Great American Industries Series

TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN

OR

FROM MAINE TO OREGON FOR FORTUNE

BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER

Author of "At the Fall of Montreal," "Young Explorers of the
Isthmus," "American Boy's Life of William McKinley,"
"Old Glory Series," "Between Boer and
Briton," "On to Pekin," etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY A. B. SHUTE

BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD
1903

Published, October, 1903

Copyright, 1903, by Lee and Shepard

All rights reserved

Norwood Press

Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass.

U. S. A.

PREFACE

"Two Young Lumbermen" is a complete story in itself, but forms the first volume of a line to be issued under the general title of "Great American Industries Series."

In beginning this series, I have in mind to acquaint our boys and young men with the main details of a number of industries which have become of prime importance, not alone to ourselves as a nation, but likewise to a large part of the world in general.

Our United States is a large country and consequently the industries are many, yet none is perhaps of greater importance than that of the lumber trade. Lumber gives us material for our buildings and our ships, our railroads and our telegraph lines, and furnishes the pulp from which millions of pounds of paper are made annually. We export lumber to Europe, to the West Indies, and even to the Orient, drawing on a forest treasure that covers thousands of square miles of territory.

The tale opens in Maine, which in years gone by was the paradise of the American lumberman. In those days pine was king, and Maine became known far and wide as the Pine Tree State. When the best of the pine had disappeared, spruce claimed the logger's attention; and then the lumberman looked elsewhere for his timber, first in Michigan and along the Great Lakes, and in the South, and then in California, and in that vast section of our country drained by the Columbia (or Oregon) River.

The two young lumbermen of this story are hardly heroes in the accepted sense of that term. They are bright youths of to-day, willing to work hard for what they get, but always on the alert to better their condition. As choppers, river-drivers, mill hands, and general camp workers they have a variety of adventures, but only such as fall to the lot of more than one lumberman working in the woods of Maine, Michigan, or Oregon to-day. It was in the Far West that they found their greatest opportunity for advancement, and how they made the most of that chance is described in the pages which follow.

In presenting this work the author desires once again to thank the many who have interested themselves in his previous books. May they find the reading of this volume even more interesting and profitable.

Edward Stratemeyer.

August 1, 1903.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN

CHAPTER I

A TALK ABOUT EMPLOYMENT

"Do you mean to tell me that Hickley said he wouldn't send over that lot of logs I ordered last week?"

"That is what he said, Mr. Larson. He is short himself, and said he told you he thought he couldn't spare them. Not a drive has come down the river for three weeks."

"I know that, Bradford." John Larson, the owner of the Enterprise Lumber Mill, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's hard luck. I guess I'll have to shut down after all. And I was calculating to keep you all working."

The face of Dale Bradford became as serious as that of his employer. "How soon will you close up the mill?" he asked after a pause.

"As soon as those logs over yonder are cut up." The owner of the sawmill kicked a block of wood out of his way rather savagely. "It's a shame not to get logs, with so much timber cut ready to use."

"The pulp mill is what's done it," replied Dale. "They have a big contract to fill, so I was told over in Oldtown, and so they are willing to pay big prices for any sort of stuff."

"You're right, Bradford. They'll buy little sticks that we couldn't afford to handle."

"What we've got on hand won't keep us going longer than Saturday," continued Dale, gazing around at the small pile of logs resting partly in and partly out of the stream upon which the sawmill was situated.

"Just about Saturday."

"And there's no telling when we'll be able to start up again, I suppose."

"Just as soon as I can get hold of the stuff to go ahead with. I don't like to have the mill idle any more than you or the others like to be out of work."

"I'll have to get something to do pretty quick," said Dale earnestly. "I can't live on nothing."

"You ought to have something saved."

"A fellow can't save much out of six dollars a week, Mr. Larson. Besides, I've been paying off that little debt my father left when he died."

"I see, I see," interposed the mill owner hastily. "You're a good sort of a lad, Dale—as good a lad as your father was a man. If we shut down on Saturday perhaps I can keep you on a week longer—cleaning up around the mill and along the river, and doing other odd jobs. That will give you more time in which to look for another opening."

The head sawyer of the mill now came up to question John Larson concerning the cutting up of certain large logs, and Dale moved away to resume his regular work, that of piling up the boards in the little yard adjoining the steamboat landing.

It was hard work, especially in this summer, noon-day sun, but Dale was used to it and did not complain. And this was a good thing, as nobody would have listened to his complaint, for all around that mill worked just as hard as he did. John Larson was a just man, but a strict one, and he required every man he employed to earn his salary.

Dale Bradford was an orphan, eighteen years of age, tall, muscular, healthy, and as sunburnt as outdoor life could make him. He was the only son of Joel Bradford, who in years gone by had owned a good-sized lumber tract on the west branch of the Penobscot River, in Maine, where this story opens.

When a small boy Dale had had two sisters, and his home with his parents, on the shore of Chesuncook Lake, had been a happy one. But the death of the two sisters and the mother had caused great grief to the father and the son, and it can truthfully be said that after these loved ones were laid away in the little cemetery among the pines, Joel Bradford was never the same. He lost interest in his lumber camp and in the spot that had been his home for so many years, and at the first opportunity he sold out and moved down to Bangor.

It was at Bangor that he fell in with several men who were interested in the gold and silver mines of the great West. One of these men induced him to invest nearly all his money in a mine said to be located in Oregon. The ground was purchased by Joel Bradford, and preparations were made to begin mining on a small scale, when word came that no gold or silver was to be found in that locality, and the scheme fell through, and the man who had induced Mr. Bradford to invest disappeared.

The money lost in this transaction amounted to six thousand dollars—nearly the whole of Joel Bradford's capital—and the former lumberman felt the blow keenly. He grew reckless and speculated in lumber in and around Bangor, and soon found himself in debt to the sum of five hundred dollars. This he paid all but a hundred dollars, when, during unusually severe weather on the river, he contracted pneumonia, from which he never recovered.

Dale was not yet seventeen years of age when he found himself utterly alone in the world, for this branch of the Bradford family had never been large and the grandparents had come to Maine from Connecticut years before. Dale had a fair common-school education, but most of his life had been spent at the lumber camps and along the river and the lakes with his father. He could fell a tree almost as well as a regular lumberman, and had followed more than one drive down the stream to the boom or the sawmill.

"I've got to buckle in and make a man of myself," was what he told himself after the first great grief over the loss of his father was over. "I can't afford to sit down and do nothing. I've got to support myself, and pay off that debt father left behind him."

He had been doing odd jobs for a lumber firm owning an interest in yards at Bangor and at Oldtown, twelve miles further up the Penobscot. But these did not pay very well, and he looked further, until he struck Larson's Run, a small settlement located on a tributary of the big river. Larson had known Joel Bradford well for years, and had purchased many a cut of logs from him.

"So your father is dead and you want a job," John Larson had said. "Well, I'll give you the best that I have open"; and then and there he had engaged Dale at a salary of four dollars per week, a sum which was afterwards raised to six dollars.

Dale secured board with a mill hand living near by, and as soon as he was settled he began a systematic reduction of the debt his father had left unpaid. He felt that this was a duty he owed to the memory of his parent and to the honor of the family at large.

"They shan't say that he swindled anybody," was the way he put it to himself. "I'll pay every dollar of it before I buy a thing for myself that isn't actually necessary."

In the bottom of his trunk at the boarding house Dale had the deed to the land in Oregon which his father had purchased—that unfortunate transaction that had practically beggared them. The young lumberman often read the papers over carefully. They showed that his father had been the sole owner of many acres of territory located in the heart of the great West. Of this great tract of land Dale was now the sole owner.

"And to think that the tract is only a rocky mountain side, good for nothing at all," he would say with a sigh. "Now, if it were only a stretch of farm land, I might go out and try my luck at farming some day. I guess it's only fit for a stone quarry,—same as the rocky lands here,—but nobody wants a quarry out there, a hundred miles or more from nowhere at all."

So far Dale had managed to pay up all but thirty dollars of the debt left behind by his parent. He might have paid this, but a log had rolled on his foot, causing him a bruise that had kept him from work for two weeks and given him a doctor's bill to pay in addition.

The thirty dollars was owing to a riverman named Hen McNair. The fellow was a Scotchman and exceedingly close-fisted, and he had bothered Dale a good deal, hoping to have his claim paid at once.

"You can pay up if you want to," said McNair in his Scotch accent. "If you've not the money sell off some of your things."

"I've sold off all I can spare," had been Dale's reply. "You'll have to wait. From next Saturday on I'll pay you two dollars a week."

"Hoot! 'Twill be fifteen weeks—nigh four months—before we come to the end."

"It's the very best I can do."

"Can't you pay me five or ten dollars now?"

"No. The most I can give you is two dollars."

"Then give me that. And see you keep your word about the balance." And stuffing the bill Dale handed him into his pocket, Hen McNair had gone off grumbling something about the want of honor in a lad who wouldn't pull himself together and pay his father's honest debts.

The sawmill owned by John Larson was run both by water power and by steam—the latter helping out the former when the flow of the stream was not at its best. Rain had been wanting for several weeks, and this had delayed a drive of logs the mill owner had counted on, and had also made it necessary to depend entirely on steam as a motive power. The plant employed twenty-four hands, and this and another mill on the opposite shore were the main industries of the Run.

"How did you make out about those logs, Dale?" questioned a fellow worker in the yard, as the young lumberman resumed his labors.

"Didn't get them," was the laconic answer.

"Didn't think you would," went on Philip Sommers. "Hickley is in with the pulp mill. If he can't get logs, what is the old man going to do?"

"He'll have to shut down."

"Phew! That's bad!"

"Yes, and the worst of it is there is no telling when we'll start up again."

"In that case I'm going to pack up and go up to the West Branch. A friend of mine is going to open up on a claim there about the first of October."

"That is a good while yet. I can't afford to be idle that long."

"What will you do?"

"I don't know yet—perhaps try the other mills."

"Better try the pulp mill—they've got the business just now. Folks must have paper even if they don't get boards," and Philip Sommers gave a short laugh.

"I don't think I'd care to work in a pulp mill," answered Dale. "I like a sawmill or else being out in a lumber camp. But I'd rather work in a pulp mill than be idle."

"The pulp mill over——Hullo, there goes the noon whistle!" Philip Sommers dropped the board he was carrying. "Aint got time to talk any more," he cried. "Going home for something to eat." And picking up his jacket from a lumber pile, he walked away, leaving Dale alone.

CHAPTER II

WHAT HAPPENED AT THE BROOK

The hoarse whistle of the mill, proclaiming the noon hour, sounded out fully half a minute, and when it ceased the machinery in the mill also came to a stop, and men and boys poured forth to get their dinner. Some went to their homes, or to their boarding-places, while others, who lived at a distance and had brought their dinner with them, sought shady and cool spots along the bank of the stream.

Dale did not quit work instantly, as Philip Sommers had done. He, too, was carrying a board, and this he placed on a pile a hundred feet away, as originally intended. Then he straightened out the whole pile of boards, work that took another five minutes of his time.

"Hullo, Bradford, working overtime?" cried one of the mill hands, who had quit at the first sound of the whistle.

"Sure," answered Dale pleasantly.

"Of course the old man is going to pay you double wages for it."

"Guess he will—if I ask him."

"You won't get a cent. Better stop and make the job last."

"I'll stop, now I have finished," answered Dale, and walked away with a quiet smile.

Although neither Dale nor the other workman knew it, John Larson overheard the conversation.

"Young Bradford is a good one," he murmured. "Just as good as his father was before him. Hang such men as Felton, who are always looking at their watches or waiting for the whistle to blow."

It soon became noised around among the workmen that their employer had been unable to obtain the logs he had sent for, and that evening, after the mill had shut down, a number of them waited on John Larson and asked him about the prospects. He was frank and told them what he had told Dale.

"I expected to keep going all summer," he said. "But I can't do it, and after this week I'm afraid you'll have to look for other openings."

As a consequence of this talk several of the men that very evening rowed over to the mill opposite, while some went down to the mills on the Penobscot. A few obtained other situations and left John Larson's employ the next day, but the majority came back from their quests unsuccessful.

By Saturday noon the big circular saws had cut up the last of the logs, and two hours later the men at the shingle machine also stopped work. Then ensued several hours of sorting out and clearing up, and by five o'clock the hands of the Enterprise Lumber Mill were paid off and told that when they should be wanted again they would be notified.

Dale had been asked by John Larson to remain after the others, and he did so.

"I told you I'd keep you another week," said the mill owner. "There is not a great deal to do, and you can come around every morning at six o'clock and work until twelve, and then have the rest of the day in which to hunt up another job. On Saturday I'll pay you for a full week."

This was certainly very fair, and Dale thanked his employer heartily for his kindness. Yet the youth's heart was heavy, for he knew that finding another opening would not be easy.

"I'll tell you what to do, Dale," said Frank Martinson, the man with whom he boarded. "You try down to Crocker's and over to Odell's. Tell 'em I sent you. They'll give you a job if they have anything at all to do."

"All right, I will," answered the young lumberman.

Crocker's mill was located down on the Penobscot. It was a new place, filled with the latest of machinery, and employing over half a hundred hands. Dale visited it on Monday afternoon, going down on a small lumber raft that happened to be passing.

The din around this hive of industry was terrific, for Crocker turned out much lumber in the rough for a furniture company, and the buzzing and zipping went on constantly from morning till night. The mill itself was knee-deep in shavings and sawdust, a good portion of which was fed into the furnaces under the boilers for fuel.

"Sorry, young man, but I can't take you on," said the superintendent of the works. "Had an opening last week, but it is filled now. Come around in two or three weeks. If Frank Martinson recommends you I know you're all right." And thus poor Dale had his trip for nothing. It took him until midnight to get home, and he had to walk a good part of the distance.

But he was not one to give up easily, and two days later borrowed one of John Larson's horses and directly after dinner set off for the mill run by Peter Odell. This was up in the hills, on the edge of a small lake, a ride of thirteen miles.

The way was rough, but Dale did not mind this, and as he loved to ride on horseback, the journey proved pleasant enough. Once he stopped at a brook to let the horse drink and sprang down himself to quench his thirst and bathe his face and hands.

"This is like old times, when I used to be home with all the others," he thought. "Oh, how I wish those times could come back."

At last he came in sight of the mill, nestling among the trees bordering the little lake—a scene full of rural beauty. To his surprise all was quiet about the place.

"It can't be that Odell has shut down, too," he thought. "If that is so we ought to have heard of it before this."

He was just turning into a side path leading to the mill when a man leaped out from behind a clump of trees and caught his animal by the bridle. The fellow was a French-Canadian, with a dark face and dark, evil-looking eyes.

"Hi! what do you mean by that?" demanded Dale. He did not like the looks of the stranger.

"You stop, talk wiz me," said the Canadian.

"What do you want?"

"You go to de mill, yes?"

"What if I am going to the mill?"

At this the French-Canadian muttered something in French which the young lumberman could not understand. "You look for job, hey? No job no more down by de Larson mill, hey?"

"That is none of your business. Let go of my horse."

Again the man muttered something in French. "You no go to de mill. Geet hurt sure. All mens dare on de strike. You go back." And now he shook his fist in Dale's face.

"Are you on a strike?"

"Yees."

"What are you striking about?"

"Dat none your bus'nees. You go back."

"I will not go back!" declared Dale, his temper rising. "If you don't let go of that horse pretty quick, somebody will get hurt."

"Hah! You are von big fool!" snarled the man, and clung to the animal as tightly as ever. The horse began to prance, and, watching his chance, Dale leaned forward and struck the French-Canadian a sharp blow in the forehead that caused him to stagger back in dismay.

"Good for you!" sang out a voice not far off, and looking in the direction Dale saw a young man of twenty approaching. The newcomer was a young lumberman like himself, and Dale had met him several times, on the river and elsewhere.

"Hullo, Owen," replied Dale. "Who is this chap?"

"That is Baptiste Ducrot, one of the mill hands up here," replied Owen Webb. "Odell hired him about a month ago, but I guess he wishes he hadn't, for the rascal drinks like a fish."

"He says there is a strike on at the mill."

"So there is, among the Canadians. They wanted me to join, but I wouldn't do it."

While this talk was in progress, Baptiste Ducrot recovered himself and glared first at Dale and then at Owen Webb. Evidently he did not fancy the coming of his fellow workman to the spot. Dale now smelt the liquor on Ducrot and noticed that his steps were far from steady. He urged his horse forward, and left the French-Canadian standing in the road shaking his fist savagely.

"That was a neat crack you gave him," observed Owen Webb, as he strode along beside Dale. "I guess he won't forgive you for it."

"He had no business to stop me, Owen."

"You're right there. What brought you up? I heard something of a shut-down at Larson's."

"Yes, we've shut down and I came up here to look for work."

"You came at a bad time—with some of the men on a strike."

"That's true." Dale's brow grew thoughtful. "Perhaps I had better go back, after all. I don't want to do some poor chap out of his job."

"They don't deserve work—half of them!" declared Owen. "The crowd that is out is the drinking gang. They want more money to waste on liquor. All the steady fellows are working the same as usual."

"Then I'll see Mr. Odell and chance it. Where can I find him?"

"He was in the mill a short while ago."

Owen had a mission up the lake and soon left Dale, and the latter dismounted and entered the mill, just as the machinery started up once more.

Mr. Odell was a burly old lumberman of sixty. He had spent all his life in the woods and few knew woodcraft or mill work better than he. He gazed at Dale sharply when he listened to what the young lumberman had to say.

"Well, I guess I can give you a job, seeing as how about half of my crew is gone," said Peter Odell. "But I can't guarantee it to last, for I'm 'most in the same fix as Larson. The pulp mills have knocked the sawmills endways up here."

"What about the strikers? I don't want to——"

"I haven't any strikers around here. Those fellows drank too much and I discharged them, that's all. I won't take 'em back—I'll lock up the mill first." And the mill owner's manner showed that he meant what he said.

It was arranged that Dale should come to work the following Monday, at the same rate of wages he was now receiving. He was to labor both in and out of the mill and was to board at the same house where Owen Webb was stopping. This latter arrangement suited him exactly, for he had taken quite a fancy to Owen, who, like himself, was alone in the world.

The summer day was drawing to a close when Dale started on his return to Larson's Run. He looked around to see if Baptiste Ducrot was at hand, but the fellow did not show himself.

"I hope he keeps out of sight," thought the young lumberman. "I don't want to have another quarrel with him."

The lake front was soon left behind and he plunged into the trail leading down the hillside. Under the trees it was quite dark, and he had to keep a tight rein on his horse for fear the animal might stumble and break a leg.

"I must return the horse in as good a condition as when I took him out," he told himself. "It wouldn't be fair to Mr. Larson if I didn't."

Soon he reached the brook where he had stopped to obtain a drink. Here he paused as before.

As he was bending to quench his thirst he heard a slight noise behind him. Then he received a violent push from the rear that sent him headlong into the stream. His head struck on the rocks at the bottom of the shallow watercourse, and for the time being he was partly stunned.

CHAPTER III

TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN AT HOME

For several minutes Dale could think of nothing but that he was at the bottom of the brook and in danger of drowning. His head hurt, there was a strange ringing in his ears, and almost before he knew it he had gulped down a quantity of the cool water.

But "self-preservation is the first law of nature," and even though dazed he floundered around and tried to pull himself up out of the stream. Twice he slipped back. Then his hand fastened on a tree root and he stuck there, gasping for breath, spluttering, and trying to collect his senses.

"Who—who hit me?" he muttered at last.

When he felt strong enough to do so, he crawled up the bank of the stream and sank in a heap at the foot of a big tree. On one side of his forehead was a big lump, and on the other a small cut from which the blood was flowing.

"Just wait till I catch the fellow who did that," he told himself. "I'll square up with him."

His mind reverted to Baptiste Ducrot. Had the French-Canadian been the one to attack him? It was more than likely.

It was fully five minutes later when the young lumberman made another discovery. He was bathing the cut when, on glancing around, he noted that the horse he had been riding had disappeared.

"Hullo, Jerry is gone," he said to himself. "Jerry! Jerry! Where are you?" he called.

No sound came back in answer, nor did the animal put in an appearance. Staggering to his feet, Dale walked a short distance up and down the watercourse. It was useless; the horse could not be found.

With a sinking heart the young lumberman was retracing his steps to the ford when he saw a form on horseback advancing along the trail. As the person came closer he recognized Owen Webb.

"Owen!"

"Why, Dale, is that you?"

"Have you seen anything of my horse?"

"Your horse? No. Didn't you ride him back?"

"I rode him as far as here. Then somebody struck me and knocked me into the brook, and now the horse is gone," went on Dale.

He told the particulars of the occurrence so far as they were clear to him. Owen Webb was of a sympathetic nature, and as he listened his face grew clouded.

"It must have been Ducrot, Dale. It's just like the cowardly sneak. Didn't you see him at all?"

"No. I was attacked so quickly I didn't know a thing until I was trying to pull myself out of the water. If he took the horse where do you suppose he went to?"

"That's a conundrum. It's not likely he went on to Larson's Run, for the folks there would recognize the horse. And he didn't go back to Odell's, or I should have met him."

"I guess you are right, Owen. With the horse gone I don't know what to do."

"Let us make sure that he hasn't strayed away, Dale. Then, if you wish, you can ride behind me. That's better than walking the five miles."

Owen made a thorough search of the vicinity, while Dale again bathed his wound. No horse came to view, and a little later the journey to Larson's Run was resumed.

As said before, Owen Webb was a young man of twenty. He was alone in the world, and after the death of his parents had drifted from Portland to Bangor in search of employment. He had worked in several lumber yards and sawmills before hiring out to Peter Odell. He was a good workman and a clever fellow, and if he had any fault it was that of moving from one locality to another, "just for the change," as he expressed it. He generally spent his money as fast as he made it, but his want of capital never bothered him. Like Dale, he was no drinker, as are, unfortunately, so many lumbermen, and if his money went, it went legitimately, for good board and clothing, music and newspapers, and charity. Dale had liked him from the start, and the more the pair saw of each other the more intimate did they become.

Owen was bound for a blacksmith shop located near the Run, and at this place the two separated, and Dale continued his journey to John Larson's home on foot. He felt much worried over the loss of Jerry, but resolved to make a clean breast of the matter and did so.

John Larson was a good reader of character and saw that the young lumberman was telling him the strict truth. "It must have been that Ducrot who took the horse," he said. "I know him and never liked him. Why Odell hired him is a mystery to me. I'll send out an alarm and I guess I'll get the horse back sooner or later."

"And if you don't, Mr. Larson, I'll do what I can to pay for him," said Dale.

His last week at the Run soon came to an end, and Monday morning found Dale located at Odell's, and as hard at work as ever. In the meantime Peter Odell had refused again to treat with the men who called themselves strikers, and one by one they left the locality, taking their belongings with them.

The going away of these men left a vacancy at the boarding place where Owen was stopping, and this room was taken by Dale, so the two young lumbermen saw more of each other than ever. Owen was a fair performer on the violin and the banjo, and Dale could play a harmonica and sing, and they often spent an evening over their music, which the other boarders listened to with keen relish, for amusements in that out-of-the-way spot were not numerous.

For several weeks nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Dale worked hard, early and late, and for this Peter Odell gave him something extra to do, with extra pay. By this means the young lumberman was enabled to save more than usual, and one Saturday afternoon he had the satisfaction of sending Hen McNair a letter containing Peter Odell's check for the balance due the close-fisted riverman.

"That wipes out the last of my father's debts," said Dale to Owen. "I can tell you it makes me feel like a different person to have everything paid."

"I believe you, Dale. My father didn't leave any debts, but I had to square up for the funeral, and that was no small sum."

"Now all I have left to do is to square up for the horse that was stolen."

"What was he worth?"

"I don't know exactly. I asked Mr. Larson, but he said to wait a while, that Jerry might turn up somewhere."

So far the only word received concerning Baptiste Ducrot was through an old riverman, who had once seen the French-Canadian in a drinking resort near the upper end of Moosehead Lake. What had become of Ducrot after that nobody knew.

The summer was drawing to an end, and still the sawmill at Larson's Run remained idle. It was impossible to get logs, and soon Peter Odell began to complain.

"I shouldn't be surprised if we had to shut down too," said Owen one day. "If we do, Dale, what are you going to do?"

"I'm sure I don't know. This is certainly a hard year in the lumber trade."

"I don't believe it is as hard elsewhere as it is in Maine. My uncle, Jack Hoover, who owns a lumber camp out in Michigan, wrote that he was as busy as ever. He said I might come on if I couldn't find anything to do here."

"Why don't you go?"

Owen drew down the corners of his mouth into a peculiar pucker.

"You wouldn't ask that if you knew my Uncle Jack," he said.

"Anything wrong?"

"Uncle Jack is a worker—morning, noon, and night, and between times. He never knows when to stop, and he expects everybody around him to work just as hard or harder. Fact is, he's a regular slave driver. And in addition to that he's as close-fisted as Hen McNair."

"In that case, I don't wonder you don't want to engage with him," said Dale, with a laugh.

"Uncle Jack means well, but he never knows when to let up. I've heard my mother say that more than once. He was her step-brother. He started as a poor man, and when he went to Michigan he had less than a thousand dollars. Now he must be worth thirty or forty thousand, and maybe more."

"I don't believe you'll be worth that, Owen; not if you have to save it yourself."

"I don't want to be rich if I've got to slave like Uncle Jack. Money isn't everything in this world."

"But you ought to save something. Supposing you got sick, or something else happened to you?"

"Well, I'm going to start to save a little, some time."

"The best time to start is now. Some time generally means no time. You can put away as much as I put away, if you try."

"All right, I'll do it—next week."

"No, this week," and Dale smiled good-humoredly.

"Gracious, Dale! are you becoming my guardian?"

"Not at all, Owen. But I want to see you begin."

"I can't spare the money this week. I've got to have some new strings for the banjo, and hair for the fiddle bow, and have these boots mended, and pay my board, and buy some shirts, and——"

"Not all this week. That fiddle bow will last a week or two yet, and so will your shirts. Now here is this cigar box I've been using for a bank. I cleaned it out paying off Hen McNair, but I am going to start a new account. When I put in a dollar you put in a dollar, and when you put in a dollar I'll do the same. Then, when we want our money, we can whack up."

"How much are you putting in to start on?"

"Two dollars."

Owen gave something like a groan.

"All right, if I must, I must," he said, bringing out his week's wages. "But it's worse than having a tooth pulled."

"It won't be after you get in the habit of it."

"I don't believe I could get in the habit of having my teeth pulled."

"You know what I mean. After a while it will become just as easy to save money as to spend it—that is, a fair proportion of what you earn."

"Want me to become as close as my Uncle Jack?"

"I guess there is small danger of that." Dale reached for his harmonica, which rested on a shelf. "Now strike up on the fiddle, and then you'll forget all about the hardships of saving."

This was a sure way of pleasing Owen, and soon he had the violin from its peg on the wall and was tuning up. Then the pair began to play, one familiar tune after another, and thus the evening ended pleasantly enough.

CHAPTER IV

A FRESH START

The shut-down at Odell's came sooner than anticipated. The mill owner had been almost positive about another consignment of logs, but at the last minute one of the pulp mills drove up the price on the timber and the logs went elsewhere.

"It's no use," said Peter Odell, to his men. "I've got to shut down until next spring. During the winter I'll make cast-iron contracts for the next supply of timber, so there won't be any further trip-ups, pulp mills or no pulp mills. It's going to cost me money to quit, but, as you can see, I'm helpless in the matter."

To this the men said but little. A few of them felt that Odell was to blame just as John Larson was to blame—because he had not made "cast-iron" contracts before. But these mill owners were of the old-fashioned sort, easy-going and willing to take matters largely as they came.

"The pulp mills have the upper hand of the business," said Owen to Dale. "They'll take anything that is cut down, and that gives them the advantage. Now it wouldn't pay Odell, or Larson either, to handle logs less than fourteen inches in diameter."

"But the loggers are foolish to cut small stuff," answered Dale. "They don't give the trees a chance to grow, and before long there won't be a tree left to cut."

"The most of 'em think only of the money to be had right now; not what they might get later on. If I had my way I'd pass a law making it a crime to cut down small trees."

There were but few other sawmills in that vicinity, and each of these was working only three-quarters or half time. Water being low, power was scarce, and the general condition was certainly disheartening.

The two young lumbermen spent an entire week in seeking other employment, but without success. The only place offered was one to Owen at a pulp mill, tending a row of vats, but the pay was so small he declined it.

"I hate a pulp mill anyhow," he declared. "Now that winter is coming on, I'd rather try my luck up the river at one of the big camps."

"Exactly my idea!" cried Dale. "Say the word, and I'll start with you Monday morning. I'm sure we can find something to do up on the West Branch, or along one of the lakes."

"The trouble is, how are we to get up on the West Branch?" came from Owen. "I haven't any desire to tramp the distance."

"We can take the railroad train up to the lake," answered Dale, after a moment's thought. "I know Phil Bailey, who runs on the night freight. He'll give us a lift that far, I am sure. After we get to the lake we can try for a job on one of the boats going up the river."

This was satisfactory to Owen, and the pair made preparations to leave Odell's on Monday at noon. In the meantime Dale penned a letter to John Larson, stating that he had not forgotten about the missing horse, and, if the animal did not turn up, he would some day settle for him.

"It's the best that I can do," he said. "He was worth at least one hundred and fifty dollars, and it will take me a good long while to save up that amount."

The nearest railroad station on the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad was a small place called Hemway. Here a passenger train stopped twice a day and a mixed freight did the same. Phil Bailey lived at Hemway, so it was not difficult for Dale to find the brakeman.

"Yes, I'll take you along," said Bailey, "and glad to give you a lift. Carsons is sick, so I'm in charge this week. I'll look for you at the freight switch when the train comes along."

As a consequence that night found Dale and Owen housed in the caboose of the freight train, bumping along at the rate of twenty miles an hour in the direction of the lake. It was not very comfortable riding, and the stops and delays were frequent, but as Owen said, "it beat walking all hollow," and as it cost them nothing they were well content.

"I don't know that this beating the railroad out of a fare is just right," observed Dale, as they rode along. "But I guess such a corporation won't miss our few dollars."

"They'll make the summer tourists foot the bill," said Owen, with a grin. "Did you notice how crowded the train going south was?"

"I did. The cold snap last week is causing them to scatter. In a few weeks more they'll be flying home fast, and leaving everything to us lumbermen."

"And to the hunters."

It was early in the morning and still dark when the lake was reached. Thanking Phil Bailey for his kindness they crawled from the caboose just before the freight switch was gained and made their way down to one of the lumber yards along the shore. Here they found a comfortable corner in a shanty and slept until daybreak.

Lakeport, as the settlement was called, was divided into two parts, the bluff, where the fine cottages and the Lake View Hotel were located, and the lower end, where were situated several lumber yards and a number of lumbermen's cabins and two general stores.

Down at the lumber yards everything was quiet, for the booms from the former winter's cuttings had long since been distributed to the mills far below, and scarcely anything would be received until the spring "yarding" began. Only a few men were around, and the majority of these were either preparing to go up into the timber to work or else to act as guides and cooks to the sportsmen who would soon put in an appearance for a winter's hunt after moose and other game.

Each of the young lumbermen wore the typical costume of the woodsmen of that locality, so neither attracted special attention when they walked into one of the general stores. The wife of the storekeeper took boarders and she readily consented to serve them with breakfast and as many other meals as they wanted and were willing to pay for. The ride had made them tremendously hungry and they ate all that was set before them with keen relish.

"Going up among the loggers, eh?" said the storekeeper, when they were settling their bill. "Well, I reckon as how it's going to be a mighty good year—logs is wanted the wust way, not only fer the sawmills an' pulp mills, but also fer export."

"Right you are, Sanson," put in another man who was present. "I heard from a deputy surveyor at Bangor that we cut over 150,000,000 feet o' pine and spruce last year and they expect to cut even more this year. Twelve million feet was exported to England—an' we got a rousin' good price fer it, too."

"Yes, but times aint as good as they was," came from the storekeeper. "1899 was the banner year fer lumber here. The cut was 183,000,000 feet, an' not only thet, but spruce thet had been sellin' fer $14 and $18 a thousand sold down to Boston fer $20 and $24. Times aint what they was." And the storekeeper heaved a long sigh.

At the side door of the general store a clerk was loading a wagon with various provisions, beans, potatoes, salt fish, flour, a sack of coffee, and the like. Dale watched him for a few seconds and then accosted him.

"Loading up for one of the hotels?" he questioned pleasantly.

"No, this load is going up the river," was the answer.

"May I ask who is going to take it and where it is bound?"

"It's going up to the Paxton camp. Old Joel Winthrop and a couple of other men are going to take it up. Paxton is going to start in early this fall, so we're rushing the stuff up to him."

"How many hands does he employ?"

"About a hundred or more. Want a job?"

"Want a job, eh?"

"Yes."

"Then you'd better see Winthrop about it. He's looking for likely men."

"Where can I find him?"

"Down to the lake. He's got a bateau he calls the Lily—name is daubed on the stern. You can't miss him."

"Thanks; we'll try him," answered Dale, and set off, followed by Owen.

It was not a difficult task to locate Joel Winthrop, an aged woodsman, with whitish hair and beard, and shrewd gray eyes. He had been patching up a leak in his clumsy craft, and he listened to Dale's application while holding a pitch pot in one hand and a brush in the other.

"Want a job, eh?" he said, looking them over. "What can you do?"

"Almost anything but cook," answered Owen. "Might do that, but I shouldn't care to risk it."

"Guess you wouldn't—not up to our camp," laughed Joel Winthrop. "Had a cook last year who burnt the beans an' they tuk him down to the river, chopped a hole in the ice, an' soused him under three times. He never burnt a bean after thet, so long as he stayed."

"We'd like to go as choppers or swampers," said Dale. A chopper is one who fells trees, while a swamper is one who cuts down brushwood and makes a road from the forest to where the logs are piled for shipment in the spring.

"An' what wages are you expectin'?"

"Regular wages," said Dale boldly. "We expect to do regular men's work."

"Got a recommend?"

"Several of them," and Dale handed over the letters he had received from Larson, Odell, and his other employers. Owen also exhibited several recommendations he possessed.

"I see ye don't drink," said Joel Winthrop. "Glad to hear o' that. Drink is the curse of a lumber camp, you know that well as I do. The question is, can ye both stand the work fer a whole season?"

"If we can't you'll not have to keep us," answered Owen.

"Ours is a mighty cold camp, I can tell ye that."

"We are used to roughing it," said Dale. "I was brought up that way from a baby."

"We aint payin' young fellows like you more'n twenty dollars a month an' found."

"How many months work?" asked Owen.

"Six months, an' maybe seven or eight."

"I'll accept," said Owen.

"So will I," said Dale.

The old lumberman then said he knew John Larson fairly well and that a recommendation from such a person must be all right.

"We're going to start up the lake this afternoon," said he. "So if ye mean business be on hand at two o'clock sharp. I'll give ye free passage, an' you help work the boat and carry stuff around the falls."

By this time the provisions from the store were arriving, and both set to work to assist Joel Winthrop in stowing them away. Then, having nothing else to do, the two young lumbermen strolled around the settlement, past the big hotel and back by way of the freight yard.

As they were passing the latter place, the down freight came in, stopped to take on two cars piled with lumber, and then started on its way again. As it moved off a man ran from the freight yard and leaped on board of the last car.

"Well, I declare!" gasped Dale. "Did you see that fellow?"

"Who?" questioned Owen, with interest.

"The fellow who jumped on the last car." Dale pointed to the fast-vanishing figure. "As sure as I stand here it was Baptiste Ducrot!"

CHAPTER V

SOMETHING ABOUT THE MAINE LUMBER TRADE

Owen was as amazed as Dale to think that the man who had leaped on the disappearing freight train was the French-Canadian who had caused the latter so much trouble.

"Well, he's gone," said he, after a moment's pause. "It's a pity you didn't spot him before the train started."

"He didn't show himself, Owen." Dale drew a long breath. "Do you know what I think? I think he was hanging around this town, when he saw us and made up his mind that he had better get out."

They made a number of inquiries and soon learned that Ducrot had been in Lakeport two days. He had applied to Joel Winthrop and several other lumbermen for a position, but had smelt so strongly of liquor that nobody had cared to engage him. From general indications all the lumbermen doubted if the fellow had much money in his possession.

"I'll wager he sold the horse and drank up the best part of the proceeds," said Dale. "It's a rank shame, too! I'll have to save a long time to square up with Mr. Larson. I'd give a week's wages if I could have Ducrot arrested."

"You might telegraph to the next station, Dale."

"So I might!" Dale's face brightened a little, then fell again. "But I guess I won't. It will cost extra money, and I'll have to go and identify him, and stay around when he is tried, and all that. No, I'll watch my chance to catch him some time when it is more convenient."

Promptly at the time appointed by old Joel Winthrop the journey up the lake was begun. Counting Dale and Owen there were five lumbermen on the Lily, which was a craft ten feet wide by about twenty feet long. The Lily was to be towed along by a small tug which did all sorts of odd jobs around the lake. The bateau was piled high with the provisions and with the boxes and valises belonging to the lumbermen, not forgetting the case that contained Owen's precious violin and the green bag with the banjo.

"I see you're a player," said Joel Winthrop. "I used to scratch a fiddle myself years ago. You'll have to give us some music goin' up." And Owen did, much to the satisfaction of all on board.

The distance to the Paxton lumber camp was over a hundred and fifteen miles, and it took five days to cover the journey. At the end of the lake the goods had to be portaged up to the river, and then had to be portaged around the falls beyond. On the West Branch and the side stream on which the camp was located the bateau had to be poled along, and owing to the low water often caught on the mud or the rocks. But nobody minded the work, and as the weather was cool and dry the journey passed off pleasantly enough.

The two strange lumbermen were from Bangor and were named Gilroy and Andrews. They were experienced hands, and Gilroy was an under boss at the camp, having charge of the North-Section Gang, as it was called. All the older men loved to talk about lumbering in general and old times in Maine in particular, and Dale and Owen listened to the conversation with interest.

"Got to go putty far back for lumber now," said Joel Winthrop. "All the good stuff nigh to the river has been cut away."

"I've heard my grandfather tell of the times when they cut good logs less than ten miles from Bangor," put in Gilroy. "I reckon they didn't think what an industry lumbering would become in these days."

"I suppose they cut nothing but pine in those days," said Dale.

"Nothing but pine, lad; spruce wasn't looked at."

"Yes, and pine was the great thing even up to the Civil War," said Joel Winthrop. "But that was the last of it, and a couple of years after the war ended spruce came to the front, and now, as you perhaps know, we cut five times as much spruce as we do anything else."

"I've often wondered how many men worked in Maine at lumbering," said Owen. "There must be a small army of us, all told."

"I heard that last year more than fourteen thousand men were in the woods," came from Andrews. "The total number of feet of all kinds of lumber cut was over half a billion."

"What a stack of logs!" cried Dale.

"No wonder we have a pine tree on the coat of arms of the State," added Owen. "But it ought to be a spruce tree now instead of a pine," he continued.

"I can remember the day when the lumber camps claimed the very best of our people," said Joel Winthrop. "Folks wasn't stuck up in them days, and many of the richest men in Bangor and Portland earned their first dollar choppin' down pine trees. But now we've got all sorts in the camps, an' have to take 'em or git nobody. Not but what we've got good men at our camp," he added hastily.

"I wouldn't mind a job as a lumber surveyor," said Dale. "They get good wages, don't they?"

"A deputy surveyor gets ten cents a thousand on all the lumber he checks off," answered Gilroy. "I've known a man to make six to ten dollars a day at it. The fellows who overhaul the lumber for him get seven and a half cents a thousand each. The surveyor-general of the county gets a cent a thousand on all lumber passed on in the county."

"Some day I reckon I'll be a surveyor-general," observed Owen dryly.

"I'd rather own a rich lumber tract," returned Dale. "I'd work it systematically, cutting nothing but big trees and planting a new tree for every old one cut. By that means I'd make the tract bring me in a regular income."

"That's the way to talk," came from Joel Winthrop. "And unless the owners do something like that putty soon Maine won't be in the lumber business no more."

"They tell me that the big pulp mill near here can use up 50,000,000 feet of lumber in a year," went on Dale.

"It's true," said Gilroy. "They'll chew up logs almost as fast as you can raft 'em along. What we are coming to if the pulp mills and paper makers keep on crowding us for logs, I don't know."

It was night when they reached the landing place nearest to the Paxton camp, which was located up the hillside, half a mile away. At this point the stream opened up into something of a pond, with a cove in which several small boats were moored.

The shores of the pond were rocky and covered in spots with a stunted undergrowth, while further back was the forest of spruce, pine, fir, and a few other trees, sending forth a delicious fragrance that was as invigorating as it was delightful. As the bateau grounded, Dale leaped ashore, stretched himself and took a long, deep breath, filling his lungs to their utmost capacity.

"This is what I like!" he cried. "It's better than a tonic or any other medicine."

"And what an appetite it will give a fellow," added Owen. "I can always eat like a horse when I'm in the woods working."

As it was a clear night, the bateau was hauled up on the shore and the provisions carefully covered with a thick tarpaulin. Then the party struck out up the hillside for the camp, Joel Winthrop leading the way.

The trail was a rough one, for this camp was new, being located nearly a mile from the one of the season before, the loggers moving from place to place according to the cutting to be done. More than once they had to climb over the rough rocks with care, and once Owen slipped into a hollow and gave his leg a twist that was far from agreeable. The ground lay thick with needles, cones, and dead leaves, and here and there a fallen tree brought down by storm or old age.

The young lumbermen had already been informed that the camp was a new one, so they were not surprised when they learned that so far only a cook's shanty had been erected and that the men assembled were sleeping in little shacks and tents or in the open. When they arrived they found but two men awake, the others having retired almost immediately after supper.

Joel Winthrop had his own shack, a primitive affair, made by leaning a number of poles against a rocky cliff eight or ten feet high. Over the poles were placed a number of pine boughs, and boughs were also placed on the floor of the structure, for bedding purposes.

"Come right in and make yourselves at home," he said cheerily, after lighting a camp lantern and hanging it on a notch of one of the poles. "Nothing more to do to-night, so we might as well go to sleep."

"The boys can sleep with you; I'll stay outside where I can get the fresh air," said Gilroy, and wrapping himself in a blanket he went to rest at the foot of a neighboring tree, with Andrews beside him.

A youth not used to roughing it might have found the flooring of the shack rather a hard bed. But Dale and Owen thought nothing of this. The last day on the river had been a busy one, and soon each was in the land of dreams, neither of them being disturbed in the slightest by the loud snoring around them—for lumbermen in camp do snore, and that most outrageously—why, nobody can tell, excepting it may be as a warning to wild beasts to keep away!

The next morning the sun came up as brightly as ever. Long before that time the camp was astir, and from the cook's shanty floated the aroma of broiled mackerel, fried potatoes, and coffee.

"That smells like home!" exclaimed Owen and started for a spring near by, where there was a small tub, in which the men washed, one after another.

A table of rough deal boards had been erected under the trees, with a long bench on either side. There was no tablecloth, but the table was as clean as water and soap could make it. Each man was provided with a tin cup, a tin plate, a knife, a fork, and a spoon, and each was served his portion by the cook or the cook's assistant. If the man wanted more he usually rapped on his empty cup or plate until he was supplied.

The cook was a burly negro named Jeff, his full name being Jefferson Jackson. Jeff was usually good-natured, but when the men hurried him too much for their victuals he would often growl back at them.

"Fo' de lan' sake!" he would bellow. "Say, can't you gib dis chile no chance 'tall? Yo' lobsters dun got no bottom to yo' stummicks. T'ink I'se heah to fill up de hull ob de 'Nobscot Ribber? Yo' dun eat like yo' been starvin' all summah."

"Jeff wants to turn us into skeletons," cried one of the young lumbermen, winking at the others. "He's got a contract to furnish a Boston museum with 'em."

"Skellertons, am it?" exploded Jeff. "Wot yo' is gwine to do is to hire out to 'em fer a fat man—if yo' kin git filled up yere. But Mastah Paxton aint raisin' no fat men fo' no museums 'round dis camp, so yo' jest dun hole yo' hosses till I gits 'round dar a fo'th time."

And then the men would have to wait, until each had had his fill, when he would scramble from his seat with scant ceremony and prepare for the day's work.

CHAPTER VI

DEEP IN THE WOODS

Before the morning meal was over Dale and Owen became acquainted with ten or a dozen of the lumbermen, all rough-and-ready fellows, but above the average of the lumber camps in manner and speech.

"I'm glad we didn't strike a tough crowd," said Dale, remembering a lumber camp he had once visited, in which drinking was in evidence all day long and the talk was filled with profanity.

"So am I," answered Owen. "But I knew this camp was O. K. from the way Winthrop talked."

Luke Paxton, the owner of the camp, was away, but he came in during the forenoon and had a talk with each of the new hands. He was of a similar turn to Winthrop, and asked Dale and Owen a number of short questions, all of which they answered promptly.

"I guess I knew your father," he said to Owen. "I used to have an interest in a lumber yard in Portland. He was a good man." And then he turned away to give directions for putting up two additional shanties in the camp and a log cabin, which would become the general home of the lumbermen when cold weather set in.

That afternoon found Dale and Owen at work close to the camp, helping to cut the timbers for the new cabin. Joel Winthrop watched them as each brought down the first tree. "That's all right," he said, and then gave them directions for continuing their labors.

The men in the camp were divided into gangs of twenty to thirty persons, consisting of choppers or fellers, swampers, drivers or haulers, and a boss who watched the work, picking out the trees to be cut and directing just how they should be made to fall, so that they could be gotten away with the least trouble. Later in the season there would be sled drivers and tenders, or loaders, and also a man to bring out the midday meal when the gang was too far into the woods to come to camp to eat.

The building of the big cabin was no mean task, and it took one gang three weeks to do it. It was built of rough logs, notched and set together at the ends. There was a heavy ridge-pole, with a sloping roof of logs on either side, and the floor was also of logs, slightly smoothed on the upper side.

When the cabin proper was complete it was divided into two parts, each containing a window, and one a door in addition. One end was the sleeping room, with bunks built of rough boards, each bunk four feet wide and twelve feet long. Each bottom bunk had another over it, and each was meant for four sleepers, a pair at each end, with feet all together. The bunks had clean pine boughs in them, and a pair of regular camp blankets for each occupant.

The second apartment was that devoted to eating and general living purposes. The door was close to the cook's shanty, but when the weather grew colder the big cooking stove would be placed directly in the middle of the living room, to add its warmth to the comfort of the place. The stove was of course a wood burner, a square affair capable of taking in a log a yard long. For a dining table the deal table from outside was brought in, with its benches, and half a dozen empty provision boxes were also brought in for extra seats. To keep out the cold the cracks of the entire building were stuffed with mud, and on the inside certain parts were covered with heavy roofing paper and strips of bark.

"Now we are ready for cold weather," said Owen, when the cabin was finished and the most of the men of their gang had moved in. He and Dale had a small corner bunk which held but two, and in this they were "as snug as a bug in a rug," as the younger of the lumbermen declared.

The last of the choppers had now arrived, and it was found necessary to put up another cabin for them. Dale and Owen, however, did not work on this, but instead spent every day in the depths of the great forest, bringing down one tree after another, as Gilroy, who now had charge of the gang, directed. Each of the young lumbermen proved that he could swing an ax with the best of the workers, and Gilroy pronounced himself satisfied with all they did.

"It only shows what a young fellow can do when he's put to it," said the foreman one day to Owen. "Now, half these chaps are merely working for their wages and their grub. They do as little as they can for their money, and the minute the season is over they'll go down to Oldtown or Bangor, or some other city, and blow in every dollar they have earned."

"But this camp is better than lots of others."

"Yes, I know that. It's because old Winthrop and Mr. Paxton sort out the men they engage. They won't take every tramp who strikes them for a job."

The men often worked in sets of fours, and when this happened Dale and Owen's usual companions were Andrews and a short, stout French-Canadian named Jean Colette. Colette was good-natured to the last degree and full of fun in the bargain.

"Vat is de use to cry ven de t'ing go wrong," he would say. "My fadder he say you mus' laugh at eferyt'ing, oui! I laugh an' I no geet seek, neffair! I like de people to laugh, an' sing, an' dance. Dat ees best, oui!"

"You're right on that score," said Owen. "But some folks would rather grumble than laugh any day."

"Dat is de truf. Bon! You play de feedle, de banyo; he play de mout' harmonee an' sing, an' yo' are happy, oui? I like dat. No bad man sing an' play, neffair!" And the little man bobbed his head vigorously.

"What a difference between a man like Colette and that Ducrot!" said Dale to Owen, later on. "Yet they come from the same place in Canada, so I've heard."

"Well, there are good men and bad in every town in Maine," answered Owen sagely. "Locality has nothing to do with it."

The fact that Dale and Owen could play and sing was a source of pleasure to many in the camp, and the pair were often asked to "tune up," as the lumbermen expressed it. There was also another violin player at hand, and many of the men could sing, in their rough, unconventional way, so amusement was not lacking during the cold winter evenings. More than once the men would get up a dance, jigs and reels being the favorite numbers, with a genuine break-down from Jeff, the cook, that no one could match.

Winter came on early, as it usually does in this section of our country, and by the end of October the snow lay deep among the trees of the forest, while the pond and the river presented a surface of unbroken ice, swept clear in spots by the wind. For many days the wind howled and tore through the tall trees, and banked up the snow on one side of the cabin to the roof. The thermometer went down rapidly, and everybody was glad enough to hug the stove when not working.

"This winter is going to be a corker, mark my words," observed Owen.

"I know that," answered Dale. "I found a squirrel's nest yesterday and it was simply loaded with nuts. That squirrel was laying up for a long spell of cold."

Yet the lumbermen did not dress as warmly when working as one might suppose. A heavy woolen shirt, heavy trousers, strong boots, and a thick cap was the simple outfit of more than one, and even Dale and Owen rarely wore their coats.

"Swinging an ax warms me, no matter how low the glass is," said Owen. "And I haven't got to pile any liquor in me either."

Often, while deep in the woods, the two young lumbermen would catch sight of a wolf or a fox, attracted to the neighborhood by the smell of the camp cooking. But though the beasts were hungry they knew enough to keep their distance.

"But I don't like them so close to me," said Owen. "After this I'm going to take my gun to work with me," and he did, and Dale took with him a double-barrelled pistol left to him by his father. Some of the others also went armed, and one man brought in a small deer from up the river, which gave all hands on the following Sunday a dinner of venison—quite a relief from the rather wearisome pork and beans, or corned beef, cabbage, and onions.

"To bring down a deer would just suit me," said Dale.

"Just wait, your chance may come yet," answered Owen, but he never dreamed of what was really in store for them.

It was a bitter-cold day in November that found the pair working on something of a ridge, where stood a dozen or more pines of extra-large growth. Each worked at a tree by himself, while Andrews and Jean Colette were some distance away, working in the spruces.

"Hark!" cried Dale presently. "Did you hear that?"

"It was a gun shot, wasn't it?" questioned Owen, as he stopped chopping.

"Yes. There goes another shot. Do you suppose one of the men are after another deer?"

"Either that, or else there are some hunters on the mountain. If they are hunters I hope they don't shoot this way."

"So do I, Owen. Only last year a hunter up here took one of the choppers for a wild animal and put a ball through his shoulder."

"If they shoot this way and I see them I'll give 'em a piece of my mind. They ought to be careful. A fellow——Hark!"

Both listened and from a distance made out a strange crashing through the underbrush of the forest. Then came a thud and more crashing.

"It's a wild animal, coming this way!" sang out Dale. "Better get your gun."

"Perhaps it's a bear!" ejaculated Owen, and lost no time in dropping his ax and picking up his gun.

The crashing now ceased for a moment, and the only sound that reached their ears was the moaning of the wind through the treetops far overhead. The wind was blowing up the hillside, so that the wild beast, if such it really was, could not scent them.

Another shot rang out, from the same direction as the first. This appeared to rouse up whatever was in the wood, and the crashing was resumed with increasing vigor.

"It's coming, whatever it is!" sang out Dale, and pointed out the direction with his hand.

Hardly had the words left his lips when the underbrush and snow beyond the ridge were pushed aside and into the opening staggered a magnificent moose, with wide-spreading antlers and wild, terror-struck eyes. The game limped because of a wound in the left flank, and there was another wound in the side, from which the blood was flowing freely.

"A moose!" shouted Owen, and raising his gun he took hasty aim and fired at the beast.

Now, although Owen was a good woodsman, he was only a fair shot, and the charge in the gun merely grazed the moose's back. It caused the animal to give an added snort of pain. It stopped short for an instant, then its eyes lighted on Dale, and with another snort it leaped forward with lowered antlers directly for the young lumberman!

It leaped forward with lowered antlers directly for the young lumberman.

Bang! went Dale's pistol, and the bullet struck the moose in the forehead. But the rush of the animal was not lessened, and in a twinkling the youth was struck and hurled over the ridge into the gully below, and the moose disappeared after him!

CHAPTER VII

THE DANGERS OF LOG-ROLLING

The attack by this monarch of the Maine forest had been so sudden that Dale had no time in which to leap out of the way or do anything further to defend himself. Down he went, into a mass of rough rocks and brushwood, and the moose came almost on top of him.

With bated breath, Owen saw youth and beast disappear. His heart leaped into his throat, for he felt that his chum must surely be killed. Then he gave a yell that speedily brought Andrews and Colette to the scene.

"What is it?" demanded Andrews.

"A wounded moose! He just knocked Dale over the bluff."

"Ees he killed?" screamed Colette.

"I hope not. Come, help me."

Owen had now recovered somewhat from his first scare and he picked up his ax. Running to the edge of the ridge he looked over, and saw the moose as the beast struggled to get up on the top of the rocks below.

In the meantime Dale was not idle. Fortunately his fall was not a serious one, for he landed in a mass of thick brushwood, thus saving himself one or more broken bones. From this point he slipped into a hollow and the next instant felt the side of the moose pressing him on the shoulder.

The animal was suffering from loss of blood, and its efforts to regain its feet were wild and ineffectual. The sharp hoofs worked convulsively and one, catching Dale on the shoulder, cut a gash several inches long. Then the moose rolled in one direction, and the young lumberman lost no time in rolling in another.

It was at this point in the conflict that Owen came down to Dale's assistance, leaping from the bluff above, ax in hand. After him came Andrews and Colette, the latter armed with both his ax and an old French fowling-piece.

"Hit him, Owen!" panted Dale. "Hit him in the head!"

"I will—if I can," was the answer, and Owen advanced swiftly but cautiously.

"Stop! I shoot heem!" screamed Jean Colette, and raised his fowling-piece. Bang! went the weapon, and the moose received a dose of bird-shot in his left flank, something which caused him to kick and struggle worse than ever.

Owen now saw his opportunity, and, bending forward, he dealt the moose a swift blow on the shoulder. The beast struck back, but Owen leaped aside, and then the ax came down with renewed force. This time it hit the moose directly between the eyes. There was a cracking of bone and then a convulsive shudder. To make sure of his work, the young lumberman struck out once more, and then the game lay still.

"Yo—you've finished him," said Dale, after a pause.

"Yes, he's dead," put in Andrews, as he gave the game a crack with his own ax, "for luck," as he put it.

"Vat a magnificent creature!" exclaimed Colette. "Bon! Ve vill haf de fine dinnair now, oui?" And his eyes twinkled in anticipation.

"Did he hurt you?" asked Owen, turning from the game to his chum.

"He gave me a pretty bad dig with his hoof," was the reply. "I guess I'll have to have that bound up before I do anything else. He came kind of sudden, didn't he?"

"Those hunters up the mountain drove him down here. I suppose they'll be after him soon."

"Doesn't he belong to us, Owen? You killed him."

"That's a question. They wounded him pretty badly—otherwise he would never have stumbled this way."

"I'd claim the game," came from Andrews. "Somebody wounded him, it's true, but they would never have gotten the moose."

Leaving Andrews and Colette to watch the game, Dale, accompanied by Owen, walked back to camp, where he had his wound washed and dressed. The cut was a clean one, for which the young lumberman was thankful. Some salve was put on it; and in the course of a couple of weeks the spot was almost as well as ever.

The shots had been heard by a number of the other lumbermen, and a dozen gathered around and walked to the gully to look at the moose. It was certainly a fine creature, with a noble pair of antlers.

"If nobody comes to claim that carcass you've got somethin' worth having," was old Winthrop's comment. "But some hunter will be along soon, don't ye worry."

Yet, strange to say, no one came to put in a claim, and a few hours later the moose was placed on a drag and taken to camp. All the men had a grand feast on the meat, and the antlers and pelt were sold at a fair price to a trader who happened to come that way. The total amount was put into the cigar box by Owen.

"For it belongs to Dale as much as myself," said Owen. Jean Colette claimed nothing, for he knew that his bird-shot had had little effect on the moose.

Dale was afraid that he would run behind the others in work because of his wound. But such was not the case, for the day after the encounter at the ridge it began to snow and blow at a furious rate, so that none of the loggers could go out. The time was spent mostly indoors or at the stables where the ten horses belonging to the camp were kept. The men were never very idle, for they had their own mending to do and often their own washing. The days, too, were short, and the majority of the hands retired to their bunks as soon as it grew dark.

"This weather will bring out the sleds," observed Owen. "I guess Mr. Paxton will give orders to carry logs as soon as it clears off."

The camp boasted of four long, low double-runner sleds. These were driven by two Canadians and two Scotchmen, all expert at getting a load of logs over the uneven ground without spilling them. The horses were intelligent animals, used to logging, and would haul with all their might and main when required.

Owen was right; the sleds were brought out on the first clear day, and while the majority of the men continued to cut logs, some were set to work to make a road down to the pond and others were set at the task of loading the logs ready for transportation.

Dale had already put in a week or two at swamping, and now he and Andrews were detailed to fix a bit of the road that ran around a hilltop overlooking the stream far below. Near this spot was a long sweep of fairly even ground, sloping gradually toward the watercourse, and Joel Winthrop had an idea that many logs could be rolled to the bottom without the trouble of loading and chaining them on the sleds.

"Such a method will certainly save a lot of trouble," said Andrews, as he went out with Dale. "But the men below want to stand from under when the logs come down."

The storm had given way to sunshine that made all the trees and bushes glisten as if burnished with silver. From the hilltop an expanse of country, many miles in extent, could be surveyed—a prospect that never grew tiresome to Dale, for he was a true lover of nature, even though occupied in destroying a part of her primeval beauty.

"Just think of the days when this country was full of Indians," he said to Andrews. "It's not so very many years ago."

"Right you are; times change very quickly. Why, the first sawmill wasn't built on the Penobscot until 1818, and in those days Bangor was only a small town and many of the other places weren't even dreamed of. The Indians had their own way in the backwoods, and they used to do lots of trading with the white folks when they felt like it."

"Yes, and fought the white folks when they didn't feel like it," laughed Dale. "But then the red men weren't treated just right either," he added soberly.

"I can remember the time when these woods were simply alive with game of all sorts," went on the older lumberman. "If you wanted a deer all you had to do was to lay low for him down by his drinking place. But now to get anything is by no means easy. That moose you and Webb got is a haul not to be duplicated."

The work at the hilltop progressed slowly, but at the end of two weeks all the small trees and brushwood in the vicinity were cut down and disposed of, and then a road to the edge of the hill was leveled off and packed down.

In the meantime one of the sleds had been at work among the trees cut down just back of the edge, and these trees were now piled up in several heaps.

"We'll try some of the logs this afternoon," said Gilroy, one Friday morning, and the trial was made directly after dinner. Four logs were pushed over the edge, one directly after the other, and down they went, with a speed that increased rapidly and sent the loose snow flying in all directions. At the bottom they struck several trees left standing for that purpose and came to a stop with thuds that could be heard a long distance off.

"Hurrah! That beats sledding all to pieces!" cried Dale. "We can roll down a hundred logs while a sled is taking down a dozen."

"We can roll down all we have up here to-morrow," said Gilroy. "And the sled can go to the cut below. The biggest logs are in the hollow and it will take every team we have to get 'em out."

Yarding had already begun at the edge of the pond, and Saturday found Owen at work among a number of small trees and thick brushwood which Mr. Paxton had ordered cut away, for the head lumberman loved to see everything around his camp in what he termed "apple-pie order." This is nothing unusual among the better class of lumbermen in Maine, and they often vie with each other as to which camp presents the best appearance and whose cut of logs foots up the cleanest.

Among the logs at the hilltop was a giant tree, left standing for many years and now cut for a special purpose by old Joel Winthrop himself. A friend of his, an old sea captain, was building a schooner at Belfast, and Winthrop had promised him a mast that should stand any strain put on it.

"Aint no better stick nor thet in the whole State o' Maine," said Joel Winthrop to Andrews and Dale. "An' I want ye to be careful how ye roll it down the hill." And they promised to be as careful as they could.

It was no easy task to get the big log just where they wanted it, and it was Monday afternoon before they were ready to let it start on its short but swift journey to the edge of the pond. During the day the sky had clouded over and now it looked snowy once more.

"I guess we are ready to bid her good-by," observed Dale, as he looked the log over and measured the snowy slope with his eye.

"All ready!" sang out Andrews. "Now then, up with your stick and let her drive!"

Each was using a long pole as a lever, and each now pressed down. This started the log toward the edge, and in a second the stick began to slide downward, slowly at first and then faster and faster.

"Hullo! hullo!" sang out a voice from far below. "Don't send any more logs down just yet!"

"It's Owen calling!" gasped Dale, his face growing suddenly white. "Owen, where are you?"

"There he is!" came from Andrews, holding up his hands in horror. "There, right in the way of that log!" He raised his voice into a shriek. "Run for your life! Run, or you'll be smashed into a jelly!"

CHAPTER VIII

CHRISTMAS, AND AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

Owen heard the shriek, and although he did not understand the exact words uttered, he realized that it was meant for a warning.

He was about fifty feet up the side of the hill, ax in hand, preparing to cut down a bunch of saplings which, so far, had not been touched. The saplings had been knocked over by the other logs sent down, but the young lumberman thought it would be better if they were out of the way altogether.

Standing on something of a knob he looked up and saw the log coming down upon him, rolling and sliding with ever-increasing rapidity. That it was coming directly for him there could be no question, and for the moment his heart seemed to stop beating and a great cold chill crept up and down his backbone, while he had a mental vision of being crushed into a shapeless mass by that ponderous weight.

"Jump!" screamed Dale. "Jump, for the love of Heaven, Owen!"

"Jump! Don't wait! Jump!" yelled Owen.

And then Owen jumped, far from the knob to the portion of the slide below him. It was a flying leap of over a rod, and when he landed he struck partly on his feet and partly on his left hand. Then from this crouched-up position he took another leap, very much as might a huge frog, and landing this time on his side, rolled over and over to the bottom of the slide.

The log was following swiftly and the swish of the flying snow and ice reached his ears plainly. It had scraped a bit at the knob, placing a fraction of a second of time in his favor. But now it came on, bound for the bank of the pond, straight for the young lumberman, as before!

It is said that in moments of extreme peril persons will sometimes do by instinct that which they might not have done at all had they stopped to reason the matter out. So it was with Owen in the present case.

A short while before, a boy belonging to one of the cooks of the camp had been fishing through a hole in the ice at the edge of the pond. The boy had made for himself a hole two feet in diameter, possibly reasoning that the larger the hole the bigger the fish he might catch. The hole was still there, although covered with a thin skim of ice.

As Owen reached the bottom of the slide, the force of gravitation carried him out on the pond, close to the hole. Directly behind him was the heavy log. To escape being struck a blow he knew would be a tremendous one, he dove directly into the hole and out of sight. Like a flash the log slid over the opening, went on across the pond, and brought up against the shore opposite with a crash to be heard a long distance beyond.

"Owen is killed!" cried Dale. "The log has smashed him flat!" And for the moment he felt so weak he could scarcely stand.

"I—I don't see him," faltered Andrews nervously. He felt that if the young lumberman had really been taken off thus suddenly he would be in a measure responsible.

"We should have made certain that the slide was clear before we let the log down," groaned Dale. "Oh, this is dreadful!"

"What's the yelling about?" asked another lumberman, rushing up, and soon a dozen or more were assembled at the top of the slide.

They could see but little in the gathering darkness, and burning with anxiety to know the exact truth of the catastrophe, Dale began to let himself down the hillside by means of a pair of sharp-pointed sticks. Andrews and two others followed.

"There he is, on the ice!" cried Andrews, just before the bottom was reached.

"Sure enough!" burst out Dale. "Why, if he isn't crawling from a hole in the ice!"

"The log must have knocked him into that hole," said one of the others. "But he doesn't seem to be much hurt."

A little lighter in heart, now that he knew his chum was alive, Dale continued on his way to the pond, and reached the edge just as Owen came ashore. The latter limped a little and was dripping from head to feet with icy water.

"Owen!" For the moment Dale could say no more. "Did—did——"

"I escaped by the sk—skin of mu—mu—my teeth," was the chattered-out answer. "Help me get to wha—wha—where it's wa—wa—warm!"

"That I will!" answered Dale, and took one of Owen's arms while Andrews took the other. Between them they ran the young lumberman into the camp and up to the cabin, where they stood him close to the stove while they took off his water-filled boots and his soaked garments.

"I don't know how I got into the hole, exactly," said Owen, when the chill had passed. "I saw the hole, and the log behind me, and the next minute I was in over my head. It was a close shave, and phew! but wasn't that water icy!"

"Why didn't you jump over the log?" asked one of the men.

"It's a good t'ing he didn't dun try dat," put in Jeff, the cook. "Yeah befo' las' poor Ike Madden dun try jumpin' ober a log wot was a-rollin' down hill an' he dun got bof laigs broke an' his nose in de bargain!"

"I didn't stop to think of jumping," answered Owen. "All I knew was to get out of the way, and that at once."

"After this we'd better have a signal when we start to roll logs," said Dale, and Joel Winthrop agreed that this would be a good thing. Fortunately Owen did not suffer in the least from his unexpected bath.

The end of the year was now approaching and soon came Christmas, a cold, clear day, with the thermometer down close to zero.

"Merry Christmas!" shouted Dale to Owen, on rising, and "Merry Christmas!" rang out all over the camp.

Of course there was no work that day, and the men did what they could to amuse themselves, while Jeff was given orders to serve the best dinner the larder of the camp could afford. Several of the men had gone hunting the day before and brought in some partridges and other game, including two wild turkeys, and fish from the pond and river were not wanting. For dessert the men had a big plum-pudding, and pie was served, as on many other festal occasions, morning, noon, and night.

"It's a good variation from the everlasting beans," observed Owen. "I must say, since I've lived in and around the cities, I've got rather tired of beans four or five times a week."

"Gilroy tells me we ought not to complain," said Dale. "He says that in old times the loggers got pork and beans and salt fish and precious little else. We are better off than that."

Early on Christmas morning a handful of the lumbermen held a church service, one reading a chapter from the Bible, another reciting the ten commandments, and a third offering a short prayer. These men asked Owen and Dale to sing and play for them, and the pair complied and rendered several hymns from a tattered book one of the men owned. Then all joined in singing one or two other familiar hymns and wound up the meeting by singing "America."

"That's something like," said Dale, after the meeting was over. "It makes a fellow feel less heathenish to have some sort of a service now and then."

"Well, I always go to church when I get a chance," answered Owen. "But a lumberman doesn't get the chance very often, or a mill hand either—unless the mill is close to some settlement."

The new year found the young lumbermen again in the woods, this time a good mile from the bank of the river. Here a shack had been built, and to this place Jeff sent meals for all hands three times a day, for the men could not spend the necessary time going back and forth to the cabin.

The shack was a poor dwelling-place, and both Dale and Owen were glad when, early in February, they were ordered back to the main camp. In the meantime they heard that Mr. Paxton had taken on six new hands, for the cutting was not progressing as rapidly as the owner of the claim had anticipated.

"Well, I never!" cried Dale, on catching sight of several of the new workmen. "There is Baptiste Ducrot!"

"So it is!" declared Owen. "I thought old Winthrop said he wouldn't engage the man."

"Winthrop is away, Owen. He went last week to visit a sick relative in Lilybay."

"Then Mr. Paxton must have hired him himself."

"It's more than likely."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Make Ducrot toe the mark if I can. He took that horse, and——"

"Hold on, Dale. If you want to make him pay for the horse you had better go slow about it. Probably he hasn't any money now. Supposing you let him earn some before you let down on him."

Dale stared at his chum for a moment.

"I never thought of that before!" he cried. "Do you suppose Mr. Paxton will keep his money for him until the end of the season?"

"I shouldn't wonder. You can ask and make sure."

"I will, and I'll tell him just how matters stand," answered Dale.

Without letting Baptiste Ducrot see him he sought out the owner of the camp and told his story. Mr. Paxton listened to him patiently, whittling a stick the while with his big jack-knife.

"That's a pretty straight tale, Bradford," he said, when the youth had finished. "But can you prove positively that this Ducrot took the horse?"

"No, I can't say that I can," answered Dale bluntly. "But I'm reasonably certain that he did."

"If you have him hauled up you'll have to prove your charge. If you can't he may be able to make trouble for you for having him arrested."

"Well, what do you advise me to do, Mr. Paxton? I know I can depend on what you say."

This frankness pleased the owner of the camp, and he nodded slowly.

"My advice is that you say nothing at present. Go on working as usual and keep your eyes and ears open. Sooner or later every criminal exposes himself, if not in one way, then in another. I don't look on Ducrot as a smart customer, and if he is really guilty you'll corner him some day when he least expects it."

"Are you keeping his money for him?"

"All but two dollars a week—and I'm paying him seven and board, for men are scarce just now, and he can work well when he is put to it and kept from drink. Yes, you watch him, and I won't give him his money until I notify you first."

And so it was arranged that Dale should watch Baptiste Ducrot and do what he could to expose the fellow and bring him to book for his misdeeds.

CHAPTER IX

DALE AND OWEN SPEAK THEIR MIND

Dale and Baptiste Ducrot did not meet until two hours later, when the young lumberman was sent to a tool house to get a new ax.

They came face to face, and each stared hardly at the other. Ducrot seemed on the point of passing on, but then changed his mind.

"Hah! so you work dis place?" he said, his eyes searching Dale's features keenly.

"Yes, I work here," was the cold answer. "What is that to you?"

At this Baptiste Ducrot shrugged his lean shoulders.

"I not care, no, so long you not take my job."

"I don't want your job!" exclaimed Dale angrily. "You keep your distance and leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone."

At this the French-Canadian muttered something under his breath in his own tongue. "I not afraid of you," he added, in English.

"And I'm not afraid of you. If you try any of your dirty work again you'll be sorry for it," went on Dale, and then passed into the tool house on his errand.

At first Baptiste Ducrot was on the point of arguing further. But then he saw Owen approaching, and he slouched away through the snow, his head bent low and a wicked look on his face.

"I see you've met him," said Owen, on coming up. "What did he say?"

"Not much, Owen. What can he say?"

"Did you mention the horse?"

"No; I am going to follow Mr. Paxton's advice and lie low."

"You be careful that he doesn't play you foul, Dale. When I get the chance I'll warn him to keep his distance."

"Oh, Owen; I don't want you to get into trouble on my account," cried Dale impulsively.

"Isn't this difficulty mine as well as yours?" came quickly from the older of the pair. "Haven't we sworn to be chums through thick and thin?"

"Yes, I know, but——"

"If he knows there are two of us watching him he'll be more careful, Dale. I really think he's a coward at heart."

Several days went by before Owen got the chance he wanted. Late one afternoon he found Ducrot working in a bunch of spruces and was directed to cut down a tree near by. As he worked the French-Canadian shifted the swing of his ax in such a manner that the chips flew close to Owen, one hitting him in the neck.

"You go slow there, Ducrot!" cried Owen, stopping work at once.

"I no do not'ing," muttered the man. "I no like you holler at me."

"Stop sending your chips this way. If you don't there will be trouble, and you'll get the worst of it."

"Hah!"

"I mean what I say, and now I want you to listen to me." Owen come closer, ax in hand. "I haven't forgotten the way you treated Dale Bradford."

"I not care for dat boy."

"I know you don't. What I want to say is, after this keep your hands off of him. If you don't, I'll have you run out of this camp in jig time."

"You fight me?" demanded the French-Canadian, clutching his ax nervously.

"I can fight if it comes to it," answered the young lumberman grimly.

"Bah! I not bodder wid you," snapped Ducrot, and turned again to his work. Owen did the same. But he kept his eye on the French-Canadian, and Ducrot took care not to send any more chips flying in his direction.

In the camp there were, all told, five French-Canadians: four loggers and a cook. The cook, it may be mentioned, in passing, had charge of one-half of the cooking, while Jeff had charge of the other. The French-Canadian would have nothing to do with the colored man, and thought he could not cook at all, while the negro looked with equal disdain upon the culinary efforts of the other.

Baptiste Ducrot was on fairly good terms with one of the loggers, a wild fellow named Passamont, but he tried in vain to get into the good graces of Jean Colette.

"I not like dat feller," said Colette to Dale. "He drink, he swear, he make von beast of himself."

"You are right about that," answered the young lumberman. And then he went on: "Do you ever hear him talking about his doings before he came here?"

"Some time, oui. He make de big boast. Say he make much money an' spend him. Bah! Why not he safe somet'ing fo' de day when he rains, like you say him?"

"I know I can trust you, Colette. Will you do me a favor?"

"Favair? Sure. What shall I do?"

"If you ever hear him talking about a horse he had and sold, let me know. But don't say anything to him about it."

"A hoss? He sell a hoss an' you want to know 'bout dat? Verra good! I keep a big ear fo' dat." And then Jean Colette shut one eye tightly and gazed knowingly at Dale with the other, as if he suspected what was in the young lumberman's mind.

After this many days passed without special importance. Following the holidays the lumbermen began to look forward to the time when the ice in the rivers should break and the task of getting the winter's cut to market should begin. Cutters, swampers, sled tenders, and drivers were all equally busy, while big logs were being rolled down the hillside nearly every day. Down by the pond and the river were four yards, where the piles of logs, big and little, grew continually. Two extra sleds had come in, and six horses, besides a team of oxen, and having returned to camp from his visit to a sick relative, Joel Winthrop was dispatched to Oldtown and Bangor to employ the best river drivers money could get for the spring rafting.

"The best drivers in the world aint none too good for this work," said one old cutter to Dale. "A poor driver can do more harm than a billy goat in a dynamite shed. If he lets the drive get away from him and jam up where it hadn't ought to, every lumberman on the river will feel like kicking him full o' holes for it."

Down at the yards work had already begun on the logs, so that when the lower end of the river was reached, Mr. Paxton could identify his property from the property of scores of other lumbermen. In order to know their own logs each lumberman or firm has a private mark, which is cut in deeply on every log sent down the stream. The marks are numerous, consisting of figures, letters, crosses, stars, daggers, and numerous combinations of these. Mr. Paxton's mark was two I's, an X, and two I's—II X II—and not a log was made ready for shipment until the yard foreman was assured that this mark was cut in it in such a fashion that the rough passage down the various waterways to the mills or booms should not efface it.

"We are going to have a corking cut this year," said Owen, one day, after looking over the lumber piles. "Old Foley says he can count up eighty thousand feet more of timber than he had last year at this time."

"Well, that ought to please Mr. Paxton," answered Dale. "But what was he saying to you just before I came up? You mentioned a ride on a sled."

"He wanted to know if I'd drive over to the Gannett camp for him. He wants some things from there."

"Of course you said you'd go. It will be a fine drive over the hills."

"Yes, I said I'd go, and he said I could take you if I wished."

"Hurrah, just the thing!" shouted Dale. "I've been wanting a holiday. Working in the woods every day in this splendid weather is rather tiresome."

The matter was talked over, and it was decided that the pair should start early the following morning. They had a good stout sleigh belonging to Mr. Paxton, and one of the best teams the camp afforded. As the Gannett camp was thirty miles away, and the snow in some spots was unusually deep, they were to take some provisions with them, and make the trip a two-days' one.

"I don't want you young fellows to starbe on de way," said old Jeff. "So I dun cooked you a fust-class dinnah an' put it in de basket." And he brought it out to them and saw it stowed away safely in the back of the sleigh.

Some of the men had relatives working at the other camp, and the young lumbermen carried a number of letters in addition to the order Mr. Paxton gave them. There were also two saws to carry and two iron camp kettles; so the sleigh was well loaded when they started off.

"This is going to be just the finest ride that ever was," said Dale enthusiastically, as he cracked the whip. "I couldn't think of anything better."

"If we don't get stuck in a snowdrift," returned Owen. "The drifts must be pretty deep between the hills."

"We'll have to stick to high ground then."

"That isn't always so easy."

"Barton said the road was open."

"He was over it ten days ago. Since that time we have had some pretty heavy winds, and a light fall of snow in the bargain."

"Well, we'll pull through somehow," said Dale confidently.

"Of course we will!"

Away they went, to the westward of the camp proper, and then along a road leading up the first of the series of hills. The sun shone brightly and not a cloud showed itself in the sky. On each side of them were the long stretches of pine and spruce, many of the trees heavily laden with snow, their bottom branches hidden in the shroud that covered the ground. Not a sound broke the stillness outside of the muffled hoof-beats of the team as they moved along as swiftly as the condition of the trail permitted.

At the top of the first hill was a small clearing, and here they pulled up to take a look around. Nothing but the trees, brushwood, and snow and ice met their gaze, and when the horses stopped moving the silence became even more impressive.

"It's grand, isn't it?" was Owen's comment. "How a fellow can give this up for a stuffy life in the city is more than I can understand."

"And yet they do do it, Owen, and some of those same fellows couldn't be dragged back to this after once they are away from it."

"Well, everybody to his own fancy, Dale. But outdoor life suits me. I'd die boxed up in a big city like Boston or New York. I was down in Boston once, and when I walked through one of the narrow streets, with its big buildings, I felt just as if a hand was on my chest, squeezing the breath out of me."

"I know it, Owen. And yet, what do you think? Last year, when I was up to 'Suncook Lake, there was a machinist from Bridgeport there, and the second morning after he landed he told me he hadn't slept a wink the night before because it was too quiet! Of course, he was piling it on, but, just the same, he left for a livelier place that night."

CHAPTER X

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE WOODS

Noon found them more than halfway on their journey. The pull up one of the hills had been a tough one and the horses were perfectly content to rest in the shelter of a clump of trees and munch up the oats brought along for them.

Finding another sheltered nook the two young lumbermen chopped down some brushwood and a few dry branches and soon had a roaring fire started. Over this they made themselves a pot of coffee and warmed up some of the eating brought along. It was a good meal and thoroughly enjoyed.

"What fun a fellow could have on a hunting trip for a week or two!" observed Dale. "I saw half a dozen partridges on the road and some tracks that looked like those of a deer."

"Yes, indeed, Dale. But we have got to attend to work, or our savings account won't be near as large as you want it when we reckon up in the spring." Owen said this dryly, for saving was still a sore subject with him, although for every dollar put in the box by his chum he faithfully placed another beside it.

They had brought a gun along, and kept their eyes open for the possible appearance of some big game—not wishing to waste their limited ammunition on anything small. But nothing larger than a fox appeared, and this animal lost no time in seeking cover as soon as discovered by Owen.

The end of the trip was down into a broad valley bordering a long, narrow lake. Here the road was narrow and uneven and more than once they had all they could do to keep the turnout from going over and spilling them and the contents into the snow.

"I'll get out and make sure of the path," said Owen at last, and went on ahead, with a long, sharp stick, which he stuck into the snow at every place that looked doubtful. Thus they avoided more than one dangerous hollow and reached ground as safe as it was level.

The coming of the two young lumbermen was something of an event in the Gannett camp, and those who were looking for letters crowded around eagerly. Gannett himself, a tall, thin logger, all of six feet four inches in height, greeted them cordially as he gave the hand of each a tight squeeze.

"Deownright glad to see ye," he drawled. "Guess ye had a kind of bumpin' ride a-gittin' over, didn't ye?"

"It wasn't as smooth as it might be," answered Owen.

"Well, hardly. I hain't forgot the last time I druv over, not by er jugful! Got spilt out twict, an' the second time I went into er holler headfust, clar to my boots! Ye done uncommon well not to spill over."

"The road at our end is good enough; it's your end that needs looking after," put in Dale, and told how Owen had got out and walked.

"Yes, I know the road is putty bad in my camp," said Philander Gannett. "But, ye see, I hain't calkerlatin' ter stay here another season. I'm going to t'other end o' the lake. The timber here aint fit fer telegraph poles, much less boards,—an' I aint a-workin' fer them pulp mills an' a-spilin' my timber a-doin' of it."

The camp, in many respects, was similar to that run by Luke Paxton, so there was nothing of novelty to interest the two young lumbermen. Yet, after the team was cared for, they took a look around the various buildings and around the yard at the lake front. At supper time they ate with Philander Gannett and several of his foremen.

"How long have you been cutting in this neighborhood?" asked Owen, during the meal.

"This aint but the second season," was Gannett's reply. "Ye see, I bought this tract from a Boston man, named Jefferson Wilbur—him as owns thet fancy lodge over to Pine Tree Lake. Wilbur used to run two camps up here in Maine, but he got sick o' it, an' now I understand he's a-puttin' his money in timber lands in the Far West, Oregon and Washington."

"Oregon!" repeated Dale, and his mind went back to the mining venture in Oregon, in which his father had invested so much money.

"Exactly. He says thet place is the only one to get rich in, an' I reckon he's right—leas'wise, I don't think I'm a-goin' to git rich here."

"What part of Oregon is his lumber claim located in?"

"His money is in a company thet has miles and miles o' timber land along the big rivers. He told me the names, but I've forgotten 'em."

"I've seen his lodge on Pine Tree Lake," said Owen. "It's a handsome place and must have cost a neat sum to build."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars, so he told me. An' him an' his family aint there more'n two months out of twelve. Does beat all how some folks kin throw away money," concluded Philander Gannett, with a sigh.

"I wish I could meet this Jefferson Wilbur," said Dale to Owen, when they were retiring to the bunk to which they had been assigned. "I'd like to ask him if he knows anything about that mine my father lost his money in."

"Most likely he doesn't, Dale. Oregon is a big State, and the lumber people don't come much in contact with the miners, I guess. And, besides, this Wilbur is a Boston man, not a Westerner."

The business that had brought Dale and Owen to the camp had been concluded before retiring, so there was nothing to keep the young lumbermen from starting on the return as soon as they arose on the morning following. They were given a hearty breakfast of pancakes, fried potatoes, salt fish, and coffee, and another lunch was stowed away in the basket they carried. Then came some letters for those at the Paxton camp, and away they went, with a crack of the whip, and a dozen men giving them a parting wave of the hand as they disappeared among the trees.

The day was not as clear as they had anticipated. The sun was hidden by a number of dark clouds, and there was a damp feeling in the air, as of snow.

"We'll be lucky if we get back before the storm lets down on us," observed Owen, with an anxious look at the sky. "And I shouldn't be surprised if the storm proved a heavy one."

"Well, the team ought to make as good time getting back as they did in coming, Owen. And we needn't stop so long for dinner as we did yesterday."

Dale walked ahead this time, and soon what they considered the most dangerous part of the road was passed. Then Dale hopped in beside his chum, and away they went, at the best speed the team could command.

It lacked still an hour of noon when the first flakes of the coming storm fell upon them. They were large flakes, and floated down as lightly as so many feathers. Then they grew thicker and thicker, until the landscape on all sides was obscured by them.

"We are going to have our hands full keeping to the road now," said Owen, shading his eyes with his palm. "I must say I can't see much."

"The horses ought to know their own tracks."

"That is true."

Fifteen minutes went by, and the snow kept growing thicker and thicker. Owen was on the point of pulling up, when of a sudden one of the horses gave a snort and reared up violently.

The act was so unexpected that Dale and Owen were completely astonished. Both clutched the lines and held on while the sleigh began to go backwards in a semicircle.

"Whoa, Billy!" roared Owen. "Whoa! What in the world is the matter with you?"

"A bear!" cried Dale, and stared ahead. He was right; a bear had appeared in the road, directly in front of the team. Now the second horse began to rear and snort, and the sleigh moved back faster than ever.

"A bear!" cried Dale.

"Get the gun!" cried Owen. "I'll hold the lines!"

The weapon was behind the seat, under a patch of oilskin cloth, and it took Dale several seconds to secure it. By that time the bear had crossed the road, and they could hear the beast crashing along in the timber beyond.

"Where is he?"

"Gone, over there!" Owen gripped the lines tighter than ever. "Whoa, Billy! Whoa, Daisy! Whoa, I tell you, or we'll have a smash-up sure. Whoa!"

But the team was thoroughly scared, and continued to snort and plunge. Snap! went one strap and then another, and a sharp crack told that one of the runners of the sleigh was broken likewise.

The young lumbermen had been rounding a bend of the hill trail. Just ahead the road was level enough, but to the rear it sloped away to a hollow, filled with scrub pine, brushwood, and drifted snow. Owen was afraid that they would go into this hollow, and they did, with a suddenness that left them no time in which to leap to a point of safety.

Down went the sleigh, turning completely over and burying Dale and Owen beneath it. The horses came down too, and began to flounder at a furious rate in the snow and the bushes.

It looked as if both Dale and Owen might be killed as the result of the accident, but the soft snow at the bottom of the hollow saved them from all harm but a few scratches. Both sank between two rather stout bushes, while the sleigh landed on the top of the undergrowth and stuck there, just over their heads. Then the horses, by some miraculous means, gained their feet once more, and dashed down the remainder of the slope, until a line of scrub pines barred their further progress. Here they stood still, panting, but evidently satisfied that their present danger was over.

"Dale!" It was nearly a minute later when Owen crawled forth and freed his mouth from snow sufficiently to speak. "Dale, are you alive?"

"I—I guess I am—I don't know for sure," was the spluttered-out answer. "What a tumble that was!"

"There are the horses, down by the trees. I'm glad they didn't run any farther."

"The sleigh is a wreck!" said Dale, gazing sorrowfully at the upturned outfit. Then he looked at the gun which was still in his grasp. "It's lucky this didn't go off and hit one of us. Where is that bear?"

Both gazed around, but the beast was not in sight. Then they looked at the wrecked sleigh, at the horses, and then at each other.

"We're in a pickle, Owen!"

"It's a pretty snowy one, Dale. See what you can do with this sleigh, while I go and secure those horses. If they get away we shall be in a fix."

Securing the animals was easy, and a few gentle words soon quieted them down. Then Owen tied them fast and returned to where he had left Dale.

On examination they found that one of the runners of the sleigh was cracked, but not broken completely off, and around the cracked portion they wound some stout cord, making it almost as strong as before. Then they turned the outfit right side up and searched about for the load, which had been spilled in all directions.

"It's snowing harder than ever," said Dale. "And some of the things I can't see anywhere."

"I've got to mend that harness," came from his chum.

Owen went down to patch up the broken straps, while Dale continued to hunt for the missing things. As the younger of the two had said, the storm was increasing, and both felt that the troubles of the trip were by no means at an end.

CHAPTER XI

SPRINGTIME IN THE CAMP

When Owen returned with the horses, Dale had found everything but a bag of shot that had been resting in the back end of the sleigh when the catastrophe occurred.

"I can't find the shot anywhere," he said. "It was so heavy that it has sunk clear out of sight."

"Well, we can't waste time here," was Owen's reply. "Come, help me hitch up the team and we'll be on our way."

They were soon ready to move, and then came the task of getting the turnout back to the road at the top of the hollow. Before making the start Owen tested the ground and the snow in several directions with a stick.

"We'll try it this way," he said, pointing out the course. "You take hold of Billy and I'll try to handle Daisy."

With some misgivings, the start was made. The horses lurched and plunged, and the sleigh creaked and groaned as if ready to go to pieces then and there.

"One more pull and we'll be up!" cried Owen. "Now then, get up, Daisy! get up, Billy!"

The team did its best, and now the sleigh was at the very edge of the trail above. Here was a steep incline of several yards. Billy slipped and Dale came close to going under the animal's hoofs. But horse and youth regained their positions, and with a final jerk the horses reached a firm footing, and the turnout and the young lumbermen came after them.

"Phew! That's a good job done!" panted Owen, coming to a halt for breath.

"You're right, Owen. I was afraid we'd have to give it up," panted Dale in return.

"Here is the bag of shot. It must have fallen out of the sleigh when the horses first took fright."

"Do you think that bear will bother us any more?"

"I hope not. But you had better keep the shot-gun handy. I'll take the reins and try to keep them under control, no matter what happens."

The sky had grown darker, and the snow was now coming down in smaller flakes. These appeared to grow harder, and presently the wind came up, driving the flakes into their faces like so much salt.

"We're up against a regular snowstorm, and no mistake," remarked Owen. "We'll be lucky if we reach camp to-night."

"We'll have to reach camp," answered Dale hastily. The prospect of spending a night among the hills, with no shelter, and with a big bear in that vicinity, did not appeal to him.

"We'll do the best we can, Dale. I can't see the road, can you?"

"Not more than a yard or two ahead of the horses. But they ought to be able to keep the trail. They know they are going home."

"If they don't get scared again."

On they went, the sleigh making scarcely a sound, excepting where it scraped over some wind-swept rock or an exposed tree root. Both of the young lumbermen kept on guard for a possible encounter with wild animals, but not so much as a rabbit appeared to disturb them.

"Well, we've got to trust to luck," came from Owen, at last. "I can't see a thing now."

"Nor I, Owen. Shall we get out and walk?"

"No. Let us make ourselves comfortable in the sleigh, and the horses can take their own time about covering the ground."

They settled back, expecting the team to slow down. Instead both Billy and Daisy showed a strong inclination to increase their speed. Then, a few minutes later, they shot past a clump of trees that looked strongly familiar to Owen.

"Whoop!" he shouted, straightening up. "I know where we are now, Dale. Five minutes more and we'll be in sight of camp."

"Good enough," responded Dale, and he too began to watch through the heavy snow. On and on they went, the team kicking up the snow briskly, as if aware that the toilsome journey would soon be at an end. Then they made a turn or two, came down under some wide-arching pines, and Dale gave a shout:

"The camp! I see the lights!"

He was right, and soon they were coming up to the doorway of the big cabin. A loud shout brought out several of the lumbermen, including Mr. Paxton.

"You did well to get home in this storm," said the camp owner. "I thought sure I wouldn't see you until to-morrow."

"We came pretty close to getting left on the road," answered Owen. "I'll tell you about it after the turnout is put away."

It was only a short while after this that they were seated at the long deal table, close to the red-hot stove, eating a generous supper and relating their tale, to which the men listened with keen interest.

"A bear!" cried Mr. Paxton. "It's a good thing he wasn't real hungry. If he had been he'd most likely have chewed one of you up."

"I not like the bear," came from Jean Colette. "I meet heem vonce—in de woods. He come up an' want to hug me. Bon! I run one, two miles to geet avay. He come after me. I climb de tree. He climb too. Den I drop down an' run some more. He run too. I swim de pond, an' run an' run, till I 'most drop dead. Den I am safe. No, Jean Colette, he not like de bear, only when he is dead an' in de pot!"

At this honest speech many laughed, which did not hurt Colette's feelings as might have been expected. The only one who showed his disdain was Baptiste Ducrot.

"Huh! I not run from de bear," he sniffed. "I keel two bear vonce—one wid a gun an' de udder wid a knife," and then he related the story to such of the crowd as cared to listen. It was a hair-raising tale and some enjoyed it, but it is doubtful if anybody believed Ducrot.

"He's a blower," was Gilroy's comment. "He loves to make us believe he's a wonderful fellow, but I don't see it."

The young lumbermen were afraid that their employer might find fault with them over the broken sleigh and harness, but Mr. Paxton said that he thought they had done very well, all things considered.

"I had a little mare get scared over a bear once," he said. "She ran away with me and threw me into the river and smashed the chaise to flinders. A horse has no love for a bear, and even a bobcat makes them uneasy sometimes."

The fall of snow lasted for several days. But after that the weather changed greatly, and soon the old lumbermen announced that the first of the spring thaws was at hand. The sun grew warmer, and during the middle of the day the snow melted rapidly in the nooks that were sheltered from the north wind and exposed to the sunlight.

Old Joel Winthrop had already reached camp with two expert log drivers, and the work along the pond and the river went on unceasingly. Every log brought down to the yards had been marked, and now began the task of forming the rafts or drives that would be started on their long journey to boom or mill as soon as the river got to running freely.

"I'd like to go down with one of the drivers," said Dale.

"So would I, Dale," answered Owen. "But I guess we had better stay here as long as the work holds out. There is no telling what employment we'll be able to get after we leave the camp."

"I know that, although I am sure John Larson or Peter Odell will give us work if they want men."

A week later came the announcement that the ice in the river was breaking up. The whole camp was now a mass of slush and mud, and nobody thought of wearing anything but boots when he moved about. The last of the logs from the hills were coming down, and these were yarded at the extreme end of the pond, for Mr. Paxton was going to hold them back until the driving on the river was nearly over.

"May get an extra order at the last minute," he explained. "Then the new cut can go in with the hold-overs."

One fine spring day found Owen and Dale bound for the extreme northwest limit of the Paxton claim. Mr. Paxton had heard something about the man on the next claim cutting some of his lumber, and he wanted to find out if it was so.

"You know my line," he said to Owen. "It's a cut like this." He showed them with a pencil. "All the timber this side of that line is mine."

The two young lumbermen went on horseback, each carrying a shot-gun, hoping to bag some game on the trip. The mud and the water running along every tiny watercourse did not daunt them, and each was in the best of spirits.

"Our ride will take us close to Pine Tree Lake," said Dale, as they pushed on. "If we find everything O.K., let us go to the lake and take a look at the fine lodge belonging to Mr. Jefferson Wilbur."

"I'm willing, if it doesn't take too long, Dale."

"Of course the lodge is locked up now, but perhaps there is a caretaker there who will show us through. Or, if there isn't, we can look around the outside and through the stables anyway."

The young lumbermen kept their eyes wide open for game, and succeeded in getting half a dozen birds of good size. But nothing else appeared, much to their disappointment.

It lacked an hour of noon when they reached the row of firs marking the boundary of the Paxton claim. The blazes on the trees were plainly to be seen, and they followed the line from end to end without much trouble.

"Nobody has cut any timber here," was Owen's comment. "Some hunters have cut down some firewood, but that is all. It's a false alarm."

"And we've had the journey for nothing," added Dale. "But I've enjoyed the trip, haven't you?"

"I should enjoy it more if we could spot some good game."

"Well, the day isn't over yet."

From the northwest corner of the claim was a narrow trail leading to the south shore of Pine Tree Lake, a body of water quarter of a mile wide by three-quarters of a mile long. In the middle of the lake was a long narrow island, on which grew a magnificent pine tree, which gave to the lake its name.

"Looks almost good enough to take a swim in," remarked Dale, as they came out on the lake shore.

"I dare you to take a plunge," said Owen.

"Done!" was the reply. "I don't take a dare from anybody."

"Let us take a look at the lodge first," went on Owen.

They could see the place, but a short distance away, standing on something of a bluff. At the edge of the bluff was a set of steps running to a tiny wharf, on which was built a boathouse. The lodge was a low, rambling structure, built of logs and stone, with quaint carvings and curious casements.

"It's queer he didn't build more of a city-looking house while he was spending his money," said Owen, as they came closer.

"Oh, I guess he wanted something that looked like the backwoods, Owen. No doubt he gets tired of city life and city houses."

There was no fence around the lodge, and they rode up the broad pathway, and then around the corner of the building. As they did this they saw a man disappear into the building through a window opening on a low porch.

"Hullo!" cried Dale. "Who was that?"

"It's queer he went through the window," returned Owen.

"It was queer. Let us see who it was," went on Dale, and dismounted at the side of the porch. Then he went to the open window and peered inside, never dreaming of the surprise in store for him.

CHAPTER XII

THE LODGE AT PINE TREE LAKE

"You had better go slow, Dale," whispered Owen, who was close behind his chum. "That man may not belong here and may be a desperate character."

"Do you mean he may be a thief?" whispered Dale, in return.

"Why not? There must be a good many things of value in this lodge."

"I guess they take most of the things away during the winter."

"Not everything. Do you see anybody?"

"No. But I—hark!"

Dale raised his hand, and both became silent. From a room on the other side of the lodge came a murmur of voices.

"Did you see anybody around, Ducrot?"

"Nobody is near de place," was the answer. "I look around verra good."

"It is Baptiste Ducrot!" exclaimed Dale, in a low voice. "I am sure he is here for no good."

"Who is with him?"

"I don't know, but he isn't a Frenchman."

Both young lumbermen left the window and took their way with the horses to a summer-house standing a short distance away. Here their steeds were tied up, out of sight of the lodge.

"I am going to investigate this," said Dale. "Did you know Ducrot had left the camp?"

"He got leave of absence yesterday," answered Owen. "He was to be back by next Tuesday. I heard him speaking to Mr. Paxton about it."

"I'm going to carry my shot-gun," went on Dale, as they moved forward once again in the direction of the lodge.

On the opposite side of the building was a mass of shrubbery growing close to several windows. Although there were no leaves on the bushes, the branches were numerous and afforded a fairly good place of concealment.

"There is an open window," whispered Owen. "We can hear something from under that."

They crawled to the spot he indicated, and listened intently. Two men were in the room beyond—Ducrot and the stranger, a good-for-nothing hunter and trapper named Link Axton, who had been under arrest more than once for killing game out of season.

"The caretaker is taken care of," Link Axton was saying. "He won't be back here for two days," and he gave a self-satisfied chuckle.

"We take de t'ings away to-morrow mornin' at seex o'clock," came from Baptiste Ducrot. "I haf de boat waitin' at de river an' you geet de wagon. Den we make de big money." And he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"You're a good one, Bap!" laughed Link Axton. "And the folks over to the camp think you are as honest as the day is long, too!" He uttered another chuckle. "Are you going back after this little job is over?"

"I go back to geet my money," answered the French-Canadian. "Den I tell Paxton I have de udder job, ha! ha!"

"And we'll have a good time over to Sandybay," went on Link Axton. "Is that where you sold that hoss of Larson's?"

"Dat de place, Link. But you not say anyt'ing 'bout him some more," said Ducrot, with a warning shake of his finger.

The talk went on for half an hour, and Dale and Owen learned that the unscrupulous pair had sent the caretaker of the lodge a decoy letter summoning him to Milo, on supposed business for his employer. They had packed up many articles of value in the lodge, and intended to take them away by wagon to the river at daybreak the next day. The stolen goods were afterwards to be placed on a boat, but where they were to be taken after that was not mentioned.

"I guess we have heard enough," whispered Owen to his chum. "Come," and he led the way from the lodge to where the horses had been left.

"What do you think is best to do?" demanded Dale. "Of course we are not going to let those fellows run off with the stuff."

"To be sure not," answered Owen. "To my mind it will be best to catch them red-handed at the work. Then there will be no trouble in convicting them."

"Do you mean we had best go back and let Mr. Paxton know what is up?"

"Yes, either him or the sheriff of the county."

"Did you hear them talk about John Larson's horse?"

"Yes, Dale. Ducrot took the horse beyond a doubt, and he was sold somewhere around Sandybay."

It was decided that they get back to camp with all speed. They left the vicinity of the summer-house by a back path, keeping well out of sight of the lodge. As soon as they felt free to do so, they set off at a gallop, and reached the camp long before sundown.

Mr. Paxton was glad to learn that his timber had not been touched. He was amazed at the story they had to tell concerning Ducrot and Link Axton, and agreed with Owen that the sheriff of the county must be notified at once. This was not easy, and while Dale went off with Gilroy to hunt up that official, who lived a good many miles away, Mr. Paxton, Owen, Andrews, and three others who could be trusted, made their plans to leave the camp at midnight.

"That will bring us to the lodge in time to stop this game," said the owner of the claim. "And if the sheriff isn't on hand we'll hold the rascals till he puts in an appearance."

Owen was sure that Jean Colette could be counted on for aid, and he was taken into the confidence of the others. His eyes snapped when he was told what was wanted of him.

"Bon! I do dat willingly!" he cried. "Ducrot is von verra bad man, oui! I not count him my countryman, no!" And he shook his head to show his earnestness.

It was not a pleasant ride back to Pine Tree Lake, for the slush on the ground made the air damp and penetrating; and the ride for Dale and Gilroy was equally disagreeable.

It lacked an hour of daybreak, when the party under Mr. Paxton gained the lake shore, and came to a halt in a cedar grove. Here the horses were tied up, and then Owen led the way forward toward the lodge.

"I see some men approaching on horseback!" called out Andrews presently.

"Dale is with them," put in Owen, after a long look. "It must be the sheriff's posse."

So it proved, and soon Sheriff Folsom reached them, followed by Dale, Gilroy, and two men who proved to be deputies.

"Just in time, I see," said the sheriff. "Seen anything of our quarry?"

"Not yet," answered Mr. Paxton.

After a brief conference the two parties separated again, one to come up at the rear of the lodge, and the other close to the boat landing. At the latter place rested a skiff, and among the shrubbery near by were a horse and a large lumber wagon.

"They must be in the house," whispered Owen to Mr. Paxton.

"Don't make a noise," was the answer. "Let the sheriff make the first move."

A few minutes later Baptiste Ducrot appeared at the side door of the lodge. He looked anxiously around, and seeing nobody disappeared again. Then he and Link Axton came from the building carrying a trunk between them, and in their outer hands several bundles. Trunk and bundles were dumped into the wagon, and the two evil-doers went back into the lodge for more of their booty.

"Now is our time," said the sheriff to his men. "Don't parley with them, but make 'em surrender at once."

He and his men moved close to the lodge door and waited, pistols in hand. Soon Ducrot and Axton came forth again, with more bundles.

"Hands up, you rascals!" shouted the sheriff, and made a show of his weapon, while the deputies followed suit.

"Caught, by hemlock!" cried Link Axton. "And just when I thought everything was all right!"

"Don't shoot!" gasped Baptiste Ducrot, in sudden terror. "I haf done noddings, no! Don't shoot!" And he began to beg for mercy in his own language.

"Do you surrender?" demanded the sheriff.

"Don't know but what I'll have to," responded Link Axton. "You've got the bulge on us. But what is it all about?" he added with an air of innocence. "We aint done no harm."

"You haven't?" put in Owen. "You were going to steal these things!"

"How do you know that?"

"We overheard your talk yesterday."

"And you are caught red-handed, Axton," put in Mr. Paxton, coming up. "I reckon this pays you up for stealing some of my timber two years ago," he continued warmly.

"Didn't steal your timber, an' wasn't stealin' nuthin' now," retorted Link Axton; yet, when the sheriff brought forth two pairs of handcuffs and adjusted one pair to his wrists he was much disturbed.

The second pair of handcuffs was for Baptiste Ducrot. He protested volubly, both in English and French, against being made a prisoner, but Sheriff Folsom would not listen to him.

"There have been enough lodges and camps robbed in this county," he said grimly. "Reckon we'll make examples of you and Axton, and that will teach the other thieves a lesson."

Under the sheriff's directions, several went into the lodge, where they found two boxes and a half-dozen other bundles tied up ready to be taken away. The things outside were brought in once more, and a man was detailed to guard the lodge until Jefferson Wilbur could be notified.

When Baptiste Ducrot understood how his talk with Axton had been overheard by Dale and Owen, and how the pair had notified Mr. Paxton and the sheriff, he was furious and shook his fist in the young lumbermen's faces.

"I not forget dat, nevair!" he cried. "I remember dat. You wait an' see!"

"I want to know about that horse that belonged to Mr. Larson," said Dale. "You sold him at Sandybay. Where is he now?"

"You fin' out yourself," growled Ducrot, and would say no more.

Under the guidance of the sheriff, Ducrot and Link Axton were transported to the county-seat, and there locked up. Dale wrote a long letter to John Larson, and the latter communicated with some people at Sandybay, with the result that the stolen horse was at last recovered. The French-Canadian had sold him for forty dollars to a lumberman known to Mr. Paxton. This lumberman attached Ducrot's wages and thus got back his money. Both Axton and Ducrot were then held to await the action of the grand jury.

"I am glad that that matter is straightened out," said Dale to Owen. "Now I shan't have to pay for that horse."

"We'll have to keep our eyes open for Ducrot," answered his chum. "When he gets out of jail he'll do us harm if he can."

"I am not afraid of him. By the way, what of the caretaker at the lodge? Did you hear anything of him?"

"Yes, he came back in a hurry when he heard the summons was a fake. He is an Englishman, named Jasper Nown. I guess he'll have a bad half-hour with Mr. Wilbur when the gentleman finds out how near he came to being robbed," concluded Owen, as the camp horn blew to call the men to their day's work.

CHAPTER XIII

A LOG JAM ON THE PENOBSCOT

Several days later came letters for Dale and Owen, which the pair read with much interest.

The communications were from Mr. Jefferson Wilbur, and he wrote to each thanking them for what they had done in his interest. He begged them to accept what he inclosed as a slight return for their services, and ended by stating that if they ever came to Boston he would be glad to have them call upon him. In each letter was a post-office money order for fifty dollars.

"That is what I call generous!" cried Owen. "I wasn't expecting a thing."

"I thought he might thank us, but I wasn't looking for money," returned Dale. "I hardly like to keep it."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I can't exactly say. It looks something like a charity."

"I don't see it in that light. He has plenty of money, and this is a substantial evidence of how he appreciates what we did."

Owen appealed to Mr. Paxton, and the camp owner told them to keep the money by all means.

"Mr. Wilbur is very rich," he said. "And he wouldn't like it at all if you returned his gift. Perhaps he'd think you wanted something larger. Thank him for his kindness and let it go at that." And in the end each penned the best letter he was able, and kept the reward.

"Our cigar-box account is growing," laughed Owen, when they counted up their savings. "Here is a clean hundred from Mr. Wilbur, and thirty-six dollars besides, and all the wages Mr. Paxton is holding back on us. Dale, we'll be rich before we know it."

"Aren't you glad you started to save when I wanted you to, Owen?"

"To be sure. But now I've really got to have some new fiddle strings. That E is patched in two places, and the G is getting all unwound. And I've got to have a new pair of boots if I am going down the river on that last drive."

"Did Mr. Paxton say he'd let you go with Herrick?"

"Yes, if I'd take charge of the boat. Will you go with me?"

"Will a duck swim? I know Herrick will let us help when there is a jam, and that's the fun of it," added Dale.

The drives had already been started on the river, and pile after pile of logs left the yards, on their long way down river and lakes to the booms and the mills. Other drives from other camps were also coming along, and at times the river presented a scene of unusual activity, quite in contrast to the dreariness of the winter just past.

Herrick was one of the old-time "Bangor boys," a log driver as good as the best. He was Yankee to the backbone, tall, thin, and "leathery," with jaws continually working on a quid of tobacco, and eyes that looked one through and through at a glance. He was a "codfish" man too, and insisted on having that dainty for his morning meal with the regularity of the sun's rising. He was usually of a mild temper, but when a jam occurred unexpectedly, his flow of language was terrific, and his sarcasm most biting. But despite this failing, the men loved to work with and under him, and he never lacked for helpers when he wanted them.

"Goin' to start the drive sun-up ter-morrer," he announced, after being in camp little short of a week. "All them as is goin' along must hump themselves an' be on hand. An' the feller as thinks log-drivin' is dangerous work or jest play hed better stay to hum."

"We'll be on hand," said Andrews.

"Who's goin' ter manage the boat?"

"I'll take care of the boat," said Owen. "Colette will be with me, and Gilroy says he is going down."

"And I am going," put in Dale.

Herrick gazed at Dale from head to foot.

"So you be a-goin', eh? Do you think it's dangerous or child's fun?"

"I don't expect any fun—I expect to work, same as I've been working," replied Dale quietly.

"He's all right, Joe," said Andrews. "He's done his full share up here all winter."

"Humph! Drivin' aint tree-cuttin', not by a jugful," muttered Herrick; but he made no further objections to having Dale along.

All told, Herrick had a crew of sixteen, including Jeff, the cook. Four men went with the driver, at the head of the drive, four followed a little further up the stream, and the remainder brought up the rear, either in the boat or on foot. The boat was a large, flat-bottomed affair, managed both with poles and with oars, and carried all the provisions for the trip, as well as numerous other articles, including dynamite, for blowing up a jam that became too dangerous and could not be started by hand power.

"We are off!" said Dale, who was with Owen. "We've got a splendid start, too."

He was right; the start of the drive was all that could be expected, and as log after log caught the current and started on its long journey, a cheer went up from those left at the camp.

"Good-by to dat camp fo' anudder yeah," came from Jeff. "We dun hab a putty good time of it, didn't we?"

"That's true," came from Owen. And he added to Dale: "Do you think we'll come up another season?"

"That is more than I can say now. I'll be willing to go back if I can't find anything better to do."

Day after day went by, and the work along the drive remained about the same. At noon the boat would tie up, and Jeff would go ashore and cook all hands a square meal, and this would either be carried to the workers in kettles, or they would come to the spot for it. At night the men slept anywhere that suited them.

Thus the first of the lakes were passed, and they found themselves drawing down to what was locally termed the Sugar-Bowl, why, no lumberman could tell. The Sugar-Bowl was a place where the river made a double turn, and in the center were several rocks, where the water swirled and foamed continually.

Dale wanted to know how the front end of the drive was making out at the Sugar-Bowl, and the news was not long in coming.

"Hold back the rest of the logs as long as you can," was the word sent back. But it was too late. Most of the timber went forward with a rush, and in less than quarter of an hour there was a jam at the rocks half an acre in extent, and growing larger every moment.

"Consarn the luck!" came from Herrick. "Why in the name of blue peter didn't ye hol' back them air logs as I told ye, Foley? Look at thet current a-roarin' over yander. Fust thing yeou know we'll be a-havin' a jam clear back to the lake, an' every lumberman on the 'Nobscot a-blamin' me for't. Git over thar with yer dog and turn thet stick around." And Foley, the man addressed, leaped to the place mentioned with his hooked pole, commonly called a cant-dog or dog. The log went over, and a few of the timbers went around the rocks in consequence, but the main part of the jam stuck tighter than ever.

"I shouldn't wonder if they'd need some dynamite there," said Owen. "But Paxton said not to use the stuff if it could be helped. It spoils too much timber."

Nearly all of the lumbermen belonging to the drive were now assembled on both sides of the river, waiting for orders and wondering how Herrick would get out of the difficulty.

"Shall I bring up some dynamite?" asked Andrews.

"Naw!" exclaimed the old log driver, in disgust. "I driv logs on this river afore thet stuff was heard of. Yeou jest stand over thar an' start them logs when I give the word." He turned to some others. "Yeou stand there, an' yeou go to them rocks an' watch thet big log thet's a-bobbin' up an' down. An' all of ye do jest as I tell ye, or somebuddy will git hurt, an' not by the logs nuther!"

With this caution Herrick leaped on the jam, with a cant-hook in one hand, and an ax in the other. Out he went, hopping from one insecure position to another. The others watched him with breathless interest. They knew that the old driver was taking his life in his hands. An unexpected turn of a timber or two, and he might go down in the midst of that jam, to be smashed into a jelly.

Dale and Owen were on the left bank of the stream, where the logs were now piled four and five deep. The water was rushing around the jam with increasing fury, and they stood in it up to their ankles. Through the flying spray they saw old Herrick begin to chop away at a big timber that had caught sideways of the river, from one rock to the next.

"That's dangerous work," was Dale's comment. "When that stick goes how is he to save himself?"

"Watch them logs!" yelled old Herrick. "When I h'ist the dog let 'em go!"

The flying spray almost hid him from view, and every man watched with bated breath. They heard the muffled blows of his ax, for he was working partly in and partly out of the water. Then came a crack like that of a gun report, as the key timber of the jam snapped in two. In the nick of time old Herrick jumped back and began to run over the logs shoreward with the agility of a trained athlete. As he came on he hoisted his cant-hook and the men let the logs go, one after another as he had directed.

It was a sight never to be forgotten. Down past the rocks and into the broad river below swept the logs, occasionally piling up as before, and then breaking away with a rush and a cracking to be heard a long way off. The men rushed hither and thither, under the head driver's directions, doing all in their power to prevent another such jam as had first occurred.

It was exciting work for Dale and Owen. The logs bobbed up and down along the shore and more than one threatened to take the young lumbermen off their feet. They were now in water up to their knees and working as hard as anybody. Herrick had come over to their side, and was issuing directions with the rapidity of a Gatling gun.

"Hump yeourselves!" he roared. "Swing thet log over! Look out or ye'll git struck. Throw thet log in fer a minit. Now then, all together on this here pile. Hump! I tell ye! I didn't take no man along to go to sleep on this job!" And everybody "humped," until he was bathed in perspiration and ready to drop from exhaustion.

Three-quarters of the logs had passed the turn and the rocks, and old Herrick and the majority of the men had gone ahead to take care of the drive at the next difficult spot, when there came another jam, this time on the rocks close to where Dale and Owen were standing.

"Gracious! this won't do!" exclaimed Owen. "See how the logs are piling up again. I'll have to release them!" And he began to move across the logs with his cant-hook.

"Look out!" came in warning from Dale, and then he ran to his chum's assistance, carrying an ax.

The pair were hard at work, turning aside one log and chopping at another, when there came a cry from up the river:

"Look out there! Danbury's drive is coming!"

Both looked up the stream and saw that the warning was true. Another drive of logs was coming on swiftly. In a twinkling it hit the back logs of the Paxton drive, and sent them up close to where Dale and Owen were standing. The spray flew in all directions, and to their horror those standing on shore saw the two young lumbermen slip and slide on the upheaving timbers and then disappear from view.

CHAPTER XIV

BERTIE AND GERTRUDE

"Those young fellows are lost!"

Such was the cry from more than one old lumberman standing on the river bank, as Dale and Owen disappeared from view amid the flying spray and upheaving timbers of the log jam.

That it was a dangerous position, fully as perilous as that from which old Herrick had emerged but a short while before, was beyond question. The drive behind was extra large, and the logs were piling up with a rapidity almost indescribable.

As Dale went down, flat on his back on two of the largest of the logs, he gave a shudder he could not repress. Like a flash he had a mental vision of being hurled under the drive, and of the others finding his crushed body long afterwards—his body and that of his chum, too.

But life is sweet to every one, and Dale did not intend to give up without a struggle. As quickly as he could he turned over, and clutching at a log that was rising above the others, he pulled himself up. Then his arm touched Owen's shoulder, and he grabbed his chum.

"Get up, quick!" he gasped. "We must get to shore somehow, or we'll go under!"

"All right, come on!" came pantingly from Owen, and off they started across the logs.

The drive was shifting in all directions, and logs rose and fell in front and on each side of them. Often they would be on the point of taking a step, when the log would bob out of sight, leaving nothing but water in its place. Then a timber would turn on them just as they hopped to another. Once Dale straddled a log, but Owen got him up in time to save him from having his leg crushed. So they kept on, gradually drawing closer to the shore.

Logs rose and fell in front and on each side of them.

"By George! they are out of it!" cried Andrews. "This way, boys, this way!"

They saw him waving his hand, and turned in that direction. It was well they did this, for the drive was shifting, so that one section near the shore swung around to the middle of the stream. But their danger was now at an end, and in a few seconds more they stood on solid ground, dripping from head to feet, and with their hearts thumping wildly in their breasts.

"Kind of a close call for you," remarked Andrews. "I wouldn't have been in your place for a thousand dollars."

"It was a close call," answered Dale. His face was pale, and he felt a strange sinking sensation all over him.

"Better rest for a spell, you and Owen too," went on Andrews, and they followed his advice and did not move on again until half an hour later. The boat contained some dry clothing, and this, when donned, made them feel fairly comfortable.

The remainder of the drive occurred without anything unusual happening, and a week later found the two young lumbermen in Bangor, where they put up at a cheap but comfortable boarding house, at which Owen was already known. The proprietors of several houses of low reputation tried to get them to take rooms elsewhere, but they would not.

"They can't catch me for a fool," said Owen. "They've got some of the poor chaps, and those fellows will be penniless in less than a month," and so it proved. Many lumbermen are reckless, and their wages are spent in drinking and gambling as soon as received. But conditions are gradually improving, and it is to be hoped that some day these boarding-house "sharks," as they are called, will be banished altogether, not alone from this territory, but also from every other Down-East lumber district.

The savings of the two young lumbermen, including the gift from Mr. Jefferson Wilbur, amounted to over three hundred dollars, a sum which both surveyed with delight, and Owen with positive astonishment.

"Three hundred and twenty-four dollars," cried Owen. "And half of it belongs to me. Why, I never dreamed I could save so much."

"It only shows what you can save if you put your mind to it," answered Dale. "We've saved this and we haven't deprived ourselves of very much either, have we?"

"Not a great deal, Dale. Once in a while I wanted some extras, but I'm just as well off, I reckon, as if I'd had 'em. What do you think we'd best do with this cash? It isn't safe in the trunk. The house might burn down."

"Let's each open a bank account of one hundred dollars," answered Dale, and this was done. They were very proud of their bank books, and looked at them a long while before stowing them away.

"The interest on a hundred dollars each year won't be much, but it will be enough to buy a fellow a good pair of boots," said Owen.

While they were in Bangor looking around for another situation, they heard news from up the river. On the day he was to be tried in court Baptiste Ducrot had escaped from jail. Where he had gone nobody knew, but the report was that he had jumped aboard a fast freight on the Canadian Pacific Railroad, and taken his flight to the Far West. Link Axton had been tried and sentenced to two years in the State penitentiary.

"Ducrot won't dare show himself here for a good many years," said Owen. "And it may be that he'll never come back."

"Well, I guess Maine can get along without him," answered Dale. "I never want to see or hear of him again."

Bangor was alive with lumbermen, and the two soon found out that the mills had all the help they wanted, and even the yards could take on no additional hands. Then they tried Oldtown, and half a dozen other places, with like result.

"We are out of it," said Dale, on Wednesday evening, after a long and unsuccessful trip. "If nothing turns up by Saturday, I'll be for going to Larson's and Odell's next Monday," and so it was arranged.

But on Friday came an offer from Mr. Paxton which both accepted without hesitation. The lumberman had taken a strong liking to Dale and Owen, and now he asked them to go back to the camp that had been left, and, along with several others, begin the task of cutting a road from the old camp, across the hills to Pine Tree Lake.

"I have purchased the Roxtell claim on the lake," said Mr. Paxton, "and I want to have a good road there before we begin to cut next fall. I'll pay you the same wages that I've been paying, and twenty cents an hour for overtime, if you want to make more."

"That suits me exactly!" cried Dale. And he added to Owen: "It will give us a chance to do some hunting and fishing."

As soon as they could make a few necessary purchases the two young lumbermen started up the river once more, and ten days later found them back at the old camp and at work on the road Mr. Paxton had had marked out.

Summer was now at hand, and the weather was clear and warm. The spring had been rather wet, but since that time the rainfall had been very slight, and, as a consequence, the forest was almost as dry as tinder and getting drier every day.

"We'll have to look out for forest fires now," observed Gilroy, who had charge of the men. "Don't make a fire anywhere unless you put it out thoroughly when you are through with it."

"It's not the lumbermen you've got to caution," answered Andrews, who was also present. "It's the fool hunter who makes a fire and then moves away without giving it a second thought."

The work was hard, and during the middle of the day the men often had to knock off for an hour, for the sun beat down mercilessly, and there was not a breath of air stirring.

"Phew! but this is like an oven," said Dale.

"What must it be down in the city?" returned Owen. "I wouldn't be living there now for double wages."

During those hot days bathing was very much in order, and Dale and Owen patronized the pond or the river, both morning and evening. Each was a good swimmer, and they consequently got a good deal of sport out of the plunges.

The building of the road occasionally took them to the vicinity of Mr. Wilbur's lodge, and they soon learned that Mrs. Wilbur had arrived there, accompanied by her two children, a little curly-haired girl of five, named Gertrude, and a manly chap of six, named Bertie. Later on a number of relatives and visitors were expected, and with them Mr. Wilbur, who was now in the West looking up his lumber interests in that locality.

"They ought to have a good time," remarked Owen. "They haven't got a thing to do but to enjoy themselves."

"I don't know that I want to be idle all the time," replied Dale. "I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"That's true, too. But I'd like to take a day off when I felt like it."

One day the young lumbermen were coming along the lake road when they espied the Wilbur children coming toward them. They were on a run, hand in hand, and came to a halt directly in front of the team.

"Give us a ride?" shouted both, in their childish treble. "Give us a ride?"

"To be sure we'll give you a ride," answered Owen good-naturedly, and brought the horses to a stand. Then he jumped to the ground and lifted up first Gertrude and then Bertie, and Dale made them safe and comfortable on the broad seat.

"Oh, let me drive!" came from Bertie, and he grasped one of the lines. Gertrude immediately secured the other, and away went the lumber wagon once more, both Owen and Dale keeping watch that nothing should go amiss.

"I'd like to be a big lumberman," observed Bertie.

"My papa is one," came from Gertrude. "He makes wood for houses, an' railroad trains, an' everyfing!"

"Good for him!" laughed Dale. "Well, maybe your brother will be a lumberman when he grows up."

"I'm 'most growed up now," came from the brother. "Aunt Fanny says when I'm all growed up I'm going to be a six-footer."

"What's a six-footer?" queried the sister. "Has it got six feet?"

"No, a six-footer is a giant," answered Bertie. "I'm going to be one."

"I don't like giants," answered Gertrude, and then turned her attention again to driving.

It was not long before they came in sight of the lodge, and here Owen wanted to drop the little passengers. But they begged to be taken "just one step further, just one little tiny step," and so to please them they went on to the end of the grounds.

They were just halting again when a burly man came rushing from the lodge. He was an Englishman, with a beefy face and a manner that showed he was exceedingly over-bearing.

"Hi! hi! stop!" he roared. "Put those children down! What do you mean by carrying them along on such a dirty wagon as that?"

"Come, we'll have to put you down now," said Owen to the little ones, and helped them to alight, without paying attention to the newcomer.

"I say, what do you mean by putting those children on your dirty wagon?" went on the Englishman wrathfully.

"They wanted a ride and we gave it to them," answered Dale.

"Well, don't you do it again." The man turned to the little ones. "Run to the house now. Your mamma is looking all over for you."

"You are very civil, I must say," said Owen dryly, and then he drove off, with Dale beside him, leaving the Englishman gazing after them with a countenance that was more wrathy than ever.

CHAPTER XV

TWO LITTLE RUNAWAYS

"That fellow must be Jasper Nown, the caretaker here," remarked Dale, after they had driven out of hearing of the man who had come after the Wilbur children.

"I guess you're right," returned Owen. He drew a long breath. "I wouldn't have him around me five minutes," he added.

"Nor I, Owen. But I guess it's the style to have an Englishman around. I know they have English butlers and English coachmen down in Boston."

"Oh, well, an Englishman is all right—you know that as well as I do. One of the best fellows I ever worked with at Odell's was Nestor, and he was an Englishman. But this fellow is one of the over-bearing, know-it-all kind."

"Perhaps he doesn't act that way when Mr. or Mrs. Wilbur is around."

"More than likely he doesn't."

The work on the new road through the woods continued day after day. During that time there was only one little shower, which scarcely wet the ground. As Dale said, everything was as dry as punk, and the bushes and trees showed that a heavy downpour was needed.

During those days the two young lumbermen had occasion to pass the Wilbur lodge several times. Once they met Jasper Nown, and he stared at them surlily, but without speaking.

"Mr. Wilbur must have scolded him for having allowed Ducrot and Axton to break into the lodge, and he must think that we are in some way responsible for the calling-down he got," said Owen, and his chum agreed that this might be so.

One afternoon they met Mrs. Wilbur out walking with Gertrude and Bertie. Both of the children recognized the young lumbermen, and set up a shout.

"Give us another ride?" came from Bertie.

"Yes, yes!" put in Gertrude. "I like to ride in that big wagon."

"Not now, dears," said Mrs. Wilbur, and then she smiled and bowed to Dale and Owen, and they tipped their caps to her. "You were kind to give them a ride the other day," she remarked sweetly.

"Oh, they were welcome," replied Owen, and Dale said something similar.

"What is your name?" asked Bertie, of Dale.

"Dale Bradford."

"And what is yours?"

"Owen Webb."

"Oh, are you the young men who caught the fellows who wanted to rob the lodge?" cried Mrs. Wilbur quickly.

"Guess we had a hand in it," answered Owen, reddening a little.

"Mr. Wilbur told me all about it. You did us a great service. Those men were going to take away some silverware that has been in our family for a hundred and forty years."

"Oh, did they catch the bad robbers?" came from Bertie. "You must be awfully brave."

"We only helped, Bertie," answered Dale.

"Some day you must come up to the lodge and call on us," went on Mrs. Wilbur.

"Thank you," answered both young lumbermen; and after a few other pleasant words they drove on, Mrs. Wilbur smiling after them, and Bertie and Gertrude waving their hands.

"She's all right," came from Owen. "She knows how to treat a fellow civilly."

"Certainly she didn't treat us as Jasper Nown did," returned Dale. "It's easy to see that she is a perfect lady." And then he thought of his own sweet mother, now gone so many years, and heaved a deep sigh.

On the following day the weather turned out unusually hot, and both Dale and Owen were glad when Gilroy told them that he wished both to go for him on an errand to the next camp, a distance of eight miles through the forest. They had to go to this place on foot, and he told them they might take their time and do a little hunting on the way.

"It beats chopping, on such a day as this," said Owen. "We can not only hunt a little, but fish too, and take a fine swim in the bargain, when we reach the head of the lake."

They started off directly after breakfast and were soon well on the way. Each had a fishing line with him, but, at the last minute, only Owen took his gun.

"I can fish while you hunt," said Dale.

Deep in the forest it was much cooler than in the open, and though the trail was unusually rough in this direction, they made fairly good progress, and by ten o'clock had reached the end of the lake Owen had mentioned. Here they stopped for a short swim, and then struck out again, resolved to do their hunting and fishing when on their way home.

Their course now took them around in the direction of one end of Pine Tree Lake. Here was a little lake called the Mirror, on account of its clearness, on the shore of which some hunters had erected a small lodge.

"The sun seems to be clouding over," remarked Dale, as they approached Mirror Lake. "It didn't look a bit like rain when we started."

"Dale, I don't believe those are clouds."

"Not clouds? What do you mean?"

"That is smoke. The forest is on fire some distance from here."

Dale sniffed the air. "I believe you are right, Owen. I hope the fire doesn't come this way."

"It will unless something stops it. Just look how dry everything is."

For several minutes they watched the smoke with much concern. It was moving to the northward, but presently it shifted in their direction.

"It's coming this way, Owen."

"I see it is; and the wind is coming up, too!"

"What had we better do—turn back?"

"I don't know. The fire may be a long way off. Smoke will carry for miles and miles, you know."

"But if it comes this way——"

"I think if we can reach Granger's camp we'll be all right. He has cut everything big off of White-cap Hill, and there is a wide brook to the northward."

They continued on their way, watching the sky as before. Soon the sun went under the smoke and appeared like a great ball of fire hanging in space. Then the wind freshened, and the smoke came down so that they could smell it plainly.

"I must say this doesn't suit me at all," exclaimed Dale. "If we don't look out we'll be hemmed in by that fire."

They had now reached the little lake in the woods, and were walking towards the small lodge mentioned, when, to their astonishment, they saw the Wilbur children sitting on the bank fishing.

"Hullo!" ejaculated Owen. "What brought them up here?"

"The children must be having a day's outing in the woods," returned Dale. "Wonder who is with them?"

The children were a little startled to see them approaching, but set up a shout of gladness when they recognized the two young lumbermen.

"We are out camping all by our own selves," announced Bertie proudly. "We are going to fish and hunt, and build a big campfire, and everything."

"Alone?" queried Dale, in amazement.

"Yes, all alone," answered Gertrude. "Nurse wouldn't let us come, but we run away when she wasn't looking. And Bertie's got a real gun and fishing lines, and I brought along some fruit cake and two oranges, and a box of candy, and my Polly doll."

"I wanted to bring Rover, but he barked so I was afraid Jasper would hear him," went on Bertie. "We are going to stay here two whole days. What do you think of that?"

"I think you did very, very wrong to run away from your nurse and your mamma," said Owen soberly. "Your mamma will think you are lost, and she'll look all over for you."

"And you mustn't think of using a gun," put in Dale. "Why, it might kill somebody."

At these words both Bertie and Gertrude grew very sober. All in a minute the outing lost its charm for them.

"I am going home to mamma," announced Gertrude. "She'll cry if she thinks I am lost."

"I didn't catch a fish," came from the boy. "I don't believe there are any here."

"Do you know the way home?" questioned Owen.