grade, solid in foundation, and smooth as a turnpike, the quarter of
which would have occupied the average county board of supervisors
for five years. And while he was at it, Orde kept his men busy and
satisfied. Your white-water birler is not an easy citizen to handle. Yet
never once did the boss appear hurried or flustered. Always he
wandered about, his hands in his pockets, chewing a twig, his round,
wind-reddened face puckered humorously, his blue eyes twinkling, his
square, burly form lazily relaxed. He seemed to meet his men almost
solely on the plane of good-natured chaffing. Yet the work was done, and
done efficiently, and Orde was the man responsible.
The drive of which Orde had charge was to be delivered at the booms of
Morrison and Daly, a mile or so above the city of Redding. Redding was a
thriving place of about thirty thousand inhabitants, situated on a long
rapids some forty miles from Lake Michigan. The water-power developed
from the rapids explained Redding's existence. Most of the logs floated
down the river were carried through to the village at the lake coast,
where, strung up the river for eight or ten miles, stood a dozen or so
big saw-mills, with concomitant booms, yards, and wharves. Morrison and
Daly, however, had built a saw and planing mill at Redding, where
they supplied most of the local trade and that of the surrounding
country-side.
The drive, then, was due to break up as soon as the logs should be
safely impounded.
The last camp was made some six or eight miles above the mill. From that
point a good proportion of the rivermen, eager for a taste of the town,
tramped away down the road, to return early in the morning, more or less
drunk, but faithful to their job. One or two did not return.
Among the revellers was the cook, Charlie, commonly called The Doctor.
The rivermen early worked off the effects of their rather wild spree,
and turned up at noon chipper as larks. Not so the cook. He moped about
disconsolately all day; and in the evening, after his work had been
finished, he looked so much like a chicken with the pip that Orde's
attention was attracted.
"Got that dark-brown taste, Charlie?" he inquired with mock solicitude.
The cook mournfully shook his head.
"Large head? Let's feel your pulse. Stick out your tongue, sonny."
"I ain't been drinking, I tell you!" growled Charlie.
"Drinking!" expostulated Orde, horrified. "Of course not! I hope none
of MY boys ever take
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