Heinzman rowed alongside, dropped his oars and mopped his brow.
“Vat you do?” he demanded heatedly.
“I forgot the money to buy my stamp with,” said Orde sweetly. “I'm going back to get it.”
“Not through my pooms!” cried Heinzman.
“Mr. Heinzman,” said Orde severely, “you are obstructing a navigable stream. I am doing business, and I cannot be interfered with.”
“But my logs!” cried the unhappy mill man.
“I have nothing to do with your logs. You are driving your own logs,” Orde reminded him.
Heinzman vituperated and pounded the gunwale.
“Go ahead, Marsh!” said Orde.
The tug gathered way. Soon Heinzman was forced to let go. For a second time the chains were snapped. Orde and Marsh looked back over the churning wake left by the SPRITE. The severed ends of the booms were swinging back toward either shore. Between them floated a rowboat. In the rowboat gesticulated a pudgy man. The river was well sprinkled with logs. Evidently the sorting was going on well.