“When do you figure on running your logs?” he asked, when Ned came in and seated himself beside them.
“To-morrow, if things go as we expect. Got all our booms stretched, and the water ought to be right if she slides down a notch or two before morning. Quite a gang of the boys along the river now—boom gangs,” he explained.
“Well, boys, we’re just in time to see the fun, and I guess Ned won’t mind if we stay around a day or two,” said Ben. “You see, Ned, I’d like these fellows to see something of a real log-drive before they go home.”
“The latch-string of this here camp is always out for you and your friends, Ben; and the longer your hat hangs on the peg, the better we like it,” was the foreman’s reply.
For some time the men talked together in little groups ranged along the wall. The guide seized the opportunity to make Ed and George familiar with some famous characters of the logging country. There was “Shorty” Brundage, a square-shouldered, stockily built young fellow, who bore the proud distinction of having loosened more jams than any other man in the crew. Several times he had escaped death by the merest margin. Next to him sat “Red” Thompson, who had achieved fame by “riding” a log through the first set of rapids. Slightly farther along, a dark-skinned man was stooped over unlacing his “larrigans.” Ben said that he was the renowned Pierre La Valley, known throughout the big woods wherever an ax was swung. With a double-headed ax he could fell a tree quicker than any two men. At each swing he turned the blade so that every stroke was made with an alternate edge. His fame as an axman had traveled abroad over the entire lumber country, and scores of good men had been matched against him; but as yet he was undefeated. At the far end of the bench was “Jake” Grant, champion “birler” of the crew. The boys asked what “birler” meant, and were told they would learn before they left the camp.
This roll-call of heroes was interrupted when some one called for Tony and his fiddle. A tall youth, with the features and hair of an Indian, brought forth a violin and seated himself at the head of “the mourners’ bench.”
“He’s a half-breed,” whispered Ben.
“Cut her loose, Tony!”
“Open her up wide!”
“Wat you fellows want?” asked the fiddler.