III


At this moment the cook stepped into view, and, making a trumpet of
his two hands, sent across the water a long, weird, and not
unmusical cry. The men at once began slowly to drift in the
direction of the camp. There, when the tin plates had all been
filled, and each had found a place to his liking, Orde addressed
them. His manner was casual and conversational.

"Boys," said he, "the old mossback who owns that dam has come up
here loaded to scatter. He's built up the sill of that gate until
we can't get a draw on the water, and he refuses to give, lend, or
sell us the right to cut her out. I've made him every reasonable
proposition, but all I get back is quotations from the prophets.
Now, we've got to get those logs out--that's what we're here for. A
fine bunch of whitewater birlers we'd look if we got hung up by an
old mossback in a plug hat. Johnny Sims, what's the answer?"

"Cut her out," grinned Johnny Sims briefly.

"Correct!" replied Orde with a chuckle. "Cut her out. But, my son,
it's against the law to interfere with another man's property."

This was so obviously humourous in intent that its only reception
consisted of more grins from everybody.

"But," went on Orde more seriously, "it's quite a job. We can't
work more than six or eight men at it at a time. We got to work as
fast as we can before the old man can interfere."