There was a roar of laughter at the old man's boast, but in a moment all
was activity. The men ran hither and thither like ants, gathering their
tools. There were some old-fashioned pick-poles, straight, heavy levers
without any “dog,” and there were modern pick-poles and peaveys, for
every river has its favorite equipment in these things. There was no
dynamite in those days to make the stubborn jams yield, and the dog-warp
was in general use. Horses or oxen, sometimes a line of men, stood on
the river-bank. A long rope was attached by means of a steel spike
to one log after another, and it was dragged from the tangled mass.
Sometimes, after unloading the top logs, those at the bottom would rise
and make the task easier; sometimes the work would go on for hours with
no perceptible progress, and Mr. Wiley would have opportunity to tell
the bystanders of a “turrible jam” on the Kennebec that had cost the
Lumber Company ten thousand dollars to break.
There would be great arguments on shore, among the villagers as well as
among the experts, as to the particular log which might be a key to the
position. The boss would study the problem from various standpoints,
and the drivers themselves would pass from heated discussion into long
consultations.
“They're paid by the day,” Old Kennebec would philosophize to the
doctor; “an' when they're consultin' they don't hev to be doggin', which
is a turrible sight harder work.”
Rose had created a small sensation, on one occasion, by pointing out to
the under boss the key-log in a jam. She was past mistress of the pretty
game of jackstraws, much in vogue at that time. The delicate little
lengths of polished wood or bone were shaken together and emptied on the
table. Each jackstraw had one of its ends fashioned in the shape of some
sort of implement,--a rake, hoe, spade, fork, or mallet. All the pieces
were intertwined by the shaking process, and they lay as they fell, in a
hopeless tangle. The task consisted in taking a tiny pick-pole, scarcely
bigger than a match, and with the bit of curved wire on the end lifting
off the jackstraws one by one without stirring the pile or making
it tremble. When this occurred, you gave place to your opponent, who
relinquished his turn to you when ill fortune descended upon him, the
game, which was a kind of river-driving and jam-picking in miniature,
being decided by the number of pieces captured and their value. No
wonder that the under boss asked Rose's advice as to the key-log. She
had a fairy's hand, and her cunning at deciding the pieces to be moved,
and her skill at extricating and lifting them from the heap, were looked
upon in Edgewood as little less than supernatural. It was a favorite
pastime; and although a man's hand is ill adapted to it, being
over-large and heavy, the game has obvious advantages for a lover in
bringing his head very close to that of his beloved adversary. The
jackstraws have to be watched with a hawk's eagerness, since the
“trembling” can be discerned only by a keen eye; but there were moments
when Stephen was willing to risk the loss of a battle if he could watch
Rose's drooping eyelashes, the delicate down on her pink cheek, and the
feathery curls that broke away from her hair.
He was looking at her now from a distance, for she and Mite Shapley were
assisting Jed Towle to pile up the tin plates and tie the tin dippers
together. Next she peered into one of the bean-pots, and seemed pleased
that there was still something in its depths; then she gathered the
fragments neatly together in a basket, and, followed by her friend,
clambered down the banks to a shady spot where the Boomshers, otherwise
known as the Crambry family, were “lined up” expectantly.
It is not difficult to find a single fool in any community, however
small; but a family of fools is fortunately somewhat rarer. Every
county, however, can boast of one fool-family, and York County is
always in the fashion, with fools as with everything else. The
unique, much-quoted, and undesirable Boomshers could not be claimed
as indigenous to the Saco valley, for this branch was an offshoot of a
still larger tribe inhabiting a distant township. Its beginnings were
shrouded in mystery. There was a French-Canadian ancestor somewhere, and
a Gypsy or Indian grandmother. They had always intermarried from time
immemorial. When one of the selectmen of their native place had been
asked why the Boomshers always married cousins, and why the habit was
not discouraged, he replied that he really did n't know; he s'posed they
felt it would be kind of odd to go right out and marry a stranger.
Lest “Boomsher” seem an unusual surname, it must be explained that
the actual name was French and could not be coped with by Edgewood or
Pleasant River, being something as impossible to spell as to
pronounce. As the family had lived for the last few years somewhere
near the Killick Cranberry Meadows, they were called--and completely
described in the calling--the Crambry fool-family. A talented and much
traveled gentleman who once stayed over night at the Edgewood tavern,
proclaimed it his opinion that Boomsher had been gradually corrupted
from Beaumarchais. When he wrote the word on his visiting card and
showed it to Mr. Wiley, Old Kennebec had replied, that in the judgment
of a man who had lived in large places and seen a turrible lot o' life,
such a name could never have been given either to a Christian or a
heathen family, that the way in which the letters was thrown together
into it, and the way in which they was sounded when read out loud, was
entirely ag'in reason. It was true, he said, that Beaumarchais, bein'
such a fool-name, might 'a' be'n invented a-purpose for a fool-family,
but he would n't hold even with callin' 'em Boomsher; Crambry was well
enough for 'em an' a sight easier to speak.
Stephen knew a good deal about the Crambrys, for he passed their
so-called habitation in going to one of his wood-lots. It was only
a month before that he had found them all sitting outside their
broken-down fence, surrounded by decrepit chairs, sofas, tables,
bedsteads, bits of carpet, and stoves.
“What's the matter?” he called out from his wagon.
“There ain't nothin' the matter,” said Alcestis Crambry. “Father's
dead, an' we're dividin' up the furnerchure.”
Alcestis was the pride of the Crambrys, and the list of his attainments
used often to be on his proud father's lips. It was he who was the
largest, “for his size,” in the family; he who could tell his brothers
Paul and Arcadus “by their looks”; he who knew a sour apple from a sweet
one the minute he bit it; he who, at the early age of ten, was bright
enough to point to the cupboard and say, “Puddin', dad!”
Alcestis had enjoyed, in consequence of his unusual intellectual powers,
some educational privileges, and the Killick school-mistress well
remembered his first day at the village seat of learning. Reports of
what took place in this classic temple from day to day may have been
wafted to the dull ears of the boy, who was not thought ready for school
until he had attained the ripe age of twelve. It may even have been
that specific rumors of the signs, symbols, and hieroglyphics used
in educational institutions had reached him in the obscurity of his
cranberry meadows. At all events, when confronted by the alphabet chart,
whose huge black capitals were intended to capture the wandering eyes
of the infant class, Alcestis exhibited unusual, almost unnatural,
excitement. “That is 'A,' my boy,” said the teacher genially, as she
pointed to the first character on the chart. “Good God, is that 'A'!”
cried Alcestis, sitting down heavily on the nearest bench. And neither
teacher nor scholars could discover whether he was agreeably surprised
or disappointed in the letter,--whether he had expected, if he ever
encountered it, to find it writhing in coils on the floor of a cage, or
whether it simply bore no resemblance to the ideal already established
in his mind.
Mrs. Wiley had once tried to make something of Mercy, the oldest
daughter of the family, but at the end of six weeks she announced that
a girl who could n't tell whether the clock was going “forrards or
backwards,” and who rubbed a pocket-handkerchief as long as she did a
sheet, would be no help in her household.
The Crambrys had daily walked the five or six miles from their home to
the Edgewood bridge during the progress of the drive, not only for
the social and intellectual advantages to be gained from the company
present, but for the more solid compensation of a good meal. They all
adored Rose, partly because she gave them food, and partly because she
was sparkling and pretty and wore pink dresses that caught their dull
eyes.
The afternoon proved a lively one. In the first place, one of the
younger men slipped into the water between two logs, part of a lot
chained together waiting to be let out of the boom. The weight of
the mass higher up and the force of the current wedged him in rather
tightly, and when he had been “pried” out he declared that he felt like
an apple after it had been squeezed in the cider-mill, so he drove home,
and Rufus Waterman took his place.
Two hours' hard work followed this incident, and at the end of that time
the “bung” that reached from the shore to Waterman's Ledge (the rock
where Pretty Quick met his fate) was broken up, and the logs that
composed it were started down-river. There remained now only the great
side jam at Gray Rock. This had been allowed to grow, gathering logs as
they drifted past, thus making higher water and a stronger current on
the other side of the rock, and allowing an easier passage for the logs
at that point.
All was excitement now, for, this particular piece of work accomplished,
the boom above the falls would be “turned out,” and the river would once
more be clear and clean at the Edgewood bridge.
Small boys, perching on the rocks with their heels hanging, hands and
mouths full of red Astrakhan apples, cheered their favorites to the
echo, while the drivers shouted to one another and watched the signs and
signals of the boss, who could communicate with them only in that way,
so great was the roar of the water.
The jam refused to yield to ordinary measures. It was a difficult
problem, for the rocky river-bed held many a snare and pitfall. There
was a certain ledge under the water, so artfully placed that every log
striking under its projecting edges would wedge itself firmly there,
attracting others by its evil example.
“That galoot-boss ought to hev shoved his crew down to that jam this
mornin',” grumbled Old Kennebec to Alcestis Crambry, who was always his
most loyal and attentive listener. “But he would n't take no advice, not
if Pharaoh nor Boaz nor Herod nor Nicodemus come right out o' the Bible
an' give it to him. The logs air contrary today. Sometimes they'll go
along as easy as an old shoe, an' other times they'll do nothin' but
bung, bung, bung! There's a log nestlin' down in the middle o' that jam
that I've be'n watchin' for a week. It's a cur'ous one, to begin with;
an' then it has a mark on it that you can reco'nize it by. Did ye ever
hear tell o' George the Third, King of England, Alcestis, or ain't he
known over to the crambry medders? Well, once upon a time men used to
go through the forests over here an' slash a mark on the trunks o' the
biggest trees. That was the royal sign, as you might say, an' meant that
the tree was to be taken over to England to make masts an' yard-arms for
the King's ships. What made me think of it now is that the King's mark
was an arrer, an' it's an arrer that's on that there log I'm showin'
ye. Well, sir, I seen it fust at Milliken's Mills a Monday. It was in
trouble then, an' it's be'n in trouble ever sence. That's allers the
way; there'll be one pesky, crooked, contrary, consarne'd log that can't
go anywheres without gittin' into difficulties. You can yank it out an'
set it afloat, an' before you hardly git your doggin' iron off of it,
it'll be snarled up agin in some new place. From the time it's chopped
down to the day it gets to Saco, it costs the Comp'ny 'bout ten times
its pesky valler as lumber. Now they've sent over to Benson's for a team
of horses, an' I bate ye they can't git 'em. I wish i was the boss on
this river, Alcestis.”
“I wish I was,” echoed the boy.
“Well, your head-fillin' ain't the right kind for a boss, Alcestis, an'
you'd better stick to dry land. You set right down here while I go back
a piece an' git the pipe out o' my coat pocket. I guess nothin' ain't
goin' to happen for a few minutes.”
The surmise about the horses, unlike most of Old Kennebec's, proved
to be true. Benson's pair had gone to Portland with a load of hay;
accordingly the tackle was brought, the rope was adjusted to a log, and
five of the drivers, standing on the river-bank, attempted to drag it
from its intrenched position. It refused to yield the fraction of an
inch. Rufus and Stephen joined the five men, and the augmented crew of
seven were putting all their strength on the rope when a cry went up
from the watchers on the bridge. The “dog” had loosened suddenly, and
the men were flung violently to the ground. For a second they were
stunned both by the surprise and by the shock of the blow, but in the
same moment the cry of the crowd swelled louder. Alcestis Crambry had
stolen, all unnoticed, to the rope, and had attempted to use his feeble
powers for the common good. When the blow came he fell backward, and,
making no effort to control the situation, slid over the bank and into
the water.
The other Crambrys, not realizing the danger, laughed audibly, but there
was no jeering from the bridge.
Stephen had seen Alcestis slip, and in the fraction of a moment had
taken off his boots and was coasting down the slippery rocks behind him;
in a twinkling he was in the water, almost as soon as the boy himself.
“Doggoned idjut!” exclaimed Old Kennebec, tearfully. “Wuth the hull
fool-family! If I hed n't 'a' be'n so old, I'd 'a' jumped in myself, for
you can't drownd a Wiley, not without you tie nail-kags to their head
an' feet an' drop 'em in the falls.”
Alcestis, who had neither brains, courage, nor experience, had, better
still, the luck that follows the witless. He was carried swiftly down
the current; but, only fifty feet away, a long, slender log, wedged
between two low rocks on the shore, jutted out over the water, almost
touching its surface. The boy's clothes were admirably adapted to the
situation, being full of enormous rents. In some way the end of the log
caught in the rags of Alcestis's coat and held him just seconds enough
to enable Stephen to swim to him, to seize him by the nape of the neck,
to lift him on the log, and thence to the shore. It was a particularly
bad place for a landing, and there was nothing to do but to lower ropes
and drag the drenched men to the high ground above.
Alcestis came to his senses in ten or fifteen minutes, and seemed as
bright as usual, with a kind of added swagger at being the central
figure in a dramatic situation.
“I wonder you hed n't stove your brains out, when you landed so turrible
suddent on that rock at the foot of the bank,” said Mr. Wiley to him.
“I should, but I took good care to light on my head,” responded
Alcestis; a cryptic remark which so puzzled Old Kennebec that he mused
over it for some hours.