FUN IN CAMP.
At dark that night the raft tied up to the bank. It was necessary
to let the loose logs go through the night. In the morning they
would be found strung along the banks of the river for miles upon
miles. The raft would be started immediately after breakfast, and
would get well down into the midst of the timber by the time the
men along shore could push all the logs from the banks and get them
into the current.
But that night the tie-up had been made near some camps, and the
tired men had a place to eat and sleep in comfort.
The cook took possession of the camp, and it was not long before
he had served a meal of boiled pork, baked beans, hot biscuit and
molasses.
The beans steamed and sent out an odor that was quite enough to
make a hungry man feel ravenous, and the drivers, the most of them
soaking wet, gathered about the table.
Forest had offered Frank and his friends a chance to eat at the
first table, but Merry declined, saying the drivers should have the
first opportunity. The men appreciated this, and it served in a
great measure to make them feel that the boys were not intruders.
It was a spectacle to watch those men “stow away” the pork and
beans, washed down by boiling hot tea. They ate like starving men.
Sullivan was among them. He did not even look at Frank Merriwell,
and he made no talk at supper, save to growl in a surly manner at
the cookee, a boy of seventeen.
The foreman had been in an ugly mood all day. No one dared ask how
he had received the scars and bruises on his face, but in some
manner it became rumored among the crew that Sullivan and Pombere
had been whipped in a fight at Mattawamkeag. Then it was reported
that they had been whipped by two beardless youths, and the victors
were two of Forest’s guests who were going down the river with
the drift. This latter statement, however, was not believed, for
Sullivan was the terror of the river, and the drivers were certain
he could whip the whole of Merriwell’s party with one hand tied
behind him.
When the crew had eaten there was still plenty of hot beans and
biscuits left, and the cookee soon arranged the table for Forest
and his friends.
Every lad felt that he could eat with a relish, and soon they were
doing their best to clear the table of food. Never before had baked
beans tasted so good. Even Jack Diamond, who had a distaste for
beans, admitted that they were good enough to eat.
While they were eating, Forest asked one of the drivers to sing a
song, and then said to Merry:
“We’ll have a chance to hear a typical lumberman’s song from that
old fellow. The old-fashioned songs of the lumbermen are like the
old-time songs of the sailors. Nearly always they are sung in a
certain tune which seems to fit them all, and they tell a story
that is strung out in from fifty to a hundred stanzas. The tune of
the sailors reminds one of the wind and the waves; the tune of the
lumber camps is suggestive of the dark forests and their tragedies.”
The old man needed some urging, as there were strangers present,
but, after a time, he consented to sing. Before he began, the men
filled their pipes and found comfortable positions on the “deacon’s
seat” and around the camp. As Frank and his friends said smoking
would not disturb them in the least, Forest told the men to “fire
up.” So the drivers began to smoke as they prepared to listen.
Two kerosene lamps lighted the strange scene, which was one never
to be forgotten by Frank. The faces of the rough, weather-beaten
men were studies for him.
At last the old driver was ready, and he started into the song,
which told of the hard heart and imperial sway of John Ross, a
local lumber boss. There never was another such man as John Ross.
He faced storms and floods, and defied fate to gain his ends. If
he wanted more men he went from house to house for them, and when
they heard him coming every male member of the families arose and
went to the woods to do his bidding without a murmur, not daring
to refuse. He took the newly-wedded bridegroom from the embrace of
his weeping bride, and he tore the son from the feeble father who
could not live to see the snows of winter pass away with the coming
of the spring sunshine. But gradually the song goes on to show the
better points in the man’s character, telling of his courage and
charity, and, in the end, everybody is compelled to own that, in
spite of his many eccentricities, John Ross is a decent sort of man.
By the time this epic was ended supper was over and the table
pretty well cleared. Then somebody proposed “congregational
singing,” and the men took their pipes from their mouths and
prepared to “limber up.”
Then the songs came in floods. Some one started in with “Nellie
Gray,” and, with few exceptions, every man joined in the chorus.
Then came “John Brown’s Body” and “Marching Through Georgia.”
“Old Black Joe” was followed by “Annie Rooney” and “Down Went
McGinty.” But it was on the chorus of “Nicodemus” that the singers
“bore down hard.”
“There’s a good time coming,
It’s almost here;
It has been long, lo-ong, lo-on-ng,
On the way.”
As they roared forth this chorus, the men clapped their hands,
stamped their feet and threw back their heads. A cloud of dust
filled the room, the lanterns swayed and burned dimly, and the
rough rafters seemed to bulge outward with the volume of sound.
Then Merriwell, Diamond, Browning and Hodge, forming a quartet,
sang the college songs so familiar to them, but most of them
absolutely new to the ears of the river drivers. They were heartily
applauded.
Then Merriwell told of Hans’ attempt to become a river driver,
making the story so humorous that the men roared with laughter.
“Vot vos I laughin’ ad?” demanded the Dutch boy, his face flushing.
“I don’d like dot. Some odder dime mebbe I vos aple to drife a log
der rifer down.”
“No man ever gits to be a regular river driver till he has been
properly initiated,” grinned one of the men. “Arter that he’s all
right, an’ he can ride a log with ther best of ’em.”
“Vot vos dot kernishiated?” asked Hans, eagerly. “How you done dot?”
“Oh, it’s easy enough. It’s called ‘Ketchin’ the Wild Hoss.’”
“I don’t knew nottings apout no vild hosses, but if dot vill fexe
me so I peen aple to ride a log on I think berhaps I petter took
him, ain’d id?”
“It would be a good thing for you,” declared the man, looking
inquiringly toward Merriwell, who was recognized as the leader of
the party. “Perhaps some of your friends wouldn’t want ye ter be
initiated?”
Frank scented sport.
“They won’t hurt him,” said Forest, laughing, as he saw the men
grinning at each other and indulging in sundry nudges. “If he wants
to be initiated, let them run him through the mill.”
“Perhaps you had better take the degree, Hans,” laughed Frank. “Go
ahead, if you want to.”
This was all the encouragement the Dutch boy needed. He jumped up
immediately, crying:
“All right! Go aheadt mit dot kernishiated peesness.”
Frank nodded to the men, and then two or three of them suddenly
hurried out of doors, while others seized the Dutch lad and
stripped him to his thin underclothing. By the time Hans’ outer
clothing was removed the men who had gone out returned with a
spruce pole that had been stripped of the bark. This pole the cook
quickly rubbed with grease, making it very slippery.
“Now,” said the leader, addressing Hans, “you must mount that pole
straddle an’ hold on. You must keep right side up, no matter what
happens. Till you can do that you’ll never be wuth a darn at river
drivin’.”
The fat boy looked doubtful, but he would not back out then, and
he immediately got astride the pole, which took his feet off the
floor. He slipped and fell off, causing a shout of laughter to go
up. But he jumped up, crying:
“Vait! vait! Dot hole vasn’t done mit me yet avile. I can done dot
britty kervick.”
Again he tried, with a like result.
“I am afraid you’ll never make a river driver, Hans,” said Merry,
laughing.
“Vot?” squawked the excited lad. “Who toldt you dot? I pet you your
life I vill! Vait! vait!”
Then he made another attempt. This time he was desperate, and he
managed to balance himself on the pole with a great effort. He
uttered a shout of triumph.
“Didn’d you toldt me so!” he cried. “Oh, I vos----”
Just then somebody struck him on the head with a bag stuffed with
hay, and over he went in a twinkling, hanging head downward, while
all the men shouted:
“Grapaud!”
“Hey?” squealed Hans. “Somepody took me down! Somebody took dot
hole avay kerveek!”
He held on till he was forced to drop. Then he rose to his feet and
stared around.
“Vot vos id I hit me against?” he demanded, fiercely.
“That’s part of the initiation,” was the explanation. “You must
look out for that and keep your balance.”
“Vos dot id? Vale, shust let dot try me again.”
Then he pluckily made another attempt, and again he was struck on
the head and sent spinning wrong end up, while a second time the
shout was heard:
“Grapaud.”
“I don’d knew vot dot means,” gasped the Dutch lad; “but I pet you
your tollars id vos a lie!”
Then he fell upon his back.
He was pretty well winded when he arose, but he was urged to get
on the pole once more, and this was kept up till he was utterly
exhausted and gave up in despair.
“Vale,” he gurgled, “I don’d vant to peen a rifer trifer. Oxcuse
me, shentlemen!”
This sport being over, one of the men brought out an old fiddle
and got it into tune. Several pieces were played, and then Frank
suggested to Forest that Diamond be given a chance to play
something on the instrument.
At Fred’s suggestion, the fiddle was handed over to Jack. The
Virginian put the instrument into as perfect tune as possible,
and then proceeded to play the “Last Rose of Summer.” Jack was an
artist with the violin, and never before had such sweet sounds been
drawn from that old instrument. The men were silent now, listening
with hushed breathing to the melody. When it was finished all
seemed to give a sigh of mingled regret and relief.
“Give us ‘Ben Bolt,’” urged a man.
Jack complied, and the fiddle actually seemed to sing the words of
the pathetic and beautiful song. The eyes of more than one rough
man were misty.
Immediately Diamond struck into a lively jig, and, out into the
middle of the floor jumped the cookee, who began to “spank her
down” in a manner that brought cries of applause and delight from
the men. Faster and faster went the bow over the strings and faster
and faster flew the feet of the dancer, while the men clapped their
hands and stamped their feet.
“Good boy!”
“Whoop ’er up!”
“Hooray!”
“That’s the stuff!”
“Wake up, snakes!”
The delighted men roared their approval.
At one side sat Mike Sullivan, scowling and seeming ugly. The
cookee cut a fancy figure and stepped on the foot of the boss.
With a roar of rage, the man jumped up and grasped the dancer by
the neck.
“You clumsy cub!” snarled Sullivan. “I’ll make ye keep yer eyes
open!”
He drew back his hand to strike the boy.
Like a flash Frank Merriwell sprang forward and confronted the
enraged man. Merry lifted one hand warningly, and spoke in a calm,
even tone of voice:
“Don’t hit him, Sullivan!”
The boss turned and his eyes met Merriwell’s. The spectators
gasped, for they expected to see the man drop the cookee and leap
on the foolhardy lad who dared face him thus. Profound silence
reigned in the camp, while two pairs of eyes fought a battle. Then
came the greatest surprise of all, for Sullivan lowered his head,
muttering:
“Ther fool wants to be careful not ter tread on my feet.”
Then he sat down.