Ted Daubert, foreman, soon located the lumberman, and came hurrying toward him, with a worried look on his bronzed, weather-beaten face.
"Daubert,"—Slater folded his arms—"how many o' the men has quit work this mornin'?"
"Eh?" The foreman seemed to start. "How did ye know, Cap'n? Why, ye left camp afore—"
"I'm askin' questions, not answerin' 'em; quick now!"
"Five!"
"An', by gum, I s'picion I knows who some o' 'em is, too—big Jim Reynolds, eh? Wal, he ain't so bad! Who else?"
"Tom Smull, Alf Griffin, Bart Reeder, an' Dan Woodle."
"As sartain as ye ain't a speckled trout, Daubert, I know'd Smull an' Griffin had toted theirselves off; they's the wust o' the lot. Git my horse ready; an' tell that lazy cook o' ourn to stuff every scrap o' grub he kin find inter the saddle-bags—d'ye hear? What's yer mouth open fur, hey?"
"Kin I ask where yer a-goin', Cap'n?"
"Ye kin ask, but you'll git no answer. Do what I tell yer. An', Daubert"—the captain raised a stubby forefinger and shook it warningly under the foreman's nose—"if everything ain't all right when I gits back ter camp there'll be an explosion that'll fire the hull shootin' match clean inter the next state—understan'? That's somethin' fur ye all to bear in mind."