In the completed bunk-house a huge, bearded, riverman leaped high, cracked his heels together and whooped.
“Is it Rough Shan McCane?” he yelled as he hit the floor. “Is it him wid his raft of Callahans an’ Red McDougals an’ scrapin’s of hell wud burn a Kent camp?” His blasphemy was original and unreproducible. “By the Mortal! The moon’s high, an’ the travellin’s good. Come on, bullies, we’ll burn them out of their bunks this night!”
The yell that arose reached the ears of Joe and MacNutt. The foreman looked at his employer.
“What’s up?” the latter asked.
“If you want McCane’s camp burnt and his gang run out of the woods all you have to do is to sit here and smoke your pipe,” MacNutt replied.
Joe seized his cap and opened the door just as the crew began to pour out of the bunk-house hastily pulling on garments as they came. He dashed across the open space and met the leaders.
“What’s the excitement, boys?” he asked.
“We’re going to burn out Rough Shan for you,” answered the big riverman.
“Oh, you are!” said Joe. “Well, Cooley, I don’t remember asking you to do anything of the kind.”
“Sure, you don’t need to ask it, Mr. Kent,” returned big Cooley with what he intended for an amiable, protective smile. “The boys will see to it for you.” A yell of fierce affirmation arose behind him. “You go to bed an’ know nawthin’ about it.”