or sawdust-covered, its centre
occupied by a huge stove, its walls decorated by several pictures of the
nude.

Four men were playing cards at an old round table, hacked and bruised
and blackened by time. One of them was the barkeeper, a burly individual
with black hair plastered in a "lick" across his forehead. He pushed
back his chair and ducked behind the bar, whence he greeted the
newcomers. Tally proffered a question. The barkeeper relaxed from his
professional attitude, and leaned both elbows on the bar. The two
conversed for a moment; then Tally nodded briefly and went out. Bob
followed.

This performance was repeated down the length of the street. The
stage-settings varied little; same oblong, painted rooms; same varnished
bars down one side; same mirrors and bottles behind them; same
sawdust-strewn floors; same pictures on the walls; same obscure, back
rooms; same sleepy card games by the same burly but sodden type of men.
This was the off season. Profits were now as slight as later they would
be heavy. Tim talked with the barkeepers low-voiced, nodded and went
out. Only when he had systematically worked both sides of the street did
he say anything to his companion.

"He's in town," said Tally; "but they don't know where."

"Whither away?" asked Bob.

"Across the river."

They walked together down a side street to a long wooden bridge. This
rested on wooden piers shaped upstream like the prow of a ram in order
to withstand the battering of the logs. It was a very long bridge.
Beneath it the swift current of the river slipped smoothly. The breadth
of the stream was divided into many channels and pockets by means of
brown poles. Some of these were partially filled with logs. A clear
channel had been preserved up the middle. Men armed with long pike-poles
were moving here and there over the booms and the logs themselves,
pushing, pulling, shoving a big log into this pocket, another into that,
gradually segregating the different brands belonging to the different
owners of the mills below. From the quite considerable height of the
bridge all this lay spread out mapwise up and down the perspective of
the stream. The smooth, oily current of the river, leaden-hued and cold
in the light of the early spring, hurried by on its way to the lake,
swiftly, yet without the turmoil and fuss of lesser power. Downstream,
as far as Bob could see, were the huge mills' with their flanking lumber
yards, the masts of their ladi