Dan commandeered two bottles of whisky, and, gory and wounded as he was, took up the six-mile tramp home, bearing the knife over his shoulder as a banner of triumph.
Next morning, weak from the combined effects of war and whisky, he reported to headquarters.
“What is it, Dan?” asked the Old Fellow without turning.
“I come to get my time,” replied the riverman humbly.
“What for?” inquired the lumberman.
“I have been over to Howard City,” confessed Dan.
The owner turned and looked him over.
“They sort of got ahead of me a little,” explained Dan sheepishly.
The lumberman took stock of the old man's cuts and bruises, and turned away to hide a smile.
“I guess I'll let you off this trip,” said he. “Go to work—when you can. I don't believe you'll go back there again.”