CHAPTER IV
The shut-down at Odell's came sooner than anticipated. The mill owner had been almost positive about another consignment of logs, but at the last minute one of the pulp mills drove up the price on the timber and the logs went elsewhere.
"It's no use," said Peter Odell, to his men. "I've got to shut down until next spring. During the winter I'll make cast-iron contracts for the next supply of timber, so there won't be any further trip-ups, pulp mills or no pulp mills. It's going to cost me money to quit, but, as you can see, I'm helpless in the matter."
To this the men said but little. A few of them felt that Odell was to blame just as John Larson was to blame—because he had not made "cast-iron" contracts before. But these mill owners were of the old-fashioned sort, easy-going and willing to take matters largely as they came.
"The pulp mills have the upper hand of the business," said Owen to Dale. "They'll take anything that is cut down, and that gives them the advantage. Now it wouldn't pay Odell, or Larson either, to handle logs less than fourteen inches in diameter."
"But the loggers are foolish to cut small stuff," answered Dale. "They don't give the trees a chance to grow, and before long there won't be a tree left to cut."
"The most of 'em think only of the money to be had right now; not what they might get later on. If I had my way I'd pass a law making it a crime to cut down small trees."
There were but few other sawmills in that vicinity, and each of these was working only three-quarters or half time. Water being low, power was scarce, and the general condition was certainly disheartening.
The two young lumbermen spent an entire week in seeking other employment, but without success. The only place offered was one to Owen at a pulp mill, tending a row of vats, but the pay was so small he declined it.
"I hate a pulp mill anyhow," he declared. "Now that winter is coming on, I'd rather try my luck up the river at one of the big camps."
"Exactly my idea!" cried Dale. "Say the word, and I'll start with you Monday morning. I'm sure we can find something to do up on the West Branch, or along one of the lakes."
"The trouble is, how are we to get up on the West Branch?" came from Owen. "I haven't any desire to tramp the distance."
"We can take the railroad train up to the lake," answered Dale, after a moment's thought. "I know Phil Bailey, who runs on the night freight. He'll give us a lift that far, I am sure. After we get to the lake we can try for a job on one of the boats going up the river."
This was satisfactory to Owen, and the pair made preparations to leave Odell's on Monday at noon. In the meantime Dale penned a letter to John Larson, stating that he had not forgotten about the missing horse, and, if the animal did not turn up, he would some day settle for him.
"It's the best that I can do," he said. "He was worth at least one hundred and fifty dollars, and it will take me a good long while to save up that amount."
The nearest railroad station on the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad was a small place called Hemway. Here a passenger train stopped twice a day and a mixed freight did the same. Phil Bailey lived at Hemway, so it was not difficult for Dale to find the brakeman.
"Yes, I'll take you along," said Bailey, "and glad to give you a lift. Carsons is sick, so I'm in charge this week. I'll look for you at the freight switch when the train comes along."
As a consequence that night found Dale and Owen housed in the caboose of the freight train, bumping along at the rate of twenty miles an hour in the direction of the lake. It was not very comfortable riding, and the stops and delays were frequent, but as Owen said, "it beat walking all hollow," and as it cost them nothing they were well content.
"I don't know that this beating the railroad out of a fare is just right," observed Dale, as they rode along. "But I guess such a corporation won't miss our few dollars."
"They'll make the summer tourists foot the bill," said Owen, with a grin. "Did you notice how crowded the train going south was?"
"I did. The cold snap last week is causing them to scatter. In a few weeks more they'll be flying home fast, and leaving everything to us lumbermen."
"And to the hunters."
It was early in the morning and still dark when the lake was reached. Thanking Phil Bailey for his kindness they crawled from the caboose just before the freight switch was gained and made their way down to one of the lumber yards along the shore. Here they found a comfortable corner in a shanty and slept until daybreak.
Lakeport, as the settlement was called, was divided into two parts, the bluff, where the fine cottages and the Lake View Hotel were located, and the lower end, where were situated several lumber yards and a number of lumbermen's cabins and two general stores.
Down at the lumber yards everything was quiet, for the booms from the former winter's cuttings had long since been distributed to the mills far below, and scarcely anything would be received until the spring "yarding" began. Only a few men were around, and the majority of these were either preparing to go up into the timber to work or else to act as guides and cooks to the sportsmen who would soon put in an appearance for a winter's hunt after moose and other game.
Each of the young lumbermen wore the typical costume of the woodsmen of that locality, so neither attracted special attention when they walked into one of the general stores. The wife of the storekeeper took boarders and she readily consented to serve them with breakfast and as many other meals as they wanted and were willing to pay for. The ride had made them tremendously hungry and they ate all that was set before them with keen relish.
"Going up among the loggers, eh?" said the storekeeper, when they were settling their bill. "Well, I reckon as how it's going to be a mighty good year—logs is wanted the wust way, not only fer the sawmills an' pulp mills, but also fer export."
"Right you are, Sanson," put in another man who was present. "I heard from a deputy surveyor at Bangor that we cut over 150,000,000 feet o' pine and spruce last year and they expect to cut even more this year. Twelve million feet was exported to England—an' we got a rousin' good price fer it, too."
"Yes, but times aint as good as they was," came from the storekeeper. "1899 was the banner year fer lumber here. The cut was 183,000,000 feet, an' not only thet, but spruce thet had been sellin' fer $14 and $18 a thousand sold down to Boston fer $20 and $24. Times aint what they was." And the storekeeper heaved a long sigh.
At the side door of the general store a clerk was loading a wagon with various provisions, beans, potatoes, salt fish, flour, a sack of coffee, and the like. Dale watched him for a few seconds and then accosted him.
"Loading up for one of the hotels?" he questioned pleasantly.
"No, this load is going up the river," was the answer.
"May I ask who is going to take it and where it is bound?"
"It's going up to the Paxton camp. Old Joel Winthrop and a couple of other men are going to take it up. Paxton is going to start in early this fall, so we're rushing the stuff up to him."
"How many hands does he employ?"
"About a hundred or more. Want a job?"
"Want a job, eh?"
"Want a job, eh?"
"Want a job, eh?"
"Yes."
"Then you'd better see Winthrop about it. He's looking for likely men."
"Where can I find him?"
"Down to the lake. He's got a bateau he calls theLily—name is daubed on the stern. You can't miss him."
"Thanks; we'll try him," answered Dale, and set off, followed by Owen.
It was not a difficult task to locate Joel Winthrop, an aged woodsman, with whitish hair and beard, and shrewd gray eyes. He had been patching up a leak in his clumsy craft, and he listened to Dale's application while holding a pitch pot in one hand and a brush in the other.
"Want a job, eh?" he said, looking them over. "What can you do?"
"Almost anything but cook," answered Owen. "Might do that, but I shouldn't care to risk it."
"Guess you wouldn't—not up to our camp," laughed Joel Winthrop. "Had a cook last year who burnt the beans an' they tuk him down to the river, chopped a hole in the ice, an' soused him under three times. He never burnt a bean after thet, so long as he stayed."
"We'd like to go as choppers or swampers," said Dale. A chopper is one who fells trees, while a swamper is one who cuts down brushwood and makes a road from the forest to where the logs are piled for shipment in the spring.
"An' what wages are you expectin'?"
"Regular wages," said Dale boldly. "We expect to do regular men's work."
"Got a recommend?"
"Several of them," and Dale handed over the letters he had received from Larson, Odell, and his other employers. Owen also exhibited several recommendations he possessed.
"I see ye don't drink," said Joel Winthrop. "Glad to hear o' that. Drink is the curse of a lumber camp, you know that well as I do. The question is, can ye both stand the work fer a whole season?"
"If we can't you'll not have to keep us," answered Owen.
"Ours is a mighty cold camp, I can tell ye that."
"We are used to roughing it," said Dale. "I was brought up that way from a baby."
"We aint payin' young fellows like you more'n twenty dollars a month an' found."
"How many months work?" asked Owen.
"Six months, an' maybe seven or eight."
"I'll accept," said Owen.
"So will I," said Dale.
The old lumberman then said he knew John Larson fairly well and that a recommendation from such a person must be all right.
"We're going to start up the lake this afternoon," said he. "So if ye mean business be on hand at two o'clock sharp. I'll give ye free passage, an' you help work the boat and carry stuff around the falls."
By this time the provisions from the store were arriving, and both set to work to assist Joel Winthrop in stowing them away. Then, having nothing else to do, the two young lumbermen strolled around the settlement, past the big hotel and back by way of the freight yard.
As they were passing the latter place, the down freight came in, stopped to take on two cars piled with lumber, and then started on its way again. As it moved off a man ran from the freight yard and leaped on board of the last car.
"Well, I declare!" gasped Dale. "Did you see that fellow?"
"Who?" questioned Owen, with interest.
"The fellow who jumped on the last car." Dale pointed to the fast-vanishing figure. "As sure as I stand here it was Baptiste Ducrot!"