Scott was glad of the opportunity to keep in touch with the manager till the rafts came in, and eagerly accepted the invitation. They followed the manager through the strange mill which looked so much like a summer house to Scott with its open sides and elevated tramways leading out to the lumber yard. He watched the long logs come dripping up the jack chain on to the log deck, saw the powerful steam nigger toss the great trunks on to the long saw carriage as though they had been so many toothpicks and listened to the shriek of the big band saw as it tore through the screaming log. The explosive exhaust of the shotgun feed as the newly sawed plank fell away from the cant had always sounded to Scott like a shout of triumph. In five minutes that shining ribbon of steel had slashed up the growth of three or four centuries. Perhaps La Salle had marched beneath the branches of that very tree.
It was fascinating to watch the perfect working of those powerful machines, and Scott never tired of it, but he was watching to-day with only one eye, the other was on the bend of the river above the mill. They followed the lumber clear through the sorting shed and even out to the piles in the lumber yard; they examined the dry kiln and watched the noisy flooring machines in the planing mill, and even then the raft had not arrived. Scott glanced questioningly at Murphy. What could be delaying them so long?
It was almost noon before the nose of the tardy raft poked around the distant bend in the river. They were sitting in the office talking as usual of the mystery of the stolen logs. Scott was so glad to see the rafts that he felt like shouting, but he wanted to see what the manager would do. Possibly it would be a little embarrassing for him to have visitors from the National Forest at his elbow when the raft came in. But if Scott expected any such thing he was disappointed.
“Here come some of your runaways now,” the manager remarked with a smile when he caught sight of the raft. “Let’s go down and see what they’ve got.”
The raft was still quite a distance up the river and well out in the middle of the stream, but they could see the men working steadily at the great sweeps edging the clumsy craft over toward the opening in the upper end of the log boom. They made their way out along the double boom to have a look at the logs and to get within speaking distance of the men.
“By George,” Murphy whispered excitedly to Scott, “those are niggers on that raft now.”
Scott paused to get a better look at the men and uttered a suppressed exclamation. He grasped Murphy’s arm. “Look there,” he whispered, “there are only six sections.”
“I thought you were dreaming last night,” Murphy retorted. “Been hanging around the swamp too much at night.”
“Not on your life,” Scott exclaimed decisively. “I’d bet my last cent that there were eight sections in that raft last night when we passed it.”
Murphy smiled incredulously.