“Much—obliged—pardners,” he said.
They thrilled at the last word. It was the greatest compliment this big, brave man of the woods could have paid them—he had placed them on an equality of manhood with himself.
“What about the jam?” he queried, in a half-dazed manner. “Did you tell them to stop the ‘sticks’?”
“Yes,” Ben assured him, “and Crawford and a picked crew are on their way down. Here they come now.”
Down the middle of the river came the bateau filled with lumbermen. The big foreman was in the bow. Spying the trouble ahead, he bawled his orders to the stalwart oarsmen, and the boat was quickly beached beside the little canoe.
The crew at once leaped out and came running to attack the huge pile of obstructing logs. They were armed with peavey-poles, axes, and steel bars. The boys could hardly keep from cheering these heroes of the river as they rushed forward to grapple with the jam.
“What’s up? Did it get you, ‘Shorty’?” inquired the foreman, bending anxiously over the stricken river-man.
“Pretty nigh got me, Ned,” laughed “Shorty,” feebly. “Guess I’d have gone if it hadn’t been for these lads. They ran out there and got me.”
The lumbermen had gathered about their injured comrade, and as he spoke they turned to the boys. They slapped them affectionately on the back and praised them for their bravery. Then they gave three mighty cheers which roared and echoed up and down the river for a mile.
“Well, let’s sail into it!” yelled Crawford.