“A drink now an’ then hurts no man,” said Regan.
“It raises Cain with a camp, and you know it,” MacNutt retorted.
“That’s true enough,” admitted Regan, who was not unreasonable, “but the boys over to McCane’s camp shoved it at us. They’ve plenty there.”
MacNutt said no more. He could not forbid his men from strolling on Sunday, when there was nothing else to do, over the few miles which separated the two camps. But he could and did issue a warning that any man bringing liquor into the camp would get his time forthwith.
He saw no man drunk, but the little signs were unmistakable. The percentage of quarrels and fights became higher; the bunk-house at night, usually noisy, was now uproarious; some of the men obeyed with less alacrity and grumbled with a great deal more; and through the entire crew there spread a spirit of devil-may-care slackness very hard indeed upon a foreman.
One Sunday MacNutt shouldered an axe and took the well-marked trail which led through the forest to McCane’s camp. Arrived at the compass line dividing the limits, he sat down and lit his pipe. For an hour he waited, smoking thoughtfully, watching the fluffy, impudent whiskey-jacks. At the end of that time three men appeared down the trail from McCane’s. One carried a sack over his shoulder, and the sack bulged suggestively in the shape of a two-gallon jug. MacNutt tapped out his pipe and stepped into the trail.
“Where are you men headin’ for?” he asked.
“None o’ your business,” replied the man with the sack.
“What’s in that sack?” MacNutt demanded.
“Cold tea,” answered the man, and the others laughed. MacNutt shut his lips grimly.