It was about three, and Bob had just left the spot where only the most strenuous personal labor on the part of himself and four river jacks had kept the drive from jamming. He was hot and sweaty, and generally weary as he continued his way downstream, and his wrath was naturally instant when, on suddenly rounding a bend, he came upon Curly Kollock, cool, calm, and unruffled, sitting comfortably on a rock, enjoying a cigarette.
As the latter saw Bainbridge, he flushed slightly, and half rose from the bowlder. Then, with a stubborn twist of his lips, he sank back again, pulling hard on the cigarette, and doing his best to look unconcerned.
Bob walked straight up to him, and stopped.
“Well,” he said bitingly, “I’m sorry you’ve lost the use of your feet and hands. Is it paralysis?”
Kollock’s flush deepened, and he mumbled something inane about taking a smoke. He found that he had arisen, apparently without volition, and was standing before the other man, who stared at him a long half minute.
“This is no rest cure,” said Bob at length. “You’re paid for helping the drive along. I don’t want any loafers in this gang. Understand? Now, get down to the head of the drive—and do something!”
Kollock’s face was flaming, and his eyes gleamed angrily. “I don’t take that line of talk from anybody!” he growled, clenching his fists threateningly. “I’ll——”
“You’ll do what I said, and do it quick!” Bainbridge’s voice was not raised above a conversational pitch, but there was a ring in it which seemed to take the fight and bluster out of the big riverman with the effectiveness of a keen knife thrust into an inflated bladder. For a second he stood in awkward silence, swallowing hard in his embarrassment. Then he raised his head again.
“I don’t need your job,” he said, in a poor imitation of devil-may-care defiance. “I’ll get my time, and——”
Bainbridge cut him short. “You’ll get down to the drive and work. Beat it now—quick!”