Bob followed. The little sawmill was going full blast
under the handling of three men and a boy. Everything was done in the
most primitive manner, by main strength, awkwardness, and old-fashioned
tools.
"Who's boss?" yelled Larsen against the clang of the mill.
A slow, black-bearded man stepped forward.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"Our drive's hung up against your boom," yelled Larsen.
The man raised his hand and the machinery was suddenly stilled.
"So I perceive," said he.
"Your boom-piles are drove too far out in the stream."
"I don't know about that," objected the mossback.
"I do," insisted Larsen. "Nobody on earth could keep from jamming, the
way you got things fixed."
"That's none of my business," said the man steadily.
"Well, we'll have to take out that fur clump of piles to get our jam
broke."
"I don't know about that," repeated the man.
Larsen apparently paid no attention to this last remark, but tramped
back to the jam. There he ordered a couple of men out with axes, and
others with tackle. But at that moment the three men and the boy
appeared.
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