"What's that?" he asked.
The riverman rolled over and examined him dispassionately for a few
moments.
"Jack Orde," he deigned to explain at last, "was a riverman. He was a
good one. He used to run the drive in the Redding country. When he
started to take out logs, he took 'em out, by God! I've heard him often:
'Get your logs out first, and pay the damage afterward,' says he. He was
a holy terror. They got the state troops out after him once. It came to
be a sort of by-word. When you generally gouge, kick and sandbag a man
into bein' real _good_, why we say you come the Jack Orde on him."
"I see," said Bob, vastly amused at this sidelight on the family
reputation. "What would you do here?"
"I don't know," replied the riverman, "but I wouldn't lay around and
wait."
"Why don't some of you fellows go out there and storm the fort, if you
feel that way?" asked Bob.
"Why?" demanded the riverman, "I won't let any boss stump me; but why in
hell should I go out and get my hide full of birdshot? If this outfit
don't know enough to get its drive down, that ain't my fault."
Bob had seen enough of the breed to recognize this as an eminently
characteristic attitude.
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