruminated. "Well," he concluded, "maybe he's about over with his
bust. I'll run over this afternoon and see what I can do with him. If
Tom Welton would only tear himself apart from California, we'd get on
all right."
A scraping back of benches and a tramp of feet announced the nearly
simultaneous finishing of feeding at the men's tables.
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