ace him. He
had led his willing men in more or less desperate adventures in his own
region; his clan had been busy passing the word among the strangers that
old John Latisan's grandson was a chief who had the real and the right
stuff in him. It was plain that all the men of the crew were receiving
the information with enthusiasm. Some of them ventured to pat him on the
shoulder and volunteered profane promises to go with him to the limit.
They did not voice any loyalty to Flagg. Flagg was not a man to inspire
anything except perfunctory willingness to earn wages. The men saw real
adventure ahead if they followed at the back of a heroic youth who was
avenging the wrongs dealt to his family fortunes.

There were choruses of old river chanteys while the men waited for the
sleds. A devil-may-care spirit had taken possession of the crew. Latisan
began to feel like the brigand chief of bravos.

He was jubilantly informed by one enthusiast that they were all in
luck--that Larry O'Gorman, the woods poet, had picked that crew as his
own for that season on the river.

The songs of Larry O'Gorman are sung from the Mirimichi to the Megantic.
He is analyst as well as bard. He makes it a point--and he still lives
and sings--to attach himself only to forces which can inspire his lyre.

It was conveyed to the new boss that already was Larry busy on a new
song. Ward, his attention directed, beheld the lyricist seated on the
edge of the tavern porch, absorbed in composition, writing slowly on the
planed side of a bit of board, licking the end of a stubby pencil,
rolling his eyes as he sought inspiration.

A bit later Larry rehearsed his choristers and Latisan heard the song.

Come, all ye bold and bully boys--come lis-sun unto me!
'Tis all abowit young Latis-an, a riverman so free.
White water, wet water, he never minds its roar,
'Cause he'll take and he'll kick a bubble up and ride all safe to
shore.
Come, all, and riffle the ledges! Come, all, and bust the jam!
And for all o' the bluff o' the Comas crowd we don't give one good--
Hoot, toot, and a hoorah!
We don't give a tinker's dam.

Every man in the crowd was able to come in on the simple chorus.

They were singing when Echford Flagg appeared to them. He was riding on
a jumper, with runners under it, and he was galloping his strapping bay
horses down from the big house on the ledges. On the bare ground the
runners shrieked