“Oh boy!” Jerry breathed rapturously.
“You ought to sign him on one of your crews, Jonas,” Russ suggested.
“He’s light on muscle—except between the ears,” Sandy said, “but he’s got the appetite for it.”
“I can’t get sore with all this lovely food in front of me,” Jerry said, as he went to work with knife and fork.
“You been a lumberjack long, Mr. Driscoll?” Sandy inquired.
“Fifty years last May. Started in as a cook’s helper when I was thirteen. And I expect to be at it another forty.”
Russ looked across at his old friend fondly. “Logging is still a rugged business, but nothing like it used to be in Jonas’ prime.”
“I’ll tell the world,” the foreman agreed. “Electricity and the gasoline engine have taken all the work out of it.”
A kibitzing lumberjack at the end of the table held up his hands, thick with calluses. “Is that so! Well, suppose you tell ’em where I got these!”
Jonas laughed good-naturedly. “You’re right, French. Them bulldozers and power saws don’t help you sawyers much—not in this camp anyway.” He turned to the boys. “They’re the boys who swing the axes and pull the big cross-cut saws.”