“They won’t fight,” Russ told him. “They’re old friends.”
The collie, recognizing Russ, came bounding out of the shack and leaped up on his chest, trying to lick his face. Russ pummeled him in the ribs playfully. “Bruce, old feller, how are you?” He looked up as a short, squat, bald-headed lumberjack appeared in the doorway. “Well, Jonas! I figured they would have retired you by this time.”
The man’s broad face lit up. “Russ Steele! You old dogface! What are you doing here this time of year?”
“Brought my nephew and a couple of his buddies up on a camping trip. Boys, I’d like you to meet Jonas Driscoll, the toughest bull-of-the-woods who ever swung an ax.”
After the introductions, Jonas took them through the back door of the mess hall while the two dogs chased each other around the compound. “I’ll have Cookie fix them up a grand feed from the left-overs,” he said.
Sandy felt self-conscious as Jonas cut in at the head of the line and picked up metal compartment trays and silverware for each of them. “Won’t those other guys get sore?” he asked, as they walked away from the serving table.
Jonas laughed. “Naw, you’re company. Anyway, they’d be scared I’d flatten ’em if they kicked.”
There were about twenty wooden tables with benches running down each side of the mess hall. Jonas led them to a table at the rear that was almost empty. Salt- and pepper-shakers and clean cups were stacked in the middle of each table. As they sat down, Jonas motioned to one of the mess boys, a gangly youth about sixteen. “Let’s have a couple of pitchers of iced tea here, son.”
Jerry gazed bug-eyed at the five pork chops and the mounds of mashed potatoes, vegetables and apple sauce heaped up on his tray. “This is lunch?”
Jonas Driscoll’s blue eyes twinkled. “Just a light snack, son. Wait till you eat supper.”