"Bet it's some of that great volume he's writing, fellows," he chuckled, gleefully. "Yes! Get away, Dave Brandon. Listen! Whew! What do you think? Pages 698 to—to—gee! 700! Did you get that—698 to 700?"
"Read it, slowpoke!" commanded Tim.
"Then keep him away."
"Go ahead," said Dave, good-naturedly. "My limit of resistance is four against one; you're six."
"Foxy lad," murmured Tom, keeping a good distance off. "Ah! First, is the heading, 'Life in a Lumber Camp'—sounds pretty fine, eh?"
"Read it!" yelled Tim.
"'In the dense, somber forest surrounding the clearing lumberjacks, with axe and saw, were hard at work. Donkey engines, by means of wire cables of great length, were dragging redwood trunks from the place where they had been felled over skid-roads to flumes which sent them rumbling down to the sawmills below.'"
"Great!" cried Dick. "Bully!"
"'The crack of ox-drivers' whips often echoed through the forest, as these slow-footed animals drew heavy vehicles, piled high with short logs, toward the timber slides.'"
"Wow!" quoth Sam. "Be-au-ti-ful!"