With this strong force the work of getting out the timber went forward rapidly. Tom went over the shore inch by inch, sounding deep into the sand with a long, sharp steel rod. When he struck wood, they dug down to it. Sometimes it was walnut, sometimes merely an old spruce stump, but little by little the precious stuff accumulated, and more cribs were built out upon the raft. By the end of the week they seemed to have got everything that lay in the sand of the shore, and they began to dig at the bottom of the shallow water nearest land.
But evidently they were nearing the end. Mr. Jackson’s shrewd guess had been right. With great exertions and inconvenience they recovered three or four hundred logs from the shoal water, but the labor almost outweighed the gain. These logs, too, were heavily water-soaked. They would dry out in time, but meanwhile they required much light timber to buoy them up, and were spongy and easily damaged. But from Mr. Jackson’s measurements, and he was an experienced “scaler,” the raft then contained about 125,000 feet of walnut. Besides, there was the soft-wood foundation, which was not without value.
“This ought pretty well to clean up all business troubles, my boy,” said Mr. Jackson to Tom, as they viewed the majestic outlines of the raft, which surged and heaved at its moorings in a strong southwest gale. “It’ll net us three hundred dollars a thousand feet; more than that, in fact, for we’ll cut it up ourselves, with thin saws. The ordinary mill wastes ten per cent. in sawdust, and you’ve no idea how valuable even the scraps of such wood are. They make veneer, brush backs, knobs, all sorts of small things. We don’t waste a chip of the stuff.”
For some time, Tom noticed, Mr. Jackson had been saying “we,” and the implied partnership was very pleasant to him. Working day by day with him, Tom had come to realize and respect his father’s science and energy as he never had done before. Up here in the woods, “Matt” Jackson’s reputation was an established one. The rough lumber-jacks jumped at his orders and took his advice unhesitatingly about all sorts of timber craft. The veteran lumberman was in his element and seemed to have almost entirely recovered his health and spirits.
The future no longer looked black to him. He had arrived at the point of talking to his son freely about his business affairs, a compliment which Tom appreciated deeply. On leaving Toronto Mr. Jackson had seen nothing ahead but a voluntary assignment. He had no faith in Mr. Armstrong’s being able to straighten things out. Thirty or forty thousand dollars would be needed, and he could not see any source from which they were to come.
“That’s what it would have come to if you hadn’t dug up this old timber, Tom,” he said. “I wasn’t very genial when you came north, I guess, but I give you the credit, my boy.”
“I don’t deserve it,” said Tom earnestly. “I came up here like a fool. I didn’t have any reasonable idea what I was going to do. It was blind luck that made me stumble on this old raft. But I do think it ought to make enough to clear the business, and something over. Shouldn’t you let Mr. Armstrong hear of it? He’ll be astonished, when we produce a new asset like this.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed his father. “Things have been so busy that I’ve neglected it, and there’s no hurry anyway. He’d write or wire me before he did anything important, and a message would be forwarded at once from the Royal Victoria. I suppose he thinks I’m still lying on my back there. But I’ll send a letter out to him to-morrow.”
Charlie could have taken a letter out to Ormond or down to Oakley. The Ojibway boy was still hanging about the camp, watching the work impassively, seeking out Tom whenever Tom had any leisure. He brought in trout almost daily, and occasionally ducks and partridge, and Mr. Jackson remarked on the advantage of having an Indian about the camp who was exempt from the game-laws. But Charlie was obviously not so happy in the midst of all this activity as he had been at the original camp in the old barn.
Mr. Jackson, however, did not write his letter the next day. It was windy and rainy. One of the last cribs of lumber showed signs of breaking loose under the strain of the weather and had to be refastened. Then they unexpectedly found a “pocket” of eight or ten more walnut logs at a spot where they had not previously looked, and these were dug out and loaded. Altogether it was a busy day and a stormy one. The rain ceased at sunset, but the wind grew even stronger, driving white-capped waves racing across Big Coboconk.