Scores of rafts lay moored along the wharves and shore, and hundred of lumbermen were to be seen everywhere, not only on the timber and wharves, but crowding the streets and the doors of the little saloons.
For half an hour they walked along, watching the men at work with the timber on the river. Some were loading the vessels lying at anchor, some were shifting the loose timber about. When they reached the end of the last wharf, they saw a strapping young lumberman, in a shanty costume that showed signs of the woods, running some loose sticks of timber round the end of the raft. With great skill he was handling his pike, walking the big sticks and running lightly over the timber too small to carry him, balancing himself on a single stick while he moved the timber to the bit of open water behind the raft, and all with a grace and dexterity that excited Kate's admiration to the highest degree.
“Rather clever, that,” said the lieutenant, lazily. “Hello! close call, that; ha! bravo!” It was not often the lieutenant allowed himself the luxury of excitement, but the lumberman running his timber slipped his pike pole and found himself balancing on the edge of open water. With a mighty spring he cleared the open space, touched a piece of small timber that sank under him, and at the next spring landed safe on the raft. Maimie's scream sounded with the lieutenant's “bravo.” At the cry the young fellow looked up. It was Ranald.
“Hello, there!” cried Harry; and with an answering shout, Ranald, using his pike as a jumping-pole, cleared the open space, ran lightly over the floating sticks, and with another spring reached the shore. Without a moment's hesitation he dropped his pole and came almost running toward them, his face radiant with delight.
“Maimie!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand, wet and none too clean.
“How do you do?” said Maimie. She had noticed the look of surprise and mild disgust on the lieutenant's face, and she was embarrassed. Ranald was certainly not lovely to look at. His shirt was open at the neck, torn, and dirty. His trousers and boots were much the worse of their struggle with the bush.
“This is Mr. Macdonald, Lieutenant De Lacy,” Maimie hurried to say. The lieutenant offered a limp hand.
“Chawmed, I'm suah,” he murmured.
“What?” said Ranald.
“Lovely weather,” murmured the lieutenant again, looking at his fingers that Ranald had just let go.