The Forks boasted of a small but well-kept hotel, and they were soon in the dining room disposing of an excellent dinner.
“How much powder you got,” Jean asked, as he finished his fourth cup of coffee. He always called dynamite powder, as did most of the drivers.
Sam Reddy, the man who had charge of the supplies, and of whom he asked the question, looked down at his plate, a guilty expression on his bronzed face.
“Jean, I got not another stick,” he said, after the Frenchman had repeated the question. “I forgot to get it when I came up from Skowhegan, and those three sticks wus all I had.”
For an instant Jean looked black, but evidently realizing that it was no use to cry over spilt milk or missing dynamite, he only said:
“Dat too bad, oui. Mebby we do it widout der powder.”
But they were doomed to disappointment; for although they worked hard all the afternoon, they were unable to locate the key log. Five o’clock found the logs as tightly jammed as ever.
“She no use,” Jean panted, as he leaned on his peavey. “We got have powder.”
The nearest town was several miles down the river, and it was doubtful if they would be able to get any dynamite there. But Jean declared that he was going to start, as soon as he could get his supper.
“I keep goin’ till I find powder,” he declared, as he led the way back to the hotel.