.

He swung away at a round pace, followed rather breathlessly by the cook.
The trail led through the brush across a little flat point, up over a
high bluff where the river swung in, down to another point, and across a
pole trail above a marsh to camp.

A pole trail consists of saplings laid end to end, and supported three
or four feet above wet places by means of sawbuck-like structures at
their extremities. To a river-man or a tight-rope dancer they are easy
walks. All others must proceed cautiously in contrite memory of their
sins.

Orde marched across the first two lengths confidently enough. Then he
heard a splash and lamentations. Turning, he perceived Charlie, covered
with mud, in the act of clambering up one of the small trestles.

"Ain't got no caulks!" ran the lamentations. "The ---- of a ---- of a
pole-trail, anyways!"

He walked ahead gingerly, threw his hands aloft, bent forward, then
suddenly protruded his stomach, held out one foot in front of him,
spasmodically half turned, and then, realising the case hopeless, wilted
like a wet rag, to clasp the pole trail both by arm and leg. This saved
him from falling off altogether, but swung him underneath, where he
hung like the sloths in the picture-books. A series of violent wriggles
brought him, red-faced and panting, astride the pole, whence, his
feelings beyond mere speech, he sadly eyed his precious derby, which
lay, crown up, in the mud below.

Orde contemplated the spectacle seriously.

"Sorry I haven't got time to enjoy you just now, Charlie," he remarked.
"I'd take it slower, if I were you."

He departed, catching fragments of vows anent never going on any more
errands for nobody, and getting his time if ever again he went away from
his wanigan.

Orde stopped short outside the fringe of brush to utter another
irrepressible chuckle of amusement.

The centre of the dam was occupied by Reed. The old man was still in
full regalia, his plug hat fuzzier than ever, and thrust even farther
back on his head, his coat-tails and loose trousers flapping at his
every movement as he paced back and forth with military precision. Over
his shoulder he carried a long percussion-lock shotgun. Not thirty
feet away, perched along the bank, for all the world like a row of
cormorants, sat the rivermen, watching him solemnly and in silence.

"What's the matter?" inquired Orde, approaching.

The old man surveyed him with a snort of disgust.

"If the law of the