“Well, I reckon we'll just have to worry along without him,” remarked Orde, striking his steel caulks into the first log and preparing to cross out into the river where the work was going on.
“Wait a minute,” said the young fellow. “Have you any objections to my hanging around a little to watch the work? My name is Newmark—Joseph Newmark. I'm out in this country a good deal for my health. This thing interests me.”
“Sure,” replied Orde, puzzled. “Look all you want to. The scenery's free.”
“Yes. But can you put me up? Can I get a chance to stay with you a little while?”
“Oh, as far as I'm concerned,” agreed Orde heartily. “But,” he supplemented with one of his contagious chuckles, “I'm only river-boss. You'll have to fix it up with the doctor—the cook, I mean,” he explained, as Newmark look puzzled. “You'll find him at camp up behind that brush. He's a slim, handsome fellow, with a jolly expression of countenance.”
He leaped lightly out over the bobbing timbers, leaving Newmark to find his way.
In the centre of the stream the work had been gradually slowing down to a standstill with the subsidence of the first rush of water after the sluice-gate was opened. Tom North, leaning gracefully against the shaft of a peavy, looked up eagerly as his principal approached.
“Well, Jack,” he inquired, “is it to be peace or war?”
“War,” replied Orde briefly.