Bob started to
follow, but Welton held him back.
"It's dangerous for a man not used to it. The jam may go out at any
time, and when she goes, she goes sky-hooting."
But in the event his precaution turned out useless. All day the men
rolled logs into the current below the dam. The _click!_ clank! clank!
of their peavies sounded like the valves of some great engine, so
regular was the periodicity of their metallic recurrence. They made
quite a hole in the breast; and several times the jam shrugged, creaked
and settled, but always to a more solid look. Billy, the teamster,
brought down his horses. By means of long blocks and tackle they set to
yanking out logs from certain places specified by Roaring Dick. Still
the jam proved obstinate.
"I hate to do it," said Roaring Dick to Welton; "but it's a case of
powder."
"Tie into it," agreed Welton. "What's a few smashed logs compared to
hanging the drive?"
Dick nodded. He picked up a little canvas lunch bag from a stump where,
earlier in the day, he had hung it, and from it extracted several sticks
of giant powder, a length of fuse and several caps.
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