“Steve Waterman's an awful nice feller,” exclaimed Ivory Dunn just
then. Stephen had been looking intently across the river, watching the
Shapleys' side door, from which Rose might issue at any moment; and at
this point in the discussion he had lounged away from the group, and,
moving toward the bridge, began to throw pebbles idly into the water.
“He's an awful smart driver for one that don't foller drivin' the
year round,” continued Ivory; “and he's the awfullest clean-spoken,
soft-spoken feller I ever see.”
“There's be'n two black sheep in his family a'ready, an' Steve kind
o' feels as if he'd ought to be extry white,” remarked Jed Towle. “You
fellers that belonged to the old drive remember Pretty Quick Waterman
well enough? Steve's mother brought him up.”
Yes; most of them remembered the Waterman twins, Stephen's cousins, now
both dead,--Slow Waterman, so moderate in his steps and actions that you
had to fix a landmark somewhere near him to see if he moved; and Pretty
Quick, who shone by comparison with his twin. “I'd kind o' forgot that
Pretty Quick Waterman was cousin to Steve,” said the under boss; “he
never worked with me much, but he wa'n't cut off the same piece o' goods
as the other Watermans. Great hemlock! but he kep' a cussin' dictionary,
Pretty Quick did! Whenever he heard any new words he must 'a' writ 'em
down, an' then studied 'em all up in the winter-time, to use in the
spring drive.”
“Swearin' 's a habit that hed ought to be practiced with turrible
caution,” observed old Mr. Wiley, when the drivers had finished luncheon
and taken out their pipes. “There's three kinds o' swearin',--plain
swearin', profane swearin', an' blasphemious swearin'. Logs air jest
like mules: there's times when a man can't seem to rip up a jam in good
style 'thout a few words that's too strong for the infant classes in
Sunday-schools; but a man hed n't ought to tempt Providence. When he's
ridin' a log near the falls at high water, or cuttin' the key-log in a
jam, he ain't in no place for blasphemious swearin'; jest a little
easy, perlite 'damn' is 'bout all he can resk, if he don't want to git
drownded an' hev his ghost walkin' the river-banks till kingdom come.
“You an' I, Long, was the only ones that seen Pretty Quick go, wa'n't
we?” continued Old Kennebec, glancing at Long Abe Dennett (cousin to
Short Abe), who lay on his back in the grass, the smoke-wreaths rising
from his pipe, and the steel spikes in his heavy, calked-sole boots
shining in the sun.
“There was folks on the bridge,” Long answered, “but we was the only
ones near enough to see an' hear. It was so onexpected, an' so soon
over, that them as was watchin' upstream, where the men was to work on
the falls, would n't 'a' hed time to see him go down. But I did, an'
nobody ain't heard me swear sence, though it's ten years ago. I allers
said it was rum an' bravadder that killed Pretty Quick Waterman that
day. The boys hed n't give him a 'dare' that he hed n't took up. He
seemed like he was possessed, an' the logs was the same way; they was
fairly wild, leapin' around in the maddest kind o' water you ever see.
The river was b'ilin' high that spring; it was an awful stubborn jam,
an' Pretty Quick, he'd be'n workin' on it sence dinner.”
“He clumb up the bank more'n once to have a pull at the bottle that was
hid in the bushes,” interpolated Mr. Wiley. “Like as not; that was his
failin'. Well, most o' the boys were on the other side o' the river,
workin' above the bridge, an' the boss hed called Pretty Quick to come
off an' leave the jam till mornin', when they'd get horses an' dog-warp
it off, log by log. But when the boss got out o' sight, Pretty Quick
jest stood right still, swingin' his axe, an' blasphemin' so it would
freeze your blood, vowin' he would n't move till the logs did, if he
stayed there till the crack o' doom. Jest then a great, ponderous log,
that hed be'n churnin' up an' down in the falls for a week, got free an'
come blunderin' an' thunderin' down-river. Land! it was chock full o'
water, an' looked 'bout as big as a church! It come straight along,
butt-end foremost, an' struck that jam, full force, so 't every log in
it shivered. There was a crack,--the crack o' doom, sure enough, for
Pretty Quick,--an' one o' the logs le'p' right out an' struck him jest
where he stood, with his axe in the air, blasphemin'. The jam kind o'
melted an' crumbled up, an' in a second Pretty Quick was whirlin' in the
white water. He never riz,--at least where we could see him,--an' we did
n't find him for a week. That's the whole story, an' I guess Steve takes
it as a warnin'. Anyway, he ain't no friend to rum nor swearin', Steve
ain't. He knows Pretty Quick's ways shortened his mother's life, an' you
notice what a sharp lookout he keeps on Rufus.”
“He needs it,” Ike Billings commented tersely.
“Some men seem to lose their wits when they're workin' on logs,”
observed Mr. Wiley, who had deeply resented Long Dennett's telling of a
story which he knew fully as well and could have told much better. “Now,
nat'rally, I've seen things on the Kennebec--”
“Three cheers for the Saco! Hats off, boys!” shouted Jed Towle, and his
directions were followed with a will.
“As I was sayin',” continued the old man, peacefully, “I've seen things
on the Kennebec that would n't happen on a small river, an' I've be'n in
turrible places an' taken turrible resks resks that would 'a' turned a
Saco River man's hair white; but them is the times when my wits work the
quickest. I remember once I was smokin' my pipe when a jam broke
under me. 'T was a small jam, or what we call a small jam on the
Kennebec,--only about three hundred thousand pine logs. The first thing
I knowed, I was shootin' back an' forth in the b'ilin' foam, hangin' on
t' the end of a log like a spider. My hands was clasped round the log,
and I never lost control o' my pipe. They said I smoked right along,
jest as cool an' placid as a pond-lily.”
“Why 'd you quit drivin'?” inquired Ivory.
“My strength wa'n't ekal to it,” Mr. Wiley responded sadly. “I was all
skin, bones, an' nerve. The Comp'ny would n't part with me altogether,
so they give me a place in the office down on the wharves.”
“That wa'n't so bad,” said Jed Towle; “why did n't you hang on to it,
so's to keep in sight o' the Kennebec?”
“I found I could n't be confined under cover. My liver give all out,
my appetite failed me, an' I wa'n't wuth a day's wages. I'd learned
engineerin' when I was a boy, an' I thought I'd try runnin' on the road
a spell, but it did n't suit my constitution. My kidneys ain't turrible
strong, an' the doctors said I'd have Bright's disease if I did n't git
some kind o' work where there wa'n't no vibrations.”
“Hard to find, Mr. Wiley; hard to find!” said Jed Towle.
“You're right,” responded the old man feelingly. “I've tried all kinds
o' labor. Some of 'em don't suit my liver, some disagrees with my
stomach, and the rest of 'em has vibrations; so here I set, high an' dry
on the banks of life, you might say, like a stranded log.”
As this well-known simile fell upon the ear, there was a general stir in
the group, for Turrible Wiley, when rhetorical, sometimes grew tearful,
and this was a mood not to be encouraged.
“All right, boss,” called Ike Billings, winking to the boys; “we'll be
there in a jiffy!” for the luncheon hour had flown, and the work of the
afternoon was waiting for them. “You make a chalk-mark where you left
off, Mr. Wiley, an' we'll hear the rest tomorrer; only don't you forgit
nothin'! Remember 't was the Kennebec you was talkin' about.”
“I will, indeed,” responded the old man. “As I was sayin' when
interrupted, I may be a stranded log, but I'm proud that the mark o' the
Gard'ner Lumber Comp'ny is on me, so 't when I git to my journey's end
they'll know where I belong and send me back to the Kennebec. Before
I'm sawed up I'd like to forgit this triflin' brook in the sight of a
good-sized river, an' rest my eyes on some full-grown logs, 'stead o'
these little damn pipestems you boys are playin' with!”