Bob was too good a field general not to welcome the gifts of chance.
"Certainly," he snapped. "Now get out on that river, every mother's son
of you. Get that drive going and keep it going. I've cleared the river
for you; and if you'd any one of you had the nerve of my poor old fat
sub-centre, you'd have done it for yourselves. Get busy! Hop!"
The men jumped for their peavies. Bob raged up and down the bank. For
the moment he had forgotten the husk of the situation, and saw it only
in essential. Here was a squad to lick into shape, to fashion into a
team. It mattered little that they wore spikes in their boots instead of
cleats; that they sported little felt hats instead of head guards. The
principle was the same. The team had gone to pieces in the face of a
crisis; discipline was relaxed; grumblers were getting noisy. Bob
plunged joyously head over ears in his task. By now he knew every man by
name, and he addressed each personally. He had no idea of what was to be
done to start this riverful of logs smoothly and surely on its way; he
did not need to. Afloat on the river was technical knowledge enough, and
to spare.
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