"Well, I guess I can give you a job, seeing as how about half of my crew is gone," said Peter Odell. "But I can't guarantee it to last, for I'm 'most in the same fix as Larson. The pulp mills have knocked the sawmills endways up here."
"What about the strikers? I don't want to——"
"I haven't any strikers around here. Those fellows drank too much and I discharged them, that's all. I won't take 'em back—I'll lock up the mill first." And the mill owner's manner showed that he meant what he said.
It was arranged that Dale should come to work the following Monday, at the same rate of wages he was now receiving. He was to labor both in and out of the mill and was to board at the same house where Owen Webb was stopping. This latter arrangement suited him exactly, for he had taken quite a fancy to Owen, who, like himself, was alone in the world.
The summer day was drawing to a close when Dale started on his return to Larson's Run. He looked around to see if Baptiste Ducrot was at hand, but the fellow did not show himself.
"I hope he keeps out of sight," thought the young lumberman. "I don't want to have another quarrel with him."
The lake front was soon left behind and he plunged into the trail leading down the hillside. Under the trees it was quite dark, and he had to keep a tight rein on his horse for fear the animal might stumble and break a leg.
"I must return the horse in as good a condition as when I took him out," he told himself. "It wouldn't be fair to Mr. Larson if I didn't."
Soon he reached the brook where he had stopped to obtain a drink. Here he paused as before.
As he was bending to quench his thirst he heard a slight noise behind him. Then he received a violent push from the rear that sent him headlong into the stream. His head struck on the rocks at the bottom of the shallow watercourse, and for the time being he was partly stunned.