“Guess that’s Ben’s crew,” Bob said as he started for the door.
He was right and in almost no time, the crew, numbering some thirty men, had taken possession of the camp. They were a happy-go-lucky crowd of half-breeds and Irish, in charge of a big Irishmen by the name of Pat Murphy.
The boys knew Pat slightly and he greeted them with a great show of cordiality.
“So yez got the jam away from The Forks, did yez?” he asked as he shook hands with them.
“But we didn’t get very far,” Bob said dryly.
If Pat Murphy noticed the tone of his remark he showed no indication of it.
“Oh, well, and it’s us as’ll have ’em agoin’ agin before yez know it,” he promised, as he glanced out of the window toward the river. “There’s no head ter thot jam and they’ll be after starting aisy I’m thinkin’.”
It was well after two o’clock before the crew had finished dinner.
“Sure and it’s no use tryin’ ter make them fellers do iny work till they git filled up,” Pat assured them as he came out of the camp and joined the boys who were sitting on a log in front of the building.
“I suppose not,” Bob agreed.