“Non, I not know. Eet jest goes, I tink.”
Both boys laughed at the Frenchman’s explanation, and just then Tom joined them.
“Thar, begorra, the last of the cut is hauled and termorrow we’ll begin rollin’ in and buildin’ the fust raft. The Comet’ll be up ’bout noon and I want ter have things ready so’s she kin begin towin’ as soon’s she gits here.”
The supper that night was all that the cook had promised. The big trout, baked with slices of bacon, were delicious; and the hot biscuits, so light that Jack declared they looked more like cream puffs, seemed to almost melt in the mouth. The crew were in high spirits and many was the joke thrown across the big table as the food disappeared.
“You’ve got to hump yourself, Bob, to beat these biscuits,” Jack declared, as he reached for his sixth.
“Yes, I’ll have to yield the palm to Joe,” Bob laughed. “He’s got me beaten six ways of Sundays.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Jack returned loyally. “You can make just as good ones, but I don’t think these can be beat.”
“Thanks for the flattery,” Bob smiled. “Pass the spuds down this way and we’ll let it go at that.”
As usual, breakfast the next morning was eaten by lamplight, and dawn was just breaking in the east when the crew started work by the side of the lake.
Some of the logs, enough to make the first raft, were already in the water, having been piled on the ice and fastened together here and there by ropes so that they would not float away.