Two weeks later the old Itasca crowd was assembled on the campus and
beginning the routine of the classroom once again. It was easy to pick
them out anywhere among the students. Their sunburned faces and the
independent, self-reliant air drilled into them by the life of the camp,
together with the strong bond of fellowship which made them flock
together, work together and loaf together made them the natural leaders.
They had done things and knew what they could do; they had borne
responsibility and were unfrightened by it; they had worked out the
problem of governing themselves all summer and readily applied their
experience to the governing of others. In addition to all that they were
the senior class. It was only natural that they should control all the
politics in the college and be the nucleus around which all the college
activities formed. They neither dictated nor grabbed, but their
influence was irresistible.
The new semester brought them new courses of study: forest management,
lumbering, forest by-products, wood preservation and forest law. The
work was practically all technical now. Among these studies Scott found
in lumbering an all-absorbing interest. The other subjects he liked well
enough, but of the lumbering he could not get too much.
Scott was sorely disappointed to find that Johnson had not returned to
college. With his usual luck that young man had gained the confidence of
a big lumberman with whom he had come in contact in the course of his
duties as patrolman and had been given charge of the logging inspection
in some of the northern camps. He was staying out a year for the
experience. The greater Scott’s success became, the more keenly he felt
his debt to Johnson. It seemed as though fate were spitefully keeping
them apart. Several times he had thought of writing but somehow that
seemed cowardly and he had decided to wait.
The weeks slipped by comparatively uneventfully. The seniors had struck
their stride and felt that they were coming down the home stretch of a
professional course; the outside events which had formerly meant so much
to them were incidental now, and their real interest lay in the work.
Christmas was almost come—the second Christmas since Scott had left his
quiet New England home—and the boy longed to go back there to see the
old folks. He had at one time made up his mind to go, but on more mature
reflection decided that it could not be. He knew that he would better go
to the woods and put in all the time he could in the lumber camps.
Scott realized that most of the men had more woods experience than he.
Moreover, the men in his class would spend the month of January in the
lumber camps while he, on account of irregularities in his course, could
not leave the college at that time. If he was to see anything of the
lumbering operations in that section he must do it in the Christmas
vacation.
Thus it happened that the Saturday before Christmas found Scott
traveling northward towards the logging camps with no other companion
than Greenleaf who had decided to accompany him.
It was really a long trip. It did not seem long, however, till they
alighted on a short platform where the train left them, the only living
creatures in sight.
“Prosperous looking place,” Greenleaf commented, as he looked out over a
broad expanse of brush-dotted snow to where a line of timber loomed
against the sky.
“Pleasant place to be put off at night,” Scott said. “I wonder where
that mail carrier is the old man told us about?”
As though the question had called him to view, a tall gaunt pacer
whisked out of a tamarack swamp on the other side of the track, jerking
a light cutter over the bumpy trail at a tremendous pace. He seemed to
be going wherever he liked and it required quite a stretch of the
imagination to conceive that the man in the sleigh was driving him.
“You from camp No. 11?” Greenleaf asked, when the gaunt horse had
consented to stop for a minute.
“Yes,” the man growled between his teeth, as he tried to hold the horse.
“Mr. Grafton told us to go out with you,” Greenleaf said, throwing in
the mail sack and climbing in after it. Scott jumped in the back and the
horse started with a plunge.
“Seems like a lively horse,” Scott said, as he hung on for dear life
while the horse jerked the sleigh along in a series of lunges over the
poorly covered corduroy.
“He ain’t goin’ none yet,” the man growled; “wait till we get off this
corduroy.”
At last the bumping ceased and the sleigh slid lightly over a smooth
road. “Now git, if you must,” the driver said, slackening his hold on
the lines. The plunging ceased instantly as the big horse stretched
himself to a steady, swinging pace and shot up the road like an arrow.
The snowballs from his hoofs pelted them in a shower and the zero wind
cut like a knife. For a good mile the pace never slackened or faltered.
From there on the road was bad and they had to go slowly but there was
no more plunging. The big fellow had had his go and was satisfied.
“Gee,” Greenleaf said admiringly, “that’s some horse.”
“That’s the fastest I’ve ever traveled behind a horse,” Scott said, as
he rubbed his chilled hands and face.
“The boss keeps him here in the winter,” the man said proudly; “he’s a
racer.”
The praise of the horse had mellowed the surly driver and the remainder
of the five miles to camp passed pleasantly enough.
To Scott the low lying, snow-covered huts of the camp were a revelation.
He felt completely at a loss. Stables, bunkhouses, cookshack, office and
shops; they all looked alike with the single exception of size. None of
them looked like a house.
“Where’s the foreman?” Greenleaf asked.
“In the office, probably,” the man said.
Greenleaf started for the office as though he had been in that camp all
his life. The office, as in all camps, was a combination of wanigan, or
store, and office. In there they found the foreman patching up some torn
harness. He did not seem to see them come in, and paid not the slightest
attention to them; he still busied himself with the harness. Greenleaf
leaned carelessly against the counter watching the operation. When this
had continued for about five minutes Scott began to wonder why Greenleaf
did not present the letter they had brought, but he waited patiently,
feeling his greenness.
At the end of about ten minutes the foreman straightened up to have a
look at them. Greenleaf, who knew the breed perfectly, continued to look
at the harness in silence as though it were the most interesting thing
he had ever seen. The foreman looked him quietly over for several
minutes before he gruffly demanded,
“What do you want?”
“I have a letter for you from the boss,” Greenleaf said, handing it
over.
The foreman read it carefully, and then without looking up, “Go over to
the cookshack and get lunch.”
The boys went out. “I thought I could make him talk first,” Greenleaf
chuckled.
“What were you waiting for?” Scott asked.
“Never speak to one of those fellows first,” Greenleaf admonished him.
“If we had piped right up as soon as we went in there he would have kept
us waiting an hour before he read that letter. Now he knows we’re not
greenhorns and respects us.”
Going into the cookshack was a good deal like going down a cellar. There
were only four small windows which shed a very dim light over the big
room. Down the center were two long oilcloth-covered tables set with
about a hundred tin cups and tin plates with knives and forks to match.
Sugar and spoons were found in tomato cans at intervals. About every six
feet there was an immense salt shaker, a bottle of vinegar and a bottle
of catsup.
At the end of these tables under a skylight was an enormous kitchen
range with two barrels rigged up for hot water boilers and flanked by a
big sink and a sort of serving counter. On one side was a giant
breadboard built in over the flour bin. It was the strangest looking
dining-room Scott had ever seen.
Greenleaf nodded to the cook, a fat man in a white apron who was leaning
against one of the tables.
“Can we get a hand-out?” he asked.
A grunt was the only response, but Greenleaf walked familiarly to the
counter, pulled a box out from under it and selected some cookies. He
unearthed another box containing some doughnuts, bread from another and
soon had quite a collection. As soon as the cook saw they knew the ropes
he warmed up immediately. “You’ll find the coffee and tea on the back of
the stove, boys, and there’s some pie on the shelf. Beans are in the
oven and some meat in the safe.” On the whole they had a pretty good
lunch.
When they returned to the office they found the foreman waiting for
them. The fact that they had not been thrown out by the cook increased
his respect for them—for the cook is the real autocrat of the logging
camp.
“The boss says to give you fellows whatever you want. What is it?”
“Board and lodging for two weeks,” Greenleaf answered promptly. “We want
to look over the work here and see how things are done.”
“Want me to show you around?” the foreman asked tentatively. Those were
the instructions in the letter, and he did not like the prospect.
“No,” Greenleaf said, “we can take care of ourselves.”
The foreman looked relieved. “You can get your meals at the cookshack
and sleep here in the office in that upper bunk; you’d get full of
varmints in the bunkhouse.”
With that he left them, glad to get away.
“Let’s look around the camp,” Greenleaf suggested. “We won’t have time
to do anything else before dinner. They eat about half past eleven.”
“Why not let the foreman show us around?” Scott asked. “We’d see more.”
“He’ll do it better if he don’t have to,” Greenleaf answered. “That
letter probably told him to do it. A foreman hates that kind of thing
unless it is a big lumberman who wants to see things.”
They glanced into the bunkhouse. It was almost dark—for there were only
two small windows—and the view was rather hazy. The walls all along both
sides and one end were lined with a double row of bunks filled with
musty straw and some filthy blankets. A large round-house stove stood in
the center of the room and suspended on wires around it were three rows
of rusty looking socks. The air was anything but pure.
“That’s what you miss by sleeping in the office,” Greenleaf said, as
they backed out. “And you’re missing a lot more that you don’t see. I’ve
tried it. It’s not so bad when you get used to it, but it’s no fun
getting used to it.”
Scott shuddered as he thought of it. “These lumberjacks must be a tough
lot,” he said.
“Wait till you see them. They are not the old time lumberjacks you read
about. They’re the scum of Europe. You’ll hear a dozen languages in that
cookshack if the cook does not knock them in the head with the rolling
pin.”
They had made the round of the stables where they had a long talk with
the barn boss on the cost and methods of feeding, and had held a short
conference with the saw filer when Scott was startled by a peculiar
sound. He found it was the cookee blowing a long tin horn to call the
men to dinner. It sounded dismal enough then, but many a time after that
when he had been in the woods all day it seemed like the sweetest kind
of music.
In a few minutes the men began to stream into camp—Finns, Swedes, Poles,
Norwegians, an occasional Austrian and a few of other nationalities. It
was certainly a motley crew. Their mackinaws were the only thing about
them that presented any appearance of uniformity. That and their shape,
for the habit of keeping warm by putting on layer after layer of flannel
shirts, gave them all a more or less stout and stubby appearance. Their
rubbers, worn over two or three pairs of thick woolen socks, crunched
sullenly in the dry snow. They filed silently into the bunkhouse and at
another toot of the horn poured out again into the cookshack.
The boys hurried into the cookshack with the rest and were assigned
seats next to the foreman. There was no time lost. The men piled their
tin plates high and emptied them with astonishing rapidity. The dozen
languages that Greenleaf had predicted were certainly there, but were
not in evidence, for a sign “No Talking” backed up by a
determined-looking cook acted as a damper on conversation. Hardly a word
was spoken. In five minutes some of the most expert had emptied their
tin plates twice and were filing out.
In the afternoon they went to the woods and followed the operation, from
the stump to the landing. They watched the great towering pines, sawed
off the stump and wedged over, come smashing down wherever the sawyers
willed them to fall. They saw them cut into logs and the logs rolled
onto little single sleds, with the back ends dragging in the snow and
saw them hauled over the skidroads to the ice-coated logging road and
piled on the skidways. They saw those skidways dwindle as the logs were
piled high on the broad bunks of the logging sleds and hauled away,
forty tons at a load, over the ice road to the river bank where they
were rolled on the ice to await the spring floods which would carry them
away to the mills hundreds of miles down the river, or, as in another
part of the tract, hauled to the railroad track to be carried directly
to the mill by rail.
It was on the last day of their stay that Scott suddenly and
unexpectedly blossomed out into the hero of the whole camp. He and
Greenleaf walked five miles over to the next camp to see the steam log
loader, or jammer, which was working there. It was located on a steep
side hill where the logs, piled high on the upper side of the track,
were swung across onto the cars. On the other side of the track the
ground sloped away steeply.
While they were watching the big machine Scott thought he recognized
something familiar about a man who was working further down the slope
locating a new skidroad. He knew he had seen those quick, cat-like
motions before. He left Greenleaf and started down there. Before he had
gone half way he recognized Johnson.
Suddenly there was a shout from the jammer, a cry of warning. Johnson
was evidently so accustomed to the general clamor that he did not look
around, but Scott, who was a little nervous in these strange
surroundings, turned instantly.
An enormous log which was being swung onto the car had broken loose from
the iron clutches of the jammer, dropped over the down-hill side of the
car and was sweeping sideways with the speed of an arrow directly toward
Johnson. It was almost on him. An instant’s delay meant sure death. The
men on the jammer stood horrified and helpless.
Scott saw that Johnson could not be made to understand in time to jump.
Shouting at him would do no good; before he could comprehend it would be
too late. Scott took the only chance left to him, poor as it seemed. To
the horror of the workmen he jumped directly in the course of the log
and striking Johnson full in the chest with all the power of his
practiced right arm, he jumped wildly straight in the air. The huge log
swished under him, striking his feet as it went and bringing him down
heavily on his head.
Scott struggled quickly to his feet and looked half-dazed toward
Johnson. Before he could see what had happened he felt himself in
Greenleaf’s arms and knew from the cheers of the men on the jammer that
his blow had carried Johnson out of danger. He needed Greenleaf’s
support for his knees kept doubling up under him and a cold sweat had
broken out all over his body.
Johnson rose slowly and looked down the slope after the log. Then he
turned and recognized Scott.
“By George, Scotty,” he cried, grasping Scott’s hand warmly, “how did
you come here? You surely saved my life that time and risked your own to
do it. Hello, Greenleaf.”
“Are you hurt?” Scott asked anxiously.
“Only in the chest,” Johnson answered with a grin. “I see my training
did you some good.”
“We are making a lumber report on camp 11,” Scott said, “and came over
to see the jammer. I did not know you were here, but thought I
recognized you and came down to see.”
“Good thing for me that you did.”
“I found out long ago what a mucker I made of myself last fall and have
been longing for a chance to apologize, but something always interfered.
Now I am going to get it out before anything stops me. I have made good
ever since you called me down, and I owe it all to you. I was ashamed of
myself at the time, but was too big a coward to tell you so.”
“And now,” Johnson laughed, “you have far more than squared the account
by knocking me down and probably breaking two or three ribs. Forget it.
I acted only for your good, knew what I would get from the start and was
never sore about it. Let’s go to the camp.”
They talked until late in the afternoon, when Scott and Greenleaf had to
return to camp 11. They said good-bye to Johnson with many regrets and
left in the minds of the lumberjacks a feeling of respect such as they
had never before felt for a college man. The news of the rescue had
reached camp 11 ahead of them and Scott was flattered at every turn.
This flattery meant little to him, for he knew from experience how
little it was worth, but he was delighted over his reconciliation with
Johnson. He had not realized what a burden he had been carrying.
The next morning they went to the train behind the old pacer feeling
well repaid for their trip. The foreman himself had come out to bid them
good-bye.
The journey home was a pleasant one for Scott. He had carried out one of
his resolutions and placed himself once more on an honest footing with
Johnson. Moreover, he felt convinced that he had picked responsible
companions. Merton, Greenleaf and Johnson, he thought, were certainly
above reproach. The only thing that worried him was whether the sterling
qualities which he knew so well would appeal to his father’s Eastern
viewpoint. He remembered how he had regarded them when he first came
West, and he had some misgivings.