"Come right along," he said; "we've got to get that whisky."
Barbison's protests were not listened to, and, seeing no help for it, he also flung off his jacket, when the big rancher firmly led him down the stairway. Then they gave him a shovel, and his two companions saw that he used it while they plied the grub-hoe. There are, however, probably very few men reared in the city who could work with the tireless axemen of the Pacific Slope, and in ten minutes Barbison was visibly distressed. The perspiration dripped from his flushed face, and he gasped for breath, while his comrades inquired with ironical solicitude whether he were getting sleepy. When he had excavated enough to satisfy them, they made him crawl into the hole and claw out soil from among the roots with shortened shovel, most of the contents of which fell all over him. They kept him at it mercilessly for over half an hour, and when he crept out his hands were raw and he was aching in every limb. Even then there was no respite, for the rest insisted on his participating in their labors at the lever, and contrived to allow him to do considerably more than his share. At last, however, the great stump rose and tilted, and he was escorted back to the hotel amidst acclamation.
"Well," said the big rancher, "if you can work like that, why in the name of thunder do you want to be a fruit-tree peddler? It's quite hard to believe you are one. You don't look like it, anyway."
Barbison certainly did not, for he had burst a seam of one of his garments during his efforts, while the red soil that had smeared them freely was on his dripping face and in his ruffled hair. He flung a swift glance at the man as he realized that his observation was apposite. There was, however, nothing suspicious in the rancher's attitude, and the others laughed in the soft fashion peculiar to the bushman.
"Anyway, he deserves the whisky," said one of them.
It was duly brought, and, though those ranchers are for the most part abstemious men, other bottles made their appearance in turn, and Barbison braced himself for an effort to maintain his credit as one of The Boys. He had not found this very difficult in the city saloons, but the bushman who lives with Spartan simplicity and toils amidst the life-giving fragrance of the pines twelve hours every day usually possesses a nerve and constitution that will withstand almost anything. Besides, there was only one Barbison and a good many of them. It was therefore not altogether astonishing that by and by the drummer's observations grew a trifle incoherent, until at last his companions grinned at one another when with a visible effort he raised himself shakily to his feet.
"Something wrong with that whisky, boys; I can't quite talk the way I want. Guess I'll go to sleep," he said. "Anyway, you stand by Merril. He'll carry your freight for nothing, and run the Shasta men to——"
After that he said nothing further, but lowered himself carefully into his chair, and collapsed with his arms flung out before him across the table. Then the rest proceeded to hold a court-martial over him.
"Seems to me he knows a blame sight more about Mr. Merril and the Shasta than he does about fruit-trees," said the big rancher. "Boys, you cut those plums—hard—and always put wax on the string. Oh, yes, you're innocent bushmen being played for suckers by a smart city man! Guess one would wonder when they took the long clothes off him. If that last advice he gave you wasn't quite enough, I see a book in his pocket with a silver-headed pencil strapped to it."
One of them promptly took it out, and flicking over the pages, read, "'Six fathoms right up to the old sawmill wharf. Worth while to tow the schooner in and leave her to load. Nothing to be had at Trevor. Siwash deck passengers at Tyler's. Sprotson men have odds and ends, but seem stuck on the Shasta.'"