"Six. Two teams, an' all the gear needed for breakin' the jam."
"Yes. You're sure it is a jam?"
"Ther' ain't nothin' else, boss. Leastways, I can't see nothin' else."
"No. And the boom? You've worked out the 'reserve'?"
"Clean right out. Ther' ain't a log in it fit to cut."
Dave sat down at his desk. He idled clumsily for some moments with the pen in his fingers. His eyes were staring blankly out of the grimy window. The din of the saws rose and fell, and the music for once struck bitterly into his soul. It jarred his nerves, and he stirred restlessly. What was this new trouble that had come upon him? No logs! No logs! Why? He could not understand. A jam? Dawson said it must be a jam on the river. He was a practical lumberman, and to him it was the only explanation. He had sent up men to find out and free it. But why should there be a jam? The river was wide and swift, and the logs were never sent down in such crowds as to make a thing of that nature possible at this time of year. Later, yes, when the water was low and the stream slack, but now, after the recent rains, it was still a torrent. No logs! The thought was always his nightmare, and now—it was a reality.
"It must be a jam, I s'pose," said Dave presently, but his tone carried no conviction.
"What else can it be, boss?" asked the foreman anxiously.
His employer's manner, his tone of uncertainty, worried Dawson. He had never seen Dave like this before.
"That's so."