They found Clancys’ river-boss, Tom Archer by name, smoking a pipe and watching the indolent efforts of half a dozen men who were not even pretending to hustle.
“I thought you would have been down long ago,” said Tobin. “Our drive is right behind, and we’ll be bumping your rear to-morrow if you don’t get some ginger into your crew.”
“They’re a lazy bunch,” said Archer without the flicker of an eyelid. “I just have to do the best I can with them. I’ve cursed them till my throat went back on me.”
Tobin regarded him narrowly. “Let me handle them for twenty-four hours and I’ll show you a difference.”
“Thanks, but I can run my job myself,” said Archer dryly.
“The point is,” Joe explained, “that my drive is coming down a-humping, and we need all our time because we have a delivery contract to fill. Can you keep ahead of us, do you think?”
“Couldn’t say,” returned Archer.
“I don’t want to run down on top of you,” said Joe. “How would it be if I turned a dozen men into your rear to lend a hand?”
Archer regarded him in silence for a ten-second interval. “When I need your help, bub, I’ll ask for it.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Joe explained. “I don’t suppose you want to delay me. It’s about four days to Moore’s Rapids. Will you oblige me by booming there till I get through? Of course I’ll pay for the time of your crew.”