The clumsy, slow-moving scow loaded with the cook’s outfit and a supply of bedding followed the drive downstream, and, that night, fastened up to the bank close to the inlet of Deer Pond, the middle one of three small bodies of water strung along the length of the Megantic. It was a full day’s work, much better than Bainbridge had hoped for, and, as he approached the big drying fire flaming up at one side of the camp made by Charlie Hanley, the cook, Bob shook his own hand in silent, grinning self-congratulation. He knew that they were far from being out of the woods yet, but a good beginning always means a lot, and he had no word to say against this start-off.
Presently the various driving crews appeared, wet to the skin from the waist down, and ravenously hungry. The drying racks were swiftly steaming with the soggy garments, and the men fell to upon their supper without a second’s delay. There was little conversation—they were too busy for that; but Bainbridge noticed with satisfaction that a certain element of good-tempered raillery seemed to prevail. Evidently the crowd as a whole bore no grudge against the man who had given them such a tongue-lashing that morning. In fact, if one could judge from their manner toward their boss, they thought a lot more of him for having done so.
Next day all hands did even better, and nightfall found them at the inlet of Loon Lake, with the drive before them. Bob could not understand it. All day he had been expecting some disagreeable happening of a nature to retard their progress which could be laid at the door of the trust. When it did not come he was almost disappointed. It was impossible to believe that Crane had given up so easily; he was not that sort. He would explode a bombshell of some sort soon, and the longer he delayed the more deadly was likely to be the nature of his attack.
However, there was nothing to be gained in discounting the future, nor time to spare for fretting over the unknown. Bob was far too busy during the daylight hours even to think of Crane or his satellites. It was a ticklish job to get the drive across even so small a body of water as the so-called lake, and it took one entire day and the better part of another. It was done without mishap, however, and Bainbridge was just congratulating himself on having got safely over one of the most disagreeable bits of the entire distance when Jerry Calker approached him as he stood watching the last few logs bob slowly out of the lake into the swifter current of the stream.
“Jack wants to know can you spare him a few minutes, sir,” he explained. “There’s a bit of trouble down below.”
“What kind of trouble?” Bob asked swiftly, turning downstream without an instant’s delay; and walking by the side of the dynamite man.
Calker scratched his head slowly. “I ain’t quite certain sure, Mr. Bainbridge,” he drawled, “but I got a idea there’s a fellow with a mill who’s run out a sortin’ boom that’s goin’ to hang up our drive if we ain’t mighty keerful.”
“A mill!” exclaimed Bob incredulously. “Why, there isn’t such a thing within twenty miles—at least, there wasn’t three months ago.”
Calker grinned. “Thought it looked kinda new. I couldn’t rightly say that it’s finished, but there ain’t no manner of a doubt about the boom. The jam had started before I come away, an’ I left Jack havin’ it hot an’ heavy with a red-headed son of a gun who sure looked as if scrap was his middle name.”
Bainbridge frowned, but asked no further questions. He scarcely spoke, in fact, during all of the four miles, but it was evident to his observing companion that he was doing a lot of thinking.