“Sort of late to-day,” the manager called to the darkies on the raft.
“Yas, suh,” one of the darkies answered with the usual grin, “we wuz kinda late ketchin’ de tide dis mahnin’.”
“How much did you bring me this time, George?” the manager asked.
“Ah don’t know, suh, but I’se got some writin’ heah fo’ you from Mistah Qualley.”
The raft had floated down against the boom and the darky addressed as “George” handed over a scale bill. The manager glanced at it and offered it to Scott. “Want to check them up?”
Scott looked at it rather doubtfully. The log sizes in that country were all so different from what he was used to that he knew that he could not even estimate the contents of the logs very accurately. He thought that the best thing to do was to admit it.
“You know more about this than I do,” he said, passing the paper on to Murphy.
Murphy glanced at the totals and walked slowly over the raft examining the ends of the logs. “Nobody would get rich on the difference any way,” he remarked when he had finished.
“Where did you tie up for the night?” Scott asked.
George seemed to hesitate for a moment. Scott thought that he started to say something and then changed his mind. “About seben miles up de ribber,” he finally answered.