Still he did not speak. Griggs was at one elbow, Tweedy at the other, both puffing a little, but moving with unexpected ease and agility. Behind, at a lope, came the throng of husky woodsmen.
At the foot of the hill Bainbridge swerved sharply to the left along the narrow stream. A space had been cleared through the undergrowth for a rough road diversified by protruding roots and bowlders, bog holes and stretches of corduroy leading across swampy places. The rush of water sounded clearer now, and more distinct, and presently, unable longer to restrain himself, Bob broke into a run.
Up and down slopes and hillocks, in and out of hard-wood groves he sped. Behind him the thud of many feet pounding on the frozen ground mingled with quickening breaths and an occasional muttered imprecation. Then suddenly the whole crowd, racing up the side of a knoll which overlooked the upper end of the lake, stopped abruptly with an odd, concerted gasp.
Below them lay the lake bed—for it was a lake no longer. In spite of the darkness, the starlight showed Bainbridge quite enough to make him give a low groan of dismay and fury.
The lake was an artificial one some two miles long by three-quarters wide, formed for the purpose of facilitating the handling of Bainbridge & Tweedy’s huge Chebargo cut. The dam had been constructed only the summer before under Bob’s personal supervision, and was equipped with the latest thing in patent locked gates to prevent any possible meddling with the head of water.
Evidently, however, these had proved insufficient in the present instance. Out in the center of the lake bed a swiftly diminishing flow of water was vanishing toward the dam. In five minutes at most nothing would be left save the narrow, crooked stream curving between slopes of mud. Along the face of these slopes sprawled the massive, useless booms of logs which had been designed and constructed to hold in check the great drive of timber that now towered over and behind them, stranded high and dry beyond the possibility of human interference.
Bob paused here only a minute or two before starting on toward the location of the dam. He realized perfectly the futility of such a move. He knew as well as if they were looking upon the ruin that the dam had been destroyed or rendered utterly useless. The mere opening of the gates could have no such far-reaching effect as this. Nevertheless, he felt that he must see it with his own eyes before he could bring himself to plan for the future. And so he kept on.
He was right, of course. They found the concrete structure utterly ruined. More than half its surface had been blown away, leaving a great, gaping, ragged fissure through which the water must have rushed, a veritable flood. Long before that could be repaired the spring freshets would have ceased entirely. It would be a physical impossibility to bring the head of water back to its original level until next season. The great drive of finest white pine stranded back in that mudhole was doomed to lie there a prey to rot and destructive boring insects for the better part of a twelvemonth, and in the end was quite likely to prove an almost total loss.
Such a catastrophe would be a serious blow to any firm, no matter how great their resources might be. To a concern whose credit had already been strained almost to the breaking point, it would quite likely mean ruin.