river. He was standing erect on one of the drifting logs, boldly
“riding” it down the stream. The boys watched him in wide-eyed
amazement as he came gliding along, balancing himself with a long
peavey-pole, which he held horizontally. When he was opposite, the
“lumber-jack” waved his arm, and they cheered him. Jim skilfully
steered the log into a quiet eddy beyond, and, jumping into the water,
sent his “wooden horse” down the river and waded briskly ashore.
“That’s what they call log-riding,” explained Ben.
[Illustration: “RIDING” A LOG DOWN THE STREAM]
Halliday had been despatched back to camp on an errand, and had taken
advantage of the opportunity for his first ride of the season. When he
was ready to return up-river, he asked Ben and the boys to accompany
him, declaring that there was “a barrel of fun” going on up there.
They followed Jim several miles along a winding river trail, until they
came to a large clearing where the men were at work. Here the crew
were rolling logs down the steep bank into the water. Strong-armed,
quick-footed fellows started a huge log, and then jumped nimbly out
of its way as it went bumping down the incline to land in the river.
There other men, immersed to their waists, tugged and pushed till they
worked it into the current and started it on its long, uncertain course
to the distant mill. The great collection of logs extended well back
into the woods. As fast as the front ones were moved more were dragged
forward by the teams. It was an absorbing scene of bustling activity.
As Jim had said, there was plenty of sport. They saw several of the
crew pushed from the bank by their frolicsome comrades. The victims
always took their ducking good-humoredly, and scrambled from the water
determined to retaliate.
Just before noon a long, high-prowed boat, resembling a fisherman’s
dory in its general lines, was seen slowly approaching against the
current. This was the bateau. Two broad-shouldered fellows were at the
oars, and in the bow was another, pole in hand, prepared to fend off
drifting logs. In the stern sat no less a personage than Charley, the
cook.
At sight of the boat Ned called a halt in the work, and then the real
fun began. The men seized each other in rough sport, until almost the
whole crew were wrestling about on the ground.
“This way, Charley; bring it up here,” ordered the foreman.
The cook and his three assistants struggled up the bank with the
supplies for a hot dinner. Grouped in a circle on the ground, each
man was equipped with a tin plate, a knife, a fork, and a spoon, and
a large tin bowl which was speedily filled with hot stew. After that
came heaping dishes of hot beans and steaming cups of coffee. Like the
others, Ben and the boys ate the outdoor meal with keen relish.
As neither Ed nor George had seen a birling contest, and had no idea
what it was like, Ned arranged one for their benefit.
A large log was towed out into fairly deep water in a near-by eddy of
the river. Then Jake Grant, the champion of this particular sport,
jumped from the bank and landed on the log. He caught his balance and
drove the long, nail-like calks of his shoes deep into the bark. His
action was intended as a challenge, or “defi,” to any one to jump on
the other end and enter the contest.
There was a cry of “Sandy,” and, amid cheers from his comrades, “Sandy”
Donaldson accepted the challenge. Moving their feet up and down
together, the men whirled the log over and over beneath them. From
time to time one or the other would jam his spiked shoes down hard in
an endeavor to stop the log and throw his adversary into the water.
First one way, then the other, they spun the log faster and faster. The
excitement on shore was intense, for each contestant had his partisans.
Once Grant lost his balance for a second, and a wild yell went up. It
looked as though his long term of championship was about to end. By
wonderful agility he saved himself, and another cheer broke forth.
“Toss him, toss him, Jake!” cried Grant’s friends.
“Bump him off, Sandy; you nearly caught him that time!” yelled the
partisans of Donaldson.
Then the experience of the champion came to his aid. He worked backward
toward the extreme end of the log, and started it spinning as fast as
his nimble feet could work. Donaldson kept stride with him, and those
on shore waited in breathless suspense for the outcome of what they
believed a clever bit of stratagem.
Suddenly the champion jammed his spikes down hard, and Donaldson
tottered. Before he could recover his balance Grant jumped into the
air. Instantly his end of the log rose, and that on which his opponent
swayed sank--not much, but enough to do the trick--and Donaldson went
over backward into the river. Jake was still champion, for he landed
squarely on top of the log and waved his hand to the cheering crowd.
“I wouldn’t have missed that for anything,” said Ed, when he had ceased
cheering.
“Nor I,” declared George. “Say, we’ll try that some time, Ed. What do
you call it, Ben?”
“Birling,” explained the guide.
The cook, who with his crew had waited to see the outcome of the
contest, approached Ben and offered to take them back in the boat.
That was certainly better than “hiking,” and presently they were
gliding swiftly down the river.
That night there was less frolicking in the bunk-house. The first day’s
river work had tired the men, and they sat about quietly smoking and
telling yarns and singing a few lumbermen’s songs before they turned in.
Next morning they paddled their canoe some distance down-river to see a
big restraining boom. They were obliged to dodge floating logs, which
dotted the river as far as they could see. A collision would have
smashed their light craft. However, Ben kept safely out of the way,
and, searching the water far in advance, he chose open channels, down
which he piloted them in safety.
They saw many logs which had grounded along the shore, but they learned
that these would be all found and set afloat by the “reardrive” men,
who followed the last of the logs down the river for that purpose.
Occasionally they passed members of the river patrol, who stood on the
banks and waved to them as they floated by. Ben pointed out several
bark shanties, or lean-tos, in which these men sheltered themselves
until the drive was over.
Then, at a narrow place in the river, they saw a great jagged pile of
logs. Others were constantly crashing into it and momentarily adding to
the tangle.
“There’s a jam, and a nasty one!” said Ben, carefully working the canoe
toward shore. “Wonder if any one is about?”
“Yes, I see a man,” declared George. “There he is, right under the big
log that sticks out. Gee whiz! Did you see that one rise right up on
end and sail past his head?”
They landed and ran along the bank until they drew near the spot. At
the foot of the towering pyramid a red-shirted man was balancing on a
slippery log and prying and pulling with all his might in an effort to
free the log which was the key of the jam. Each moment he stayed there
he was risking death from the grinding, crunching, splintering logs
which the river was raising on end and throwing into the pile behind
him. Calm and undismayed by his peril, he turned a flushed, perspiring
face and called to Ben:
“Hey, run back up the trail a piece, till you see a box nailed to a big
white pine. You’ll find a telephone inside. Tell ’em to send some men
down here, quick, an’ to stop shovin’ in any more sticks till we git
this straightened out.”
Bidding the boys remain where they were, Ben ran up the trail on his
important errand. Anxious to help the plucky lumberman, but knowing
themselves powerless, the boys, fearful but fascinated, could only
stand and watch the reckless worker out there in that inferno of flying
logs.
A great black hulk rose from the foaming water, shot into the air,
and came straight at him. An exclamation of horror came from the
white-faced spectators on shore. His quick eye and alert brain proved
equal to the emergency, however, and he jumped back and just escaped
being crushed. A cheer sounded from the lads on the bank, and the
“lumber-jack” turned and waved his appreciation.
“It’s ‘Shorty’ Brundage, the champion jam-breaker!” cried Ed.
They watched him in awed silence while he went on with his hazardous
task. Dodging and climbing, he seemed to escape destruction by simply
the luck for which he was noted. Above him towered the great mass
of piled logs. Should it give way, he would be buried beneath an
avalanche. On each side great logs shot past within reach of his arm.
Below, the river caught and tugged at his legs in an effort to sweep
him to destruction. Still he worked on, his one thought the breaking
of the jam and the clearing of the stream.
Suddenly he slipped, lost his balance, and fell into the swirling,
foam-tossed water. They saw him reappear, a long, red streak showing
down the side of his pallid face. He made a desperate effort to climb
upon the log from which he had fallen; but two floating timbers caught
him between them, and with a despairing gesture “Shorty” collapsed.
Half in the water, half across one of the logs, he was in peril of
being crushed to a pulp by the massive logs which reared themselves
from the water and crashed down on all sides of him.
For a moment the boys stood paralyzed with horror. Then they realized
that they were standing there without an effort to save the unconscious
man. There was one startled glance at the towering log pile, the
raging, white-capped water, and the crashing logs. Then their gaze
settled on the helpless red-shirted figure in deadly danger. Instantly
they made their choice. With white, set faces the lads ran down the
bank and along the edge of the racing water toward the jam.
Out along the top of a slippery log they crawled, one behind the other.
They dared not stand erect, for fear of falling into the seething,
log-studded pool beneath. The noise was terrific. In some places the
raging torrent surged above their waists and threatened to sweep them
from the log.
“Hold on with your legs!” shouted Ed.
Then a long, spear-like splinter was thrust at him like a lance. He
dodged just in time, and the splinter flew over his back. Again and
again the whirling logs nearly crushed their legs. But at last only two
feet of open water intervened between them and the log on which lay the
victim of the jam.
As they were hesitating, the butt of another log was driven into the
space and for the moment wedged fast. In an instant Ed had thrown
himself across it to the log that supported Brundage. Quickly he
crawled to the prostrate figure, and, placing his hands beneath
the powerful shoulders, he tried to pull the man from his perilous
position. In an instant George reached his side. After much effort they
managed, between them, to lift “Shorty” from the water and drag him
some distance along the slippery log over which they had come.
No sooner had they removed him than two great logs were lifted by
the water and sent crashing down upon the very log across which his
unconscious form had lain.
Lifting, pulling, and tugging with all their strength, Ed and George
managed, somehow, to crawl over the wet logs, dragging “Shorty” with
them. They had many narrow escapes, but at last the bank was reached.
Pulling their man up beyond the reach of the angry river, they dropped
beside him, too exhausted to move.
Then Ben, who, as he was returning, had seen the whole daring rescue,
rushed breathlessly down the bank and hugged both boys in his arms.
“You fellows are the real thing!” he cried to the blushing boys.
“You’ve got sand, and you know when to use it. That was one of the
pluckiest pieces of work I ever saw done.”
“What’s--the--matter?” asked Brundage, feebly, opening his eyes and
staring about him in bewilderment.
“The matter is that the jam came powerful near getting you, ‘Shorty.’
It would have got you, too, only for these young fellows. They got to
you, somehow, and, what’s more wonderful, they got back and brought you
with them! That splintered log out there, the one with the three big
ones lying across it, is the log you were on,” said Ben.
The “lumber-jack” passed his hand weakly across his forehead, blinked,
and sat up. He beckoned the boys to come close; and when they had done
so, he reached up and grasped their hands.
“Much--obliged--pardners,” he said.
They thrilled at the last word. It was the greatest compliment this
big, brave man of the woods could have paid them--he had placed them on
an equality of manhood with himself.
“What about the jam?” he queried, in a half-dazed manner. “Did you tell
them to stop the ‘sticks’?”
“Yes,” Ben assured him, “and Crawford and a picked crew are on their
way down. Here they come now.”
Down the middle of the river came the bateau filled with lumbermen. The
big foreman was in the bow. Spying the trouble ahead, he bawled his
orders to the stalwart oarsmen, and the boat was quickly beached beside
the little canoe.
The crew at once leaped out and came running to attack the huge pile of
obstructing logs. They were armed with peavey-poles, axes, and steel
bars. The boys could hardly keep from cheering these heroes of the
river as they rushed forward to grapple with the jam.
“What’s up? Did it get you, ‘Shorty’?” inquired the foreman, bending
anxiously over the stricken river-man.
“Pretty nigh got me, Ned,” laughed “Shorty,” feebly. “Guess I’d have
gone if it hadn’t been for these lads. They ran out there and got me.”
The lumbermen had gathered about their injured comrade, and as he spoke
they turned to the boys. They slapped them affectionately on the back
and praised them for their bravery. Then they gave three mighty cheers
which roared and echoed up and down the river for a mile.
“Well, let’s sail into it!” yelled Crawford.
His crew went to work with a will, and Ed and George stood by,
interested witnesses of the determined onslaught. They saw daring
chances taken by reckless men, and several miraculous escapes. The
foreman himself led in the perilous work. He it was who, when the pile
of logs began to creak and give and totter, stood calmly below them
until the last of his crew had jumped to safety. Then, as the jam
crumbled and broke, he, too, leaped from under the crash and ran nimbly
across the tops of plunging logs to shore.
When the obstacle had been overcome, Crawford despatched a man up the
river to the telephone-box, with orders for the crew above to resume
operations. It was important that no time should be lost in getting
the logs through while the high water lasted. Much against his wishes,
“Shorty” was ordered to camp, and a new man was left on watch at the
dangerous turn of the river.
Assisted by the boys, Ben paddled the canoe upstream, following in the
wake of the bateau. The men in the latter struck up a familiar river
song, and the music came drifting back over the water.
“I should think they would be too tired to sing, after what they’ve
just been through,” said George.
“They’ve forgotten about it long ago; it’s all part of the day’s work,”
laughed Ben.
The boat soon drew away in advance of the canoe. When the occupants of
the latter disembarked at the camp, the larger craft had already landed
“Shorty” and disappeared up the river.
That night was a gala one in the bunk-house. The whole crew of
“lumber-jacks,” having learned of the boys’ gallant rescue of Brundage,
came into camp to do them honor. Men arrived from far down the river to
have a “look at the youngsters” who had made good. The merrymaking was
shared by all, and there was a general thanksgiving because “Shorty,”
the best jam-breaker in the country, had been spared to his crew. Nor
was Charley, the cook, to be outdone. When the fun had reached its
height, he marched solemnly to the door of the bunk-house and, waving
his arm toward the “grub-shanty,” invited them all over for a surprise
party.
With loud cheers and whoops of approval, the noisy gathering sat
down at the long table laden with good things which the cook and his
assistants had prepared for the occasion. There were several rare
treats; and when the feast was over, three rousing cheers were given
for “the best cooks in the lumber country.”
Big-hearted Ned Crawford and his hospitable crew were for keeping their
guests several days longer, but Ben explained that they must leave next
day. Warmly seconded by the boys, he thanked the lumbermen for their
hospitality and this glimpse of a new life.
Early next morning, when the canoe had been loaded and the departing
guests were about to step into it, “Shorty” Brundage came forward and
addressed them.
“I’m not much on speeches,” he laughed, nervously, as he grasped the
hands of his rescuers; “but I want you fellows to know that I feel
what you did for me. It sure was a white thing to do, and any time I
can do anything for you, just call on me like a pardner. I reckon Ben
can tell you what that means in this country.”
The lads thanked him, and tried to make light of their exploit. Then
they took their places in the canoe, and Ben put away from shore.
Charley and his little crew waved their aprons and beat a loud salute
on tin pans, and the foreman and some of his men accompanied the
departing guests in the bateau as far as the log pile. Here more
rousing cheers were given the voyagers, until they rounded a turn of
the river and disappeared.
“Well, you fellows have made a hit with that crowd. Your names will
be known along this river for a good many years to come,” said Ben,
proudly. “How did you enjoy it all, anyway?”
“Ben, I’ve had the time of my life!” declared Ed. “As for the
‘lumber-jacks,’ as you call them, I think they are the manliest,
jolliest, best all-round lot of fellows I ever met. As ‘Shorty’ would
say, they sure treated us white.”
“They did that,” chimed in George; “and I want to say I have enjoyed
it all immensely.”
“Well, I feel some better about having taken you, now, than I did
yesterday, when I was running along the river-bank while you were out
there below the jam. I want to tell you that you had a mighty close
shave, boys, and I’m powerful thankful it turned out as it did,” he
added, soberly.
XXV CALLED HOME
It was well toward the evening of the day following when they reached
Ben’s cabin. The trip up the river had taken them the best part of
two days. The canoemen were agreeably surprised to see Bill and Moze
awaiting them at the landing.
“Helloa, you fellows! Where have you been?” asked the trapper, as they
stepped ashore and grasped him warmly by the hand.
“Down at the lumber camp; I promised to take the boys there before they
went home,” explained Ben.
Ed and George at once started a good-natured wrestling bout with old
Moze, who seemed delighted at seeing them. Barking and whining, he
jumped about, wagging his tail, until George declared he would lose it.
“When did you get here, Bill?” inquired the guide of his friend, after
they had entered the cabin.
“Same morning you left, I reckon. When I saw you were away, I left a
note and went on into the settlement. Got back late last night, and I
figured I’d mosey around for a day or two and see if you came home.
I brought out some mail for Westbrook and you fellows. There’s yours
over on the table yonder. By the way, Ben, Westbrook said to tell you
he expected to go in with his team and wagon the first part of next
week. He said he’d come by here on the old wood-road, so if you wanted
anything you could let him know.”
The boys quickly found the letters from home and began to read them.
From their manner Ben knew that they had received news of some
importance. When they had finished the letters they held a low-toned
conference, and then turned toward the guide, who was watching them
keenly.
“Nothing wrong, I hope?” he said.
“Nothing, except that we are ordered home,” answered Ed, endeavoring to
force a smile.
“The deuce you say!” cried Ben, in dismay.
“Yes, I guess our time is up,” declared George, rather gloomily. “You
see, our folks are going away in about two weeks, and, as we expect
to enter college in the fall, they won’t see much of us for a while.
Consequently they want us with them this summer.”
“Guess that’s only natural,” said Ben, quietly. “Say, it’s going to be
some lonesome after you fellows pull out.”
For a time the little group of friends sat about in silence. While they
were anxious and eager to see their parents, the boys nevertheless felt
badly about leaving Ben, and Bill, and Moze, and the great peaceful
forest they had learned to love.
“Well, say, there’s no need of everybody getting the ‘blues,’” laughed
the guide. “I’ll hustle around and cook some supper, and then maybe
we’ll all feel better.”
That night the boys sat up late, and Ben told Bill of their plucky
adventure at the log-jam. It was decided that they should go to the
station with Tom Westbrook and his team early the next week. Bill said
he would wait over at the cabin to see them off.
It rained all the next day, and the boys busied themselves with packing
their belongings. Not the least important were several trophies of the
hunt, which they were taking home in proof of their prowess.
The following days were spent in the woods and on the lake with Ben and
Bill. Rare golden days they were, filled with flowers and sunshine
and song, for the long, dreamy days of early summer had arrived. The
boys learned more of the songs and calls of the birds, and the names
and uses of the many wild flowers which were constantly bursting into
bloom in the woods about the cabin. They saw fishes guarding their
gravelly nests of spawn at the bottom of the lake. They found the eggs
of turtles at the end of long, tunnel-like excavations in sandy banks.
The time sped rapidly, and at length the day for their departure was
but a night away.
“Well, this is our last snooze on balsam tips,” said Ed, when they were
finally in their bunk.
“Yes, and, do you know, sometimes it all seems like a dream. We
certainly have been through a few experiences since we left the city.
And let me tell you, Ed, each of them has done us good; I feel that
we can take care of ourselves anywhere now,” replied George. “Say, we
never found out who ‘The Old Man of the Woods’ is.”
“Well then, I’ll tell you now,” laughed Ben, who had overheard their
conversation. “You met him right here the first night, when you worried
about the flying squirrels. He has been with you ever since, until
you know him well enough to call him by his right name, which is
Experience.”
“And is that how you met him?” inquired the boys.
“That is how we must all meet him, if we expect to ever know him well.
He’s a rough old fellow, and he don’t make friends easily. You’ve got
to prove your worth before he accepts you. If you’re game, he’ll take
care of you in great shape and tell you all he knows. But if you’re
a quitter, he’ll soon drive you out of his country and make things
so unpleasant you’ll never wish to return. Now you know him, and,
furthermore, you can consider him your friend, because you’ve made
good. Good night.”
“Thank you, Ben. Good night.” And they went to sleep, happy over the
well-earned compliment.
They had just finished breakfast next morning when the loud barking of
Moze announced the arrival of Westbrook with his team. A moment later
the big woodsman stood in the doorway and greeted them.
“Have some breakfast,” urged Ben, hospitably.
“No, thanks; I had my breakfast before I started. Thought I’d just stop
a minute to see if I could do anything for you in town.”
“You can take the boys and myself and this luggage, if you’re
traveling in light,” said Ben.
“I sure will; but, say, now, it’s too bad you fellows have to pull up
stakes so sudden like,” he said, turning to the lads. “This is the
prettiest time of the year, too. Guess you’ve had quite a time of it,
though, haven’t you?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Ed; “we’ve enjoyed ourselves very much.”
After Ben had insisted, Westbrook drank a cup of coffee. Then they
proceeded to load the baggage into the same wagon that had conveyed it
from the station almost eight months before.
“Different-looking boys from those that came out in the fall, eh, Ben?”
laughed Westbrook, when everything was in and they were ready to climb
aboard.
“Some browner,” said Ben.
Bill came forward to say good-by, and Ed and George grasped his hand
affectionately. They thanked him for all the pleasure he had given
them, and said they hoped some day to come out and see him again. Old
Moze came wriggling toward them, and they stooped and petted him.
Then Westbrook spoke to his team, and the wagon bumped away over
the long road. The boys waved their hats to Bill, who stood in the
doorway, holding Moze by an ear to prevent him from following his
departing friends.