Welton fell into low conversation with an old man, straight and slender
as a Norway pine, with blue eyes, flaxen hair, eyebrows and moustache.
This was Larsen, in charge of the jam, honest, capable in his way, slow
of speech, almost childlike of glance. After a few minutes Welton
rejoined Bob.

"He's a square peg, all right," he muttered, more to himself than to his
companion. "He's a good riverman, but he's no river boss. Too
easy-going. Well, all he has to do is to direct the work, luckily. If
anything really goes wrong, Darrell would be down in two jumps."

"Grub pile!" remarked the cook conversationally.

The men seized the utensils from a heap of them, and began to fill their
plates from the kettles on the table.

"Come on, bub," said Welton, "dig in! It's a long time till breakfast!"




XIII


The cook was early a foot next morning. Bob, restless with the
uneasiness of the first night out of doors, saw the flicker of the fire
against the tent canvas long before the first signs of daylight. In
fact, the gray had but faintly lightened the velvet black of the night
when the cook thrust his head inside the big sleeping tents to utter a
wild yell of reveille.