As the skiff emerged from the high-walled inlet and shot into the smiling basin, an exclamation burst from all four men at once.
"Ze log!" cried Joe.
"Our logs!" echoed Peveril.
The others probably used words meaning the same thing. At any rate, they talked excitedly, and pointed to the opposite side of the basin, where was moored a raft of logs.
Two men with a yoke of oxen were in the act of hauling one of these from the water, and a deeply marked trail, leading up the bank to a point of disappearance, showed where a number of its predecessors had gone.
"Give way!" cried Peveril, and the skiff sped across the basin.
As it ranged alongside the moored raft, the young leader recognized the deep-cut mark of the White Pine Mine on one floating stick after another.
"Hold on!" he shouted. "Where are you going with that log?"
"None of your business!" answered one of the two men, who was old and white-headed. "What are you doing here, anyway?"