Part 43 (1/2)

”Six. Two teams, an' all the gear needed for breakin' the jam.”

”Yes. You're sure it is a jam?”

”Ther' ain't nothin' else, boss. Leastways, I can't see nothin' else.”

”No. And the boom? You've worked out the 'reserve'?”

”Clean right out. Ther' ain't a log in it fit to cut.”

Dave sat down at his desk. He idled clumsily for some moments with the pen in his fingers. His eyes were staring blankly out of the grimy window. The din of the saws rose and fell, and the music for once struck bitterly into his soul. It jarred his nerves, and he stirred restlessly. What was this new trouble that had come upon him? No logs!

No logs! Why? He could not understand. A jam? Dawson said it must be a jam on the river. He was a practical lumberman, and to him it was the only explanation. He had sent up men to find out and free it. But why should there be a jam? The river was wide and swift, and the logs were never sent down in such crowds as to make a thing of that nature possible at this time of year. Later, yes, when the water was low and the stream slack, but now, after the recent rains, it was still a torrent. No logs! The thought was always his nightmare, and now--it was a reality.

”It must be a jam, I s'pose,” said Dave presently, but his tone carried no conviction.

”What else can it be, boss?” asked the foreman anxiously.

His employer's manner, his tone of uncertainty, worried Dawson. He had never seen Dave like this before.

”That's so.”

Then a look of eager interest came into his eyes. He pointed at the window.

”Here's Odd,” he said. ”And he's in a hurry.”

Dawson threw open the door, and Simon Odd lumbered hurriedly into the room. He seemed to fill up the place with his vast proportions. His face was anxious and doubtful.

”I've had to shut down at the other mill, boss,” he explained abruptly.

”Ther' ain't no logs. Ther've been none for----”

”Thirty-six hours,” broke in Dave, with an impatient nod. ”I know.”

”You know, boss?”

”Yes.”

The master of the mills turned again to the window, and the two men watched him in silence. What would he do? This man to whom they looked in difficulty; this man who had never yet failed in resource, in courage, to meet and overcome every obstacle, every emergency that hara.s.sed a lumberman's life.

Suddenly he turned to them again. In his eyes there was a peculiar, angry light.

”Well?” he demanded, in a fierce way that was utterly foreign to him.

”Well?” he reiterated, ”what are you standing there for? Get you out, both of you. Shut this mill down, too!”

Simon Odd moved to the door, but Dawson remained where he was. It almost seemed as if he had not understood. The mill was to be shut down for the first time within his knowledge. What did it mean? In all his years of a.s.sociation with Dave he had seen such wonders of lumbering done by him that he looked upon him as almost infallible. And now--now he was tacitly acknowledging defeat without making a single effort. The realization, the shock of it, held him still. He made no move to obey the roughly-spoken command.

Suddenly Dave turned on him. His face was flushed.

”Get out!” he roared. ”Shut down the mill!”

It was the cry of a man driven to a momentary frenzy. For the time despair--black, terrible despair--drove the lumberman. He felt he wanted to hit out and hurt some one.

Dawson silently followed Odd to the door, and in five minutes the saws were still.