THE FIGHT
As is usually the case with men who live close to nature, the
lumberjacks in Mr. Scott’s logging camp possessed many rough virtues,
and, it must be confessed, some equally strong vices.
Among these might be numbered an inordinate love of fighting.
And fighting among these elemental natures was not the honorable
stand-up-and-fight-and-don’t-hit-a-man-when-he’s-down style of combat
that our Scouts were used to considering it.
On the contrary, the one thing that the lumberman desired was to
put his opponent out of the running, either by fair means or foul.
And, indeed, the tactics employed were considered all right by their
comrades, so in a way it could not be said that they fought by
underhand methods. They knew what they had to expect, and so it was
“up to them” not to be taken unawares.
“Everything went,” no matter what it was. A man might kick, bite, or
gouge his adversary, and if he tripped, might even jump on the fallen
man, without being criticized by his companions. Just to win, in any
way, was their one great aim and object.
But if they had been allowed to follow their tendencies unchecked
there would have been little work done around the camp, as a large
part of the working force would have been disabled a good part of the
time.
To prevent this, the foreman, Flannigan, had issued strict orders
against fighting of any kind.
“The first one of yez that Oi catch at it, Oi’ll lick meself,
begorra, and fire him afterward,” had been his ultimatum and the men,
knowing him for a famous “scrapper” and a man of his word, had kept
the peace up to today.
But there had always been a smouldering animosity between two of
the men and this morning it threatened to burst forth into a “real
knock-down rumpus,” as the lumbermen described it.
The two lumberjacks in question were named respectively Larry O’Brien
and Jacques Lavine. As may be inferred from the names, the former
was a strapping red-headed Irishman, with a big bull neck and small,
twinkling, blue eyes.
The Canadian, on the other hand, at first glance seemed to be much
the physical inferior of the two. He was a lighter man and more
slenderly built, but from constant outdoor work his muscles had
become like steel wires. So that if the men should at any time come
to blows, as now seemed very probable, they would be a pretty evenly
matched pair.
It was unusually hot weather, and that may have had something to do
with the ill-temper in which the men found themselves. For another
thing, work had been slack recently, and that is always bad for men
who are not used to it. Indeed, the same thing may be said in regard
to all of us. The man who does not have to work reasonably hard is to
be pitied.
To cap the climax, the foreman was away on a trip to the distant town
for supplies, and this fact further relaxed the reins of discipline.
If either of the two men had been called on to give a reason for
their hatred toward each other, the chances are that they would have
been hard put to it to give an adequate reply.
Their feud had started in some little slighting allusion to the
other’s nationality, and small things had led to larger, until now
they both felt that they must settle the question of supremacy once
for all.
As is commonly the case with those who are of such an irritable and
trouble-seeking nature, they were really the two most worthless men
in the camp. They both drank heavily whenever they got the chance,
and were continually shirking their work and picking quarrels.
It is safe to say that if they had put half as much energy and time
into their work as they did into grumbling and quarreling, they would
have been valuable men.
Both were strong and skillful in the handling of axes, and could
bring a forest giant to the ground as soon or sooner than anyone else
in the camp. It is too bad that in this world of ours there is so
much misdirected energy, which if deflected into the proper channels
would do so much valuable work.
As has been said, on this particular morning the men all felt out of
sorts, and, to make things worse, the cook had burned the biscuits.
“It’s always the way,” grumbled O’Brien, who was usually called
“Red,” both because of the color of his hair, and also on account of
his red-hot temper, “them French cooks never is no good, nohow! I for
one never heard of a---- frog-eater who ever was any good, anyhow,”
he continued, casting a meaning glance in Lavine’s direction.
Lavine rose slowly from his seat, an ominous scowl on his dark face.
“You mean to say, den, Irishman, zat you tink no Frenchman be any
good? Is zat what you say?”
“Ye guessed right foist time, Frenchy,” replied O’Brien, recklessly.
“Now, what ye gonna do about it, hey?”
“Dog!” hissed the Frenchman, his eyes flashing and his dark face
livid with rage. “I will show you who ees your master!” and he leaped
across the rough table and struck O’Brien a tremendous blow on the
jaw.
Any ordinary man would have dropped like a log, but the hardy
Irishman only reeled a little from the terrific buffet.
“So that’s how ye feel, is ut?” he grunted, and they fell to
belaboring each other in good earnest.
The rest of the men were delighted at this turn of affairs and
quickly formed a ring around the combatants.
Neither man was very popular in the camp, so the men could enjoy the
fight without having to worry about which one conquered. All they
cared for was to see a rousing fight, and their desires seemed in a
fair way to be gratified.
Both men were in the pink of condition, and for a long time neither
seemed to gain any advantage over the other.
They swayed backward and forward, exchanging terrific blows that
echoed on their chests like the beating of a drum. No sound was heard
save their labored breathing and an occasional encouraging cry from
one of the men. It seemed as though no man could live through such
punishment, and finally both were forced to rest through sheer lack
of wind.
Then they fell to again, and this time employed all the rough-house
tactics that they knew. Lavine suddenly brought his spiked shoe down
on the Irishman’s foot with all the force at his command, and the
latter gave a bellow of pain and rage. He retaliated by lowering his
head and butting it into the pit of Lavine’s stomach. The Frenchman
gave a gasp and reeled for a moment, but quickly recovered and
returned to the attack with tiger-like ferocity.
There is no telling how the fight would have ended, for here there
was a diversion. Flannigan, the foreman, had returned to the camp
after his trip to town, and with one quick glance realized what was
going on.
With a yell he charged the group of men, who made a path for him with
rather sheepish looks on their faces. He grabbed one by each shoulder
and threw them apart.
“Pfwat the Dickens do ye mean by this, ye shpalpeens?” he shouted,
angrily. “Didn’t Oi say that Oi’d have no fighting in my camp? If yez
want to scrap, go and do it in some other camp. Yez can’t do it here!
Ye’re fired, both of yez! Pick up yer duds and vamoose! Beat it now,
before Oi lick the two of yez! Get!”
The two men were entirely taken back by this, for, as is usual
with men of their type, they had an exaggerated idea of their own
importance and had not believed that Flannigan would really discharge
them. When they realized that such was actually the case, however,
their first astonishment changed to rage and resentment. Their common
plight caused them to forget their recent quarrel and they were drawn
together by their natural grudge against Flannigan. They regarded
him with black scowls and then entered the bunk house to get their
things.
“Who’d have thought the old cuss would take it that way?” growled
O’Brien.
“He’ll live long enough to regret it, by gar,” snapped Lavine,
grinding his teeth, “but not much longer. No man can fire me, Jacques
Lavine, in dat way and live to boast about it. No, sar!”
“We’ll get hunk on him, all right,” muttered “Red.” “We’ll show him
that he can’t get away with anythin’ like that! Yes, by thunder, we
will!”
“Sure ting!” assented the Frenchman, and the look in his eyes was not
good to see. He was the kind of man that would not stop at anything,
and it is safe to say that O’Brien would not be far behind him in
anything he might undertake.
The two worthies packed their blankets and, after drawing the money
due them, set out from the camp. As they reached the edge of the
clearing they both looked back, and Lavine shook his fist at the
rough log houses.
“We’ll get square wiz ze whole bunch,” he said, with a furious oath,
“old Scott and all of zem! Wait, dat’s all!”
“Right you are, Frenchy,” growled O’Brien. “Shake on that,” and with
black thoughts in their hearts they entered the forest.
What plots they laid and how they failed to take Jack Danby into the
reckoning will be seen a little later on.