The exception was a tall, muscular fellow of about forty. His face was covered with a stubbly red beard, and its expression was crafty and brutal. Before him were a plate of food and a mug of coffee. He was eating and drinking in the greedy fashion of a hungry pig.
The boys looked on for several minutes. They were too deeply interested to be prudent. But, fortunately, none of the loggers glanced toward the window.
All at once Hamp clutched Jerry’s arm in a strong, excited grip.
“Look!” he whispered. “Over there are our sleds, against the wall.”
“I see them,” replied Jerry. “Hush! don’t make any noise. I want to hear what they are talking about.”
The boys put their heads closer together. They looked and listened. The conversation had been low and unintelligible. Now it suddenly rose to a higher pitch.
“Whar’ve you been all this time, Sparwick?” demanded a red-shirted logger at the head of the table, who seemed to be a leader among his companions. “I reckoned you wasn’t in this part of the country.”
“I reckoned he was in jail,” cried the man next him, with a loud guffaw, and general laughter followed.
The red-bearded man, who was eating, lifted his face from the plate, and scowled angrily.
“I didn’t come here ter be insulted, Thomson,” he replied, addressing the first speaker. “I’ve been workin’ with Bill Jordan’s loggin’ gang up at the head of Chesumcook. I’m goin’ down ter Bangor now fur a spell.”