blew; but now that dam's backed the water up until there reely ain't
no current at all. And this breeze has just stopped the drive dead
as a smelt."

"Don't opening the sluice-gates give her a draw?" inquired the
newcomer.

"Not against this wind--and not much of a draw, anyway, I should
guess."

"How long you been hung?"

"Just to-day. I expect Jack will be down from the rear shortly.
Ought to see something's wrong when he runs against the tail of this
jam of ours."

At this moment the lugubrious, round-faced man in the derby hat
stepped aside from the row of steaming utensils he had been
arranging.

"Grub pile," he remarked in a conversational tone of voice.

The group arose as one man and moved upon the heap of cutlery and of
tin plates and cups. From the open fifty-pound lard pails and
kettles they helped themselves liberally; then retired to squat in
little groups here and there near the sources of supply. Mere
conversation yielded to an industrious silence. Sadly the cook
surveyed the scene, his arms folded across the dirty white apron, an
immense mental reservation accenting the melancholy of his
countenance. After some moments of contemplation he mixed a