"Hold on," said Bob. "You aren't going to leave them there?"
"Shore," said Pollock. "We'll have to begin there to-morrow."
But Bob's long training in handling large bodies of men with tools had
developed in him an instinct of tool-orderliness.
"Won't do," he stated with something of his old-time authority in his
tones. "Suppose for some reason we shouldn't get back here to-morrow?
That's the way such things get mislaid; and they're valuable."
He picked up the hatchet and the axe. Grumbling something under his
breath, Pollock shouldered the staples and thrust the hammer in his
pocket.
"It isn't as if these things were ours," said Bob, realizing that he had
spoken in an unduly minatory tone.
"That's right," agreed Jack more cheerfully.
In addition to the new men, they found Ross Fletcher and Charley Morton
at the camp. The evening meal was prepared cheerfully and roughly, eaten
under a rather dim lamp. Pipes were lit, and they all began leisurely to
clean up. The smoke hung low in the air. One by one the men dropped back
into their rough, homemade chairs, or sprawled out on the floor.
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