larger mills, big millmen, lumber, lumbermen and all pertaining
thereunto. They tolerated the drive because, in the first place they had
to; and in the second place there was some slight profit to be made. But
the rough rivermen antagonized them, and they were never averse to
seeing these buccaneers of the streams in difficulties. Then, too, by
chance the country lawyers Larsen consulted happened to be attorneys for
the little sawmill men. Larsen tried in his blundering way to express
his feeling that "nobody had a right to hang our drive." His
explanations were so involved and futile that, without thinking, Bob
struck in.

"Surely these men have no right to obstruct as they do. Isn't there some
law against interfering with navigation?"

"The stream is not navigable," returned the lawyer curtly.

Bob's memory vouchsafed a confused recollection of something read
sometime, somewhere.

"Hasn't a stream been declared navigable when logs can be driven in
it?" he asked.

"Are you in charge of this drive?" the lawyer asked, turning on him
sharply.

"Why--no," confessed Bob.

"Have you anything to do with this question?"

"I don't believe I have."

"Then I fail to see why I should answer your questions," said the
lawyer, with finality. "As to your question," he went on to Larsen with
equal coldness, "if you have any doubts as to Mr. Murdock's rights in
the stream, you have the recourse of a suit at law to settle that point,
and to determine the damages, if any."

Bob found himself in the street with Larsen.

"But they haven't got no right to stop our drive _dead_ that way,"
expostulated the old man.

Bob's temper was somewhat ruffled by his treatment at the hands of the
lawyer.

"Well, they've done it, whether they have the right to or not," he said
shortly; "what next?"

"I guess I'll telegraph Mr. Welton," said Larsen.

He did so. The two returned to camp. The rivermen were loafing in camp
awaiting Larsen's reappearance. The jam was as before. Larsen walked out
on the logs. The boy, seated on the clump of piles, gave a shrill
whistle. Immediately from the little mill appeared the brown-bearded man
and his two companions. They picked their way across the jam to the
piles, where they roosted, their weapons across their knees, until
Larsen had returned to the other bank.

"Well, Mr. Welton ought to be up in a couple of days, if he ain't up the
main river somewheres," said Larsen.

"Aren't you going to do