he say anything to his companion.

"He's in town," said Tally; "but they don't know where."

"Whither away?" asked Bob.

"Across the river."

They walked together down a side street to a long wooden bridge. This
rested on wooden piers shaped upstream like the prow of a ram in order
to withstand the battering of the logs. It was a very long bridge.
Beneath it the swift current of the river slipped smoothly. The breadth
of the stream was divided into many channels and pockets by means of
brown poles. Some of these were partially filled with logs. A clear
channel had been preserved up the middle. Men armed with long pike-poles
were moving here and there over the booms and the logs themselves,
pushing, pulling, shoving a big log into this pocket, another into that,
gradually segregating the different brands belonging to the different
owners of the mills below. From the quite considerable height of the
bridge all this lay spread out mapwise up and down the perspective of
the stream. The smooth, oily current of the river, leaden-hued and cold
in the light of the early spring, hurried by on its way to the lake,
swiftly, yet without the turmoil and fuss of lesser power. Downstream,
as far as Bob could see, were the huge mills' with their flanking lumber
yards, the masts of their lading ships, their black sawdust-burners, and
above all the pure-white, triumphant banners of steam that shot straight
up against the gray of the sky.

Tally followed the direction of his gaze.