"How's Odd doing up the river?"
"Good. The machinery's newer, I guess."
"Yes. But we can't help that. We've no time for installing new machinery here. Besides, I can't spare the capital."
Dawson looked round.
"'Tain't that," he said. "We're short of the right stuff in the boom. Lestways, we was yesterday. A hundred and fifty logs. We're doing better to-day. Though not good enough. It's that dogone fever, I guess."
"What's in the reserve?"
"Fifteen hundred logs now. I've drew on them mighty heavy. We've used up that number twice over a'ready. I'm scairt to draw further. You see, it's a heap better turning out short than using up that. If we're short on the cut only us knows it. If we finish up our reserve, and have to shut down some o' the saws, other folks'll know it, and we ain't lookin' for that trouble."
Dave closed his book with a slam. All his recent satisfaction was gone in the discovery of the shortage. He had not suspected it.
"I must send up to Mason. It's—it's hell!"
"It's wuss!"