equality of the bottom, were
rolling over and over with their peavies until once more they floated.
Some few the rivermen were forced to carry bodily, ten men to a side,
the peavies clamped in as handles. When once they were afloat, the task
became easier. From the advantage of deadwood, stumps, or other logs
the "sackers" pushed the unwieldy timbers forward, leaping, splashing,
heaving, shoving, until at last the steady current of the main river
seized the logs and bore them away. With marvellous skill they topped
the dripping, bobby, rolling timbers, treading them over and over, back
and forth, in unconscious preservation of equilibrium.

There was a good deal of noise and fun at the rear. The crew had been
divided, and a half worked on either side the river. A rivalry developed
as to which side should advance fastest in the sacking. It became
a race. Momentary success in getting ahead of the other fellow was
occasion for exultant crowing, while a mishap called forth ironic cheers
and catcalls from the rival camp. Just as Orde came tramping up the
trail, one of the rivermen's caulks failed to "bite" on an unusually
smooth, barked surface. His foot slipped; the log rolled; he tried in
vain to regain his balance, and finally fell in with a heavy splash.

The entire river suspended work to send up a howl of delight. As the
unfortunate crawled out, dripping from head to foot, he was greeted by
a flood of sarcasm and profane inquiry that left no room for even his
acknowledged talents of repartee. Cursing and ashamed, he made his way
ashore over the logs, spirting water at every step. There he wrung out
his woollen clothes as dry as he could, and resumed work.

Hardly had Orde the opportunity to look about at the progress making,
however, before he heard his name shouted from the bank. Looking up, to
his surprise he saw the solemn cook waving a frantic dish-towel at him.
Nothing could induce the cook to attempt the logs.

"What is it, Charlie?" asked Orde, leaping ashore and stamping the loose
water from his boots.

"It's all off," confided the cook pessimistically. "It's no good. He's
stopped us now."

"What's off? Who's stopped what?"

"Reed. He's druv the men from the dam with a shotgun. We might as well
quit."

"Shotgun, hey!" exclaimed Orde. "Well, the old son of a gun!" He thought
a moment, his lips puckered as though to whistle; then, as usual, he
laughed amusedly. "Let's go take a look at the army," said he