CHAPTER XXVI
"What do you think of Mr. Balasco?" asked Dale of Owen, after they had left the office of the lumber company.
"To tell the truth, I don't think I am going to like him," was Owen's slow answer. "There is a certain something about him that grates on a fellow, but what it is I can't explain."
"I think he has a very good opinion of himself," came bluntly from Dale. "No doubt he thinks he is the whole show, as the saying goes."
"He is certainly a different man from Mr. Wilbur. How the two came to be partners is a mystery to me."
"Perhaps they got together before they met—I mean, got into the company together."
"That may be so. And, besides, Mr. Balasco may put on a different front when he meets Mr. Wilbur."
The two had been told to make themselves at home around the camp, and had been introduced to one of the foremen, Pelham by name, and to several others. Pelham told them where they could sleep that night, and also told the cook at one of the dining halls he should provide them with meals.
Both of the young lumbermen were anxious to see how work was done in this district that was so new and novel to them, and they eagerly accepted the invitation of one of the trainmen to go to an upper yard.
"All told, this timber claim is divided into ten camps or yards," said the train hand. "We were working all ten camps about six weeks ago, but Mr. Balasco thought lumber was coming in too fast at the creek, so he cut down the gangs to eight."
"How many men in a gang?" questioned Owen.
"From thirty to thirty-two."
"As many as that?" queried Dale. "How do you divide them up?"
"In the first place, there is the boss, or foreman, who, of course, tells what trees to cut and how they shall be dropped."
"Yes, we know that."
"Then there are two fellers—choppers, I reckon you call 'em—and two sawyers. Next come two barkers, two swampers, a skid maker, about ten laborers, two or three hook tenders, a rope tender, an engineer for the donkey engine, and a bucker. Last of all comes the cook and the cook's helper, and the boy who greases the skids, and also a runner, who carries messages from one telephone office to another."
"And you have eight gangs like that?" came from Owen. "That means two hundred and forty hands."
"Including the men at the creek, on the railroad, and on the river below, we have two hundred and seventy-five hands. We had over three hundred, but, as I said before, Mr. Balasco cut down the number."
The train of trucks and flat cars soon hauled up at a yard, and the two young lumbermen jumped to the ground and made their way into the neighboring forest, from which came the steady ring of the fellers' axes and the hum of the sawyers' long-bladed saws. The forest was one of fir, with trees running up to six and seven feet in diameter, and covered with rough bark half a foot thick.
"Here is where cutting down a tree is real work," remarked Owen, as they neared the spot.
Not far away two fellers had just reached a tree that was to be brought down, and they watched the workmen with keen interest, for the tree was a magnificent specimen of Douglass fir, as large as any in the neighborhood. It stood with a circle of smaller trees around it.
"They are going to have trouble bringing that down without hurting one of the little trees," said Owen.
"Perhaps not, Owen. Let us watch and see how they do it."
At the start, the two fellers cut notches into the lower part of the trunk about a foot from the gnarled roots, which sprawled in all directions. Into these notches they inserted bits of board and wedged them in tightly. When thus wedged, each board formed a tiny platform upon which a feller could stand and work with ease.
The next attack on the tree was the cutting of a long, deep notch, called a kerf, about three feet above the standing places of the fellers. This kerf extended nearly halfway around the tree, and the center was next cut in deeply, to correspond with the two outer ends.
The kerf finished to the satisfaction of the head feller, both now set to work with a long saw on the opposite side of the tree, and cut in almost as deeply as the kerf cut. Then the saw was brought around to the kerf, and this was deepened until the cuts on both sides of the tree almost met.
"This is getting interesting," said Owen. "That tree will be down in a minute more."
The head feller had measured and cut the kerf with accuracy, directly opposite to a small opening between the small trees that surrounded the monarch to be laid low. Now he called for several steel wedges, and these were driven into the kerf with sledge hammers. The tree was now beginning to totter, and word was sent out to "clear the brush and stand from under!"
"Easy now, Jerry!" cried the head feller. "Easy!" He gave another heavy blow on his side. "Now another, Jerry! One more.... Wait." He struck out himself, twice. "Now, one more, both together!" The sledges came down, and the tree groaned and shivered. Another blow, and both fellers leaped from the platforms and darted out of harm's way. Then over went the tree, slowly at first, and then with increased speed, straight between the smaller trees, to strike the ground with a boom that could be heard a long way off.
"Hurrah! it's down!" cried Dale enthusiastically. "And it came just where he wanted it, too."
"Hurrah! it's down," cried Dale.
"Hurrah! it's down," cried Dale.
"Hurrah! it's down," cried Dale.
The head feller wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his brawny and hairy forearm, and smiled at the youth. "Putty big crash, wasn't it?" he said, and smiled to show he appreciated Dale's compliment.
"I wouldn't mind bringing down such a giant myself," went on Dale. "I never tackled anything larger than twenty-two inches."
"Oh! are you a feller?"
"I have been almost everything around a camp and a sawmill. But not here. I come from Maine!"
"Maine! Put her there, young man!" The feller shook hands cordially. "I'm from Maine myself—came from Portland, eight years ago."
"I am glad to meet you," said Dale, and introduced himself and Owen. The feller's name was Andy Westmore, and he proved to be a whole-souled individual. He asked about the news from Down East, and ended by saying he hoped Dale and Owen would get work at the camp and close to himself.
"About two-thirds of the men here are Scandinavians, and one-half of the rest are French-Canadians," he said. "So we haven't got any more true-blue Americans than we ought to have."
"I'd like to work with you," said Owen open-heartedly. "I don't care much for the foreigners—although they may be good enough fellows."
"They are—and honest to the core. But they can talk very little English, and that makes it bad."
Not to keep Andy Westmore from his work, they moved on to another portion of the big camp. Here they watched the sawyers at work, cutting several trees into proper lengths for transportation, and also saw the barkers scaling off the thick bark, which was rougher than any they had before seen. Further on still the swampers and laborers were clearing a place for a roadway, and the skid maker was arranging his logs. It may be mentioned here that a skid-way, or skid road, is merely one made of logs laid side by side, with the upper side partly smoothed down. The logs used for this purpose are usually limbs of trees that are too small to be cut up into timber.
At the lower end of the yard was the donkey engine, fastened to several trees by heavy wire ropes or cables. Here was the big drum already mentioned, on which was wound the long wire rope used for hauling the timbers forward. When in action the donkey engine made a vast amount of noise. The fire was fed entirely on wood, and the pitch in the pine caused a heavy cloud of smoke to pour from the stack, a cloud that on a clear day could be seen for many miles around.
The regular engineer was absent for the day, and in his place was a young fellow not any older than Dale, if as old—a youth with a broad, fair face, and thick, curly black hair.
"You've got a warm job right enough," said Dale, after watching the youthful engineer for a few minutes.
"Oh, I don't mind that," was the cheery answer. "I'm used to it, and I've worked in places a good deal hotter."
"You mean in an engine room?" said Owen.
"No, in a foundry. This heat here isn't a patch to the heat in a foundry when they are pouring off metal."
"I was never in a foundry," said Dale.
"I was brought up around 'em." The young engineer looked at the young lumbermen curiously. "Just paying the camp a visit?"
"No, we are looking for work. Mr. Balasco said he'd see what he could do for us to-morrow."
"I hope he takes you on. Most of the hands here are foreigners, and there are only one or two young fellows like myself."
A talk lasting the best part of half an hour followed, and Dale and Owen gained considerable knowledge about the lumber company, and the way the various yards were managed. They introduced themselves and told where they were from, and in return learned that the young engineer was named Bruce Howard, and that he had left his home in San Francisco nearly six months before.
"I came up to Portland on a lumber boat," he said. "I had only about six dollars in my pocket, and thought I had best save what I could. In Portland I got a job working in the engine room of a sawmill, and that is where I picked up enough experience to run this donkey. Then I met one of the fellers, Andy Westmore, and came here with him, and I've been here ever since."
"Do you like it?" questioned Owen. There was something about Bruce Howard that pleased him.
"Oh, it isn't so bad, but I'd like something better if I could get it. I like to work in iron and steel better than running an engine. Some day I'm going to work my way over to Pennsylvania and get in one of the big steel plants there," continued Bruce Howard.
"Then I take it you are alone in the world, like ourselves," came from Dale.
At this remark a shadow showed itself for a moment on Bruce's face.
"No, I'm not alone," he said. "I've got a father and a mother and a little sister. But, you see, father and I couldn't agree. I had a row in the foundry with the boss, and father wanted me to take back what I said, and I wouldn't do it. That brought on a big quarrel, and I said I'd clear out before I'd go on my knees to any boss, especially as I knew I was in the right. So then father said he wouldn't have me around if I wouldn't mind him, and we had some more words, and that night I packed my grip and came away—and I've been away ever since."
"Don't they know where you are?"
"Oh, yes! I've written half a dozen letters to my mother, and she has written to me. She wants me to come back, but father says he won't have me, and I—well, I don't want to go if he feels that way about it," concluded Bruce.