"Haven't time to-day, Bobby," replied Mr. Orde. "You just play around."
But Jim Denning would not have this.
"Can't start 'em in too early, Jack," said he. "I bet you'd been fished out from running logs before you were half his age."
Mr. Orde laughed.
"Right you are, Jim, but we were raised different in those days."
"Well," said Denning, "work's slack. I'll let one of the men take him."
At the moment a youth of not more than fifteen years of age was passing from the cook house to the booms. He had the slenderness of his years, but was toughly knit, and already possessed in eye and mouth the steady unwavering determination that the river life develops. In all details of equipment he was a riverman complete: the narrow-brimmed black felt hat, pushed back from a tangle of curls; the flannel shirt crossed by the broad bands of the suspenders; the kersey trousers "stagged" off a little below the knee; the heavy knit socks; and the strong shoes armed with thin half-inch, needle-sharp caulks.
"Jimmy Powers!" called the River Boss after this boy, "Come here!"
The youth approached, grinning cheerfully.
"I want you to take Bobby out on the booms," commanded Denning, "and be careful he don't fall in."