He broke into dolorous song and turned back into the cookhouse. Benton's
hard-set face relaxed. He laughed shortly.

"Takes all kinds to make a world," he commented. "Don't look so
horrified, Sis. This isn't the regular order of events. It's just an
accumulation--and it sort of got me going. Here's the boys."

The four stretcher men set down their burden in the shade of the
bunkhouse. Renfrew was conscious now.

"Tough luck, Jim," Benton sympathized. "Does it pain much?"

Renfrew shook his head. White and weakened from shock and loss of blood,
nevertheless he bravely disclaimed pain.

"We'll get you fixed up at the Springs," Benton went on. "It's a nasty
slash in the meat, but I don't think the bone was touched. You'll be on
deck before long. I'll see you through, anyway."

They gave him a drink of water and filled his pipe, joking him about
easy days in the hospital while they sweated in the woods. The drunken
cook came out, carrying his rolled blankets, began maudlin sympathy, and
was promptly squelched, whereupon he retreated to the float, emitting
conversation to the world at large. Then they carried Renfrew down to
the float, and Davis began to haul up the anchor to lay the _Chickamin_
alongside.

While the chain was still chattering in the hawse pipe, the squat black
hull of Jack Fyfe's tender rounded the nearest point.