Hurried on by the pressure of water long
dammed back, the logs tumbled forward. Rank after rank they swept past,
while the rivermen, leaning on the shafts of their peavies, passed them
in review.
"That was luck," Welton's voice broke in on Bob's contemplation. "It's
just getting dark. Couldn't have done it without the dynamite. It
splinters up a little timber, but we save money, even at that."
"Billy doesn't carry that with the other supplies, does he?" asked Bob.
"Sure," said Welton; "rolls it up in the bedding, or something. Well,
John Harvey, Junior," said he to that youth, "what do you think of it? A
little different driving this white water than pushing logs with a pike
pole down a slack-water river like the Green, hey?"
"Yes, sir," the boy nodded out of his Indian stolidity.
"You see now why a man has to start young to be a riverman," Welton told
Bob, as they bent their steps toward camp. "Poor little John Harvey out
on that jam when she broke would have stood about as much chance as a
beetle at a woodpecker prayer meeting."
XV
Two days later Welton returned to the mill.
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