And again his eyes lifted to the ominous overhang.
A further scrutiny enlightened him. They were endeavoring to fell the tree so that its crest should drop somewhere on or near the trail toward the new church. This made its fall in the direction of, but to the south of, the old Meeting House. This was obviously for the purpose of simplifying haulage. Good enough—if all went well.
The lumbermen seemed satisfied and turned again to their wedges. As they did so a gleam of smiling irony began to grow in O’Brien’s eyes. He had detected a slight swing in the overhang of the crest, and the strain on the two guides was unequally distributed. The greater strain was on the wrong guide.
The swing of the tree was slightly out of its calculated direction, and inclining a degree or two nearer the direction of the Meeting House.
As the heavy strokes of the mauls fell he glanced over the faces of the onlookers. What a picture of expectancy, what idiotic delight he saw there!
A crack, sharp and loud, echoed over the clearing. The double team were straining mightily on their heavy tugs. The lumbermen had stood clear. The strain on the wrong guide had increased.
O’Brien looked up. The swing had changed several more degrees, further out of its direction.
The expression of the upturned faces had changed, too. Now it was evident that others had realized what O’Brien had discovered already. Loud voices began to point it out, and the lumbermen stared stupidly upward. The tree was in the balance, and slowly moving, bearing all its crushing weight upon that single wrong guide.
There was a rapid movement near O’Brien, and Mike and Danny Jarvis joined him hurriedly.
“Say,” cried the latter, “the blamed galoots’ll bust up the whole durned shootin’ match.”