“But I’ll bet you there won’t be much left just the same,” Bob laughed.
And he was right, for at the end of the meal the cook declared that there wasn’t enough left to feed a cat.
Breakfast was a thing of the past by the time the sun was up the next morning, and by six o’clock they were off down the river. The boys were in the boat, together with the cook and a couple of the other men. The rest of the crew, two on each side of the river, made their way on foot over the frozen snow, stopping now and then to start a tardy log afresh on its journey.
A little before noon, just as the boat rounded a bend in the river, they saw, to their surprise, that the logs were again at a standstill.
“Jammed again,” Bob said in a disgusted tone. “Now what do you know about that?”
“She no ought be stuck here,” Jean declared, as he leaped from the boat to the nearest of the logs.
The boys quickly followed him, and running rapidly over the floating logs they were not long in finding out what had happened. At the point where the head of their drive had stopped, the largest of its tributaries joins the Kennebec. Dead River, as this stream is called, is about one half as large as the Kennebec. Where it empties into the larger river is a small village by the name of The Forks.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” Jack gasped, as they rounded a second turn and came to the head of their logs.
As far down the river as they could see was one solid mass of logs packing the river so tightly that no water was visible.
“Do you know whose logs they are,” Bob asked, turning to Jean, who stood poised on a log.