"Well, hardly. I hain't forgot the last time I druv over, not by er jugful! Got spilt out twict, an' the second time I went into er holler headfust, clar to my boots! Ye done uncommon well not to spill over."
"The road at our end is good enough; it's your end that needs looking after," put in Dale, and told how Owen had got out and walked.
"Yes, I know the road is putty bad in my camp," said Philander Gannett. "But, ye see, I hain't calkerlatin' ter stay here another season. I'm going to t'other end o' the lake. The timber here aint fit fer telegraph poles, much less boards,—an' I aint a-workin' fer them pulp mills an' a-spilin' my timber a-doin' of it."
The camp, in many respects, was similar to that run by Luke Paxton, so there was nothing of novelty to interest the two young lumbermen. Yet, after the team was cared for, they took a look around the various buildings and around the yard at the lake front. At supper time they ate with Philander Gannett and several of his foremen.
"How long have you been cutting in this neighborhood?" asked Owen, during the meal.
"This aint but the second season," was Gannett's reply. "Ye see, I bought this tract from a Boston man, named Jefferson Wilbur—him as owns thet fancy lodge over to Pine Tree Lake. Wilbur used to run two camps up here in Maine, but he got sick o' it, an' now I understand he's a-puttin' his money in timber lands in the Far West, Oregon and Washington."
"Oregon!" repeated Dale, and his mind went back to the mining venture in Oregon, in which his father had invested so much money.
"Exactly. He says thet place is the only one to get rich in, an' I reckon he's right—leas'wise, I don't think I'm a-goin' to git rich here."
"What part of Oregon is his lumber claim located in?"
"His money is in a company thet has miles and miles o' timber land along the big rivers. He told me the names, but I've forgotten 'em."