away. With marvellous skill they topped the dripping, bobby,
rolling timbers, treading them over and over, back and forth, in
unconscious preservation of equilibrium.

There was a good deal of noise and fun at the rear. The crew had
been divided, and a half worked on either side the river. A rivalry
developed as to which side should advance fastest in the sacking.
It became a race. Momentary success in getting ahead of the other
fellow was occasion for exultant crowing, while a mishap called
forth ironic cheers and catcalls from the rival camp. Just as Orde
came tramping up the trail, one of the rivermen's caulks failed to
"bite" on an unusually smooth, barked surface. His foot slipped;
the log rolled; he tried in vain to regain his balance, and finally
fell in with a heavy splash.

The entire river suspended work to send up a howl of delight. As
the unfortunate crawled out, dripping from head to foot, he was
greeted by a flood of sarcasm and profane inquiry that left no room
for even his acknowledged talents of repartee. Cursing and ashamed,
he made his way ashore over the logs, spirting water at every step.
There he wrung out his woollen clothes as dry as he could, and
resumed work.

Hardly had Orde the opportunity to look about at the progress
making, however, before he heard his name shouted from the bank.
Looking up, to his surprise he saw the solemn cook waving a frantic
dish-towel at him. Nothing could induce the cook to attempt the
logs.

"What is it, Charlie?" asked Orde, leaping ashore and stamping the