ly. "I
know what I'm doing. If you don't like it, go in the house where your
hyper-sensitive tastes won't be offended."

"Thank you," she responded cuttingly and swung about, angry and
hurt--only to have a fresh scare from the drunken cook, who came reeling
forward.

"I'm gonna quit," he loudly declared. "I ain't goin' to stick 'round
here no more. The job's no good. I want m' time. Yuh hear me, Benton.
I'm through. Com-pletely, ab-sho-lutely through. You bet I am. Gimme m'
time. I'm a gone goose."

"Quit, then, hang you," Benton growled. "You'll get your check in a
minute. You're a fine excuse for a cook, all right--get drunk right on
the job. You don't need to show up here again, when you've had your jag
out."

"'S all right," Matt declared largely. "'S other jobs. You ain't the
whole Pacific coast. Oh, way down 'pon the Swa-a-nee ribber--"

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.

"Whistle him up, Sam," Benton ordered. "Jack can beat our time, and this
bleeding must be stopped quick."

The tender veered in from her course at the signal. Fyfe himself was at
the wheel. Five minutes effected a complete arrangement, and