“I’ll settle with you! This ain’t the last—” he began, his voice thick with rage.
“Whenever you like. But now—you get out of this camp!” Mr. Jackson ordered.
“This is my camp. These tents—that team—” Harrison snarled.
“Hold on! That team’s mine,” put in one of his men.
“And you ain’t paid us our last week’s wages,” said another.
“I’ll settle your wages,” Mr. Jackson promised. “Take away your tents and your outfit, Harrison, if you want to.”
Harrison looked about him.
“Take down those tents. Pack up the outfit,” he commanded his men.
Not a lumber-jack stirred. Plainly they had not found Harrison’s service congenial. Harrison glared, snapped a savage curse, and then went into his own tent, coming out in a minute with a dunnage sack. He dragged this down to the shore, dark-faced with rage, but without a glance at anybody, flung it into a canoe, and darted away with fierce strokes of the paddle.
“Seen the last of him, I guess,” said Mr. Jackson. “And he’s left us his outfit. If he doesn’t come back for it we’ll leave it for him at Ormond.”