CHAPTER XIII
Several days later came letters for Dale and Owen, which the pair read with much interest.
The communications were from Mr. Jefferson Wilbur, and he wrote to each thanking them for what they had done in his interest. He begged them to accept what he inclosed as a slight return for their services, and ended by stating that if they ever came to Boston he would be glad to have them call upon him. In each letter was a post-office money order for fifty dollars.
"That is what I call generous!" cried Owen. "I wasn't expecting a thing."
"I thought he might thank us, but I wasn't looking for money," returned Dale. "I hardly like to keep it."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I can't exactly say. It looks something like a charity."
"I don't see it in that light. He has plenty of money, and this is a substantial evidence of how he appreciates what we did."
Owen appealed to Mr. Paxton, and the camp owner told them to keep the money by all means.
"Mr. Wilbur is very rich," he said. "And he wouldn't like it at all if you returned his gift. Perhaps he'd think you wanted something larger. Thank him for his kindness and let it go at that." And in the end each penned the best letter he was able, and kept the reward.
"Our cigar-box account is growing," laughed Owen, when they counted up their savings. "Here is a clean hundred from Mr. Wilbur, and thirty-six dollars besides, and all the wages Mr. Paxton is holding back on us. Dale, we'll be rich before we know it."
"Aren't you glad you started to save when I wanted you to, Owen?"
"To be sure. But now I've really got to have some new fiddle strings. That E is patched in two places, and the G is getting all unwound. And I've got to have a new pair of boots if I am going down the river on that last drive."
"Did Mr. Paxton say he'd let you go with Herrick?"
"Yes, if I'd take charge of the boat. Will you go with me?"
"Will a duck swim? I know Herrick will let us help when there is a jam, and that's the fun of it," added Dale.
The drives had already been started on the river, and pile after pile of logs left the yards, on their long way down river and lakes to the booms and the mills. Other drives from other camps were also coming along, and at times the river presented a scene of unusual activity, quite in contrast to the dreariness of the winter just past.
Herrick was one of the old-time "Bangor boys," a log driver as good as the best. He was Yankee to the backbone, tall, thin, and "leathery," with jaws continually working on a quid of tobacco, and eyes that looked one through and through at a glance. He was a "codfish" man too, and insisted on having that dainty for his morning meal with the regularity of the sun's rising. He was usually of a mild temper, but when a jam occurred unexpectedly, his flow of language was terrific, and his sarcasm most biting. But despite this failing, the men loved to work with and under him, and he never lacked for helpers when he wanted them.
"Goin' to start the drive sun-up ter-morrer," he announced, after being in camp little short of a week. "All them as is goin' along must hump themselves an' be on hand. An' the feller as thinks log-drivin' is dangerous work or jest play hed better stay to hum."
"We'll be on hand," said Andrews.
"Who's goin' ter manage the boat?"
"I'll take care of the boat," said Owen. "Colette will be with me, and Gilroy says he is going down."
"And I am going," put in Dale.
Herrick gazed at Dale from head to foot.
"So you be a-goin', eh? Do you think it's dangerous or child's fun?"
"I don't expect any fun—I expect to work, same as I've been working," replied Dale quietly.
"He's all right, Joe," said Andrews. "He's done his full share up here all winter."
"Humph! Drivin' aint tree-cuttin', not by a jugful," muttered Herrick; but he made no further objections to having Dale along.
All told, Herrick had a crew of sixteen, including Jeff, the cook. Four men went with the driver, at the head of the drive, four followed a little further up the stream, and the remainder brought up the rear, either in the boat or on foot. The boat was a large, flat-bottomed affair, managed both with poles and with oars, and carried all the provisions for the trip, as well as numerous other articles, including dynamite, for blowing up a jam that became too dangerous and could not be started by hand power.
"We are off!" said Dale, who was with Owen. "We've got a splendid start, too."
He was right; the start of the drive was all that could be expected, and as log after log caught the current and started on its long journey, a cheer went up from those left at the camp.
"Good-by to dat camp fo' anudder yeah," came from Jeff. "We dun hab a putty good time of it, didn't we?"
"That's true," came from Owen. And he added to Dale: "Do you think we'll come up another season?"
"That is more than I can say now. I'll be willing to go back if I can't find anything better to do."
Day after day went by, and the work along the drive remained about the same. At noon the boat would tie up, and Jeff would go ashore and cook all hands a square meal, and this would either be carried to the workers in kettles, or they would come to the spot for it. At night the men slept anywhere that suited them.
Thus the first of the lakes were passed, and they found themselves drawing down to what was locally termed the Sugar-Bowl, why, no lumberman could tell. The Sugar-Bowl was a place where the river made a double turn, and in the center were several rocks, where the water swirled and foamed continually.
Dale wanted to know how the front end of the drive was making out at the Sugar-Bowl, and the news was not long in coming.
"Hold back the rest of the logs as long as you can," was the word sent back. But it was too late. Most of the timber went forward with a rush, and in less than quarter of an hour there was a jam at the rocks half an acre in extent, and growing larger every moment.
"Consarn the luck!" came from Herrick. "Why in the name of blue peter didn't ye hol' back them air logs as I told ye, Foley? Look at thet current a-roarin' over yander. Fust thing yeou know we'll be a-havin' a jam clear back to the lake, an' every lumberman on the 'Nobscot a-blamin' me for't. Git over thar with yer dog and turn thet stick around." And Foley, the man addressed, leaped to the place mentioned with his hooked pole, commonly called a cant-dog or dog. The log went over, and a few of the timbers went around the rocks in consequence, but the main part of the jam stuck tighter than ever.
"I shouldn't wonder if they'd need some dynamite there," said Owen. "But Paxton said not to use the stuff if it could be helped. It spoils too much timber."
Nearly all of the lumbermen belonging to the drive were now assembled on both sides of the river, waiting for orders and wondering how Herrick would get out of the difficulty.
"Shall I bring up some dynamite?" asked Andrews.
"Naw!" exclaimed the old log driver, in disgust. "I driv logs on this river afore thet stuff was heard of. Yeou jest stand over thar an' start them logs when I give the word." He turned to some others. "Yeou stand there, an' yeou go to them rocks an' watch thet big log thet's a-bobbin' up an' down. An' all of ye do jest as I tell ye, or somebuddy will git hurt, an' not by the logs nuther!"
With this caution Herrick leaped on the jam, with a cant-hook in one hand, and an ax in the other. Out he went, hopping from one insecure position to another. The others watched him with breathless interest. They knew that the old driver was taking his life in his hands. An unexpected turn of a timber or two, and he might go down in the midst of that jam, to be smashed into a jelly.
Dale and Owen were on the left bank of the stream, where the logs were now piled four and five deep. The water was rushing around the jam with increasing fury, and they stood in it up to their ankles. Through the flying spray they saw old Herrick begin to chop away at a big timber that had caught sideways of the river, from one rock to the next.
"That's dangerous work," was Dale's comment. "When that stick goes how is he to save himself?"
"Watch them logs!" yelled old Herrick. "When I h'ist the dog let 'em go!"
The flying spray almost hid him from view, and every man watched with bated breath. They heard the muffled blows of his ax, for he was working partly in and partly out of the water. Then came a crack like that of a gun report, as the key timber of the jam snapped in two. In the nick of time old Herrick jumped back and began to run over the logs shoreward with the agility of a trained athlete. As he came on he hoisted his cant-hook and the men let the logs go, one after another as he had directed.
It was a sight never to be forgotten. Down past the rocks and into the broad river below swept the logs, occasionally piling up as before, and then breaking away with a rush and a cracking to be heard a long way off. The men rushed hither and thither, under the head driver's directions, doing all in their power to prevent another such jam as had first occurred.
It was exciting work for Dale and Owen. The logs bobbed up and down along the shore and more than one threatened to take the young lumbermen off their feet. They were now in water up to their knees and working as hard as anybody. Herrick had come over to their side, and was issuing directions with the rapidity of a Gatling gun.
"Hump yeourselves!" he roared. "Swing thet log over! Look out or ye'll git struck. Throw thet log in fer a minit. Now then, all together on this here pile. Hump! I tell ye! I didn't take no man along to go to sleep on this job!" And everybody "humped," until he was bathed in perspiration and ready to drop from exhaustion.
Three-quarters of the logs had passed the turn and the rocks, and old Herrick and the majority of the men had gone ahead to take care of the drive at the next difficult spot, when there came another jam, this time on the rocks close to where Dale and Owen were standing.
"Gracious! this won't do!" exclaimed Owen. "See how the logs are piling up again. I'll have to release them!" And he began to move across the logs with his cant-hook.
"Look out!" came in warning from Dale, and then he ran to his chum's assistance, carrying an ax.
The pair were hard at work, turning aside one log and chopping at another, when there came a cry from up the river:
"Look out there! Danbury's drive is coming!"
Both looked up the stream and saw that the warning was true. Another drive of logs was coming on swiftly. In a twinkling it hit the back logs of the Paxton drive, and sent them up close to where Dale and Owen were standing. The spray flew in all directions, and to their horror those standing on shore saw the two young lumbermen slip and slide on the upheaving timbers and then disappear from view.