After supper that night, the men gathered outside their bunkhouses, playing cards or simply leaning back against the wall and smoking. One of the French Canadian lumberjacks produced a mouth organ, and another a battered guitar, and those who spoke the French joined in an old “chanson” or song.
Soon one of the Americans, seizing on a lull in the conversation and singing, struck up an old-time lumberjack song, and in a moment the whole camp had joined in. The lumberjack songs are mostly about camp events, the fight for the river at the spring flood, some great battle that took place between two rival lumber camps, for your true lumberjack is as ready to fight as to eat.
Where these songs come from, no one knows. They are as old as the lumbering industry in Maine, and generally are written with a chorus at the end. One man sings the verse and then the camp joins in the chorus in a thundering tone. There is generally more noise than melody, at least in the choruses, for a man that has a fair voice always sings the verse part. Some of these songs are of a seemingly endless duration, but the lumberjacks never tire of singing them.
As the men sang the moon came up, and made a scene that was long to be remembered by the boys. In spite of their enjoying the evening, they kept a sharp eye on the movements of the red haired cookee, although he made no move to disappear. The boys figured that he probably would not until the camp was asleep. Soon the men began to yawn, and turn into the bunkhouse, while the boys bade goodnight to the manager and repaired to their own shack. They turned in, and as soon as all seemed quiet, Phil started out, and walking in the shadows, made for the spot he had picked that afternoon as being a safe place to watch the exit from the bunkhouse.
Garry and Dick dropped off to sleep, and were only awakened some time later by hearing Phil climb into his bunk. In a moment they were wide awake.
“What news,” whispered Garry.
“Go on to sleep,” advised Phil in a disappointed tone. “The LeBlanc never showed up, and I’ve lost three hours’ sleep for nothing. Goodnight!”
CHAPTER VII
A NOCTURNAL VISITOR
It was in that dark hour that precedes the dawn, which for some reason or other is always the blackest of the night. The three boys were sleeping soundly. Suddenly Phil awoke and sniffed the air. For a moment or two he was dazed, then he gave a shout.
His cry of alarm woke the others, and they were about to leap from their beds when Phil’s warning shout prevented them.