Adventures of Bobby Orde

by Anonymous

  I

  THE BOOMS

  At nine o'clock one morning Bobby Orde, following an agreement with hisfather, walked sedately to the Proper Place, where he kept his cap andcoat and other belongings. The Proper Place was a small, dark closetunder the angle of the stairs. He called it the Proper Place just as hecalled his friend Clifford Fuller, or the saw-mill town in which helived Monrovia--because he had always heard it called so.

  At the door a beautiful black and white setter solemnly joined him.

  "Hullo, Duke!" greeted Bobby.

  The dog swept back and forth his magnificent feather tail, and fell inbehind his young master.

  Bobby knew the way perfectly. You went to the fire-engine house; andthen to the left after the court-house was Mr. Proctor's; and then, allat once, the town. Father's office was in the nearest square brickblock. Bobby paused, as he always did, to look in the first storewindow. In it was a weapon which he knew to be a Flobert Rifle. It wassomething to be dreamed of, with its beautiful blued-steel octagonbarrel, its gleaming gold-plated locks and its polished stock. Bobby wasjust under ten years old; but he could have told you all about thatFlobert Rifle--its weight, the length of its barrel, the number ofgrains of both powder and lead loaded in its various cartridges. Amonghis books he possessed a catalogue that described Flobert Rifles, andalso Shotguns and Revolvers. Bobby intoxicated himself with them. Twicehe had even seen his father's revolver; and he knew where it waskept--on the top shelf of the closet. The very closet door gave him athrill.

  Reluctantly he tore himself away, and turned in to the straight, broadstairway that led to the offices above. The stairway, and the hall towhich it mounted were dark and smelled of old coco-matting and staletobacco. Bobby liked this smell very much. He liked, too, the echo ofhis footsteps as he marched down the hall to the door of his father'soffices.

  Within were several long, narrow desks burdened with large ledgers andflanked by high stools. On each stool sat a clerk--five of them. Aniron "base burner" stove occupied the middle of the room. Its pipe ranin suspension here and there through the upper air until it plungedunexpectedly into the wall. A capacious wood-box flanked it. Bobby wasglad he did not have to fill that wood-box at a cent a time.

  Against the walls at either end of the room and next the windows weretwo roll-top desks at which sat Mr. Orde and his partner. Two or threepivoted chairs completed the furnishings.

  "Hullo, Bobby," called Mr. Orde, who was talking earnestly to a man;"I'll be ready in a few minutes."

  Nothing pleased Bobby more than to wander about the place with itsdelicious "office smell." At one end of the room, nailed against thewall, were rows and rows of beautifully polished models of the firm'sdifferent tugs, barges and schooners. Bobby surveyed them with bothpleasure and regret. It seemed a shame that such delightful boats shouldhave been built only in half and nailed immovably to boards. Againstanother wall were maps, and a real deer's head. Everywhere hung framedphotographs of logging camps and lumbering operations. From any one ofthe six long windows he could see the street below, and those who passedalong it. Time never hung heavy at the office.

  When Mr. Orde had finished his business, he put on his hat, and the bigman, the little boy and the grave, black and white setter dog walkeddown the long dark hall, down the steps, and around the corner to thelivery stable.

  Here they climbed into one of the light and graceful buggies which wereat that time a source of such pride to their owners, and flashed outinto the street behind Mr. Orde's celebrated team.

  Duke's gravity at this juncture deserted him completely. Life now meantsomething besides duty. Ears back, mouth wide, body extended, he flewaway. Faster and faster he ran, until he was almost out of sight; thenturned with a whirl of shingle dust and came racing back. When hereached the horses he leaped vigorously from one side to the other,barking ecstatically; then set off on a long even lope along thesidewalks and across the street, investigating everything.

  Mr. Orde took the slender whalebone whip from its socket.

  "Come, Dick!" said he.

  The team laid back their pointed delicate ears, shook their heads fromside to side, snorted and settled into a swift stride. Bobby leaned overto watch the sunlight twinkle on the wheel-spokes. The narrow tires sunkslightly in the yielding shingle fragments. _Brittle!_ _Brittle!__Brittle!_ the sound said to Bobby. Above all things he loved to watchthe gossamer-like wheels, apparently too light and delicate to bear theweight they must carry, flying over the springy road.

  At the edge of town they ran suddenly out from beneath the maple treesto find themselves at the banks of the river. A long bridge crossed it.The team clattered over the planks so fast that hardly could Bobby gettime to look at the cat-tails along the bayous before blue water wasbeneath him.

  But here Mr. Orde had to pull up. The turn-bridge was open; and Bobby tohis delight was allowed to stand up in his seat and watch the wallowing,churning little tug and the three calm ships pass through. He could notsee the tug at all until it had gone beyond the bridge, only its smoke;but the masts of the ship passed stately in regular succession.

  "Three-masted schooner," said he.

  Then when the last mast had scarcely cleared the opening, the ponderousturn-bridge began slowly to close. Its movement was almostimperceptible, but mighty beyond Bobby's small experience to gauge. Hecould make out the two bridge tenders walking around and around, pushingon the long lever that operated the mechanism. In a moment more thebridge came into alignment with a clang. The team, tossing their headsimpatiently, moved forward.

  On the other side of the bridge was no more town; but instead, greatlumber yards, and along the river a string of mills with manysmokestacks.

  The road-bed at this point changed abruptly to sawdust, springy andodorous with the sweet new smell of pine that now perfumed all the air.To the left Bobby could see the shipyards and the skeleton of a vesselwell under way. From it came the irregular _Block!_ _Block!_ _Block!_ ofmallets; and it swarmed with the little, black, ant-like figures of men.

  Mr. Orde drove rapidly and silently between the shipyards and the rowsand rows of lumber piles, arranged in streets and alleys like anuntenanted city. Overhead ran tramways on which dwelt cars and greatblack and bay horses. The wild exultant shriek of the circular saw rangout. White plumes of steam shot up against the intense blue of the sky.Beyond the piles of lumber Bobby could make out the topmasts of moreships, from which floated the pointed hollow "tell-tales" affected bythe lake schooners of those days as pennants. At the end of the lumberpiles the road turned sharp to the right. It passed in turn the smallbuilding which Bobby knew to be another delightful office, and the hugecavernous mill with its shrieks and clangs, its blazing, winking eyesbeneath and its long incline up which the dripping, sullen logs crept inunending procession to their final disposition. And then came the"booms" or pens, in which the logs floated like a patterned browncarpet. Men with pike poles were working there; and even at a distanceBobby caught the dip and rise, and the flash of white water as therivermen ran here and there over the unstable footing.

  Next were more lumber yards and more mills, for five miles or so, untilat last they emerged into an open, flat country, divided by theold-fashioned snake fences; dotted with blackened stumps of thelong-vanished forest; eaten by sloughs and bayous from the river. Thesawdust ceased. Bobby leaned out to watch with fascinated interest thesand, divided by the tire, flowing back in a beautiful curved V to coverthe wheel-rim.

  As far as the eye could reach were marshes grown with wild rice andcat-tails. Occasionally one of these bayous would send an arm in tocross the road. Then Bobby was delighted, for that meant a float-bridgethrough the cracks of which the water spurted up in jets at each impactof the horses' hoofs. On either hand the bayou, but a plank's thicknessbelow the level of the float-bridge, filmed with green weeds and thebright scum of water, not too stagnant, offered surprises to thewatchful eye. One could see many mud-turtles floating lazily, feetoutstretched in poise; and bullfrogs and l
ittle frogs; and, in the clearplaces, trim and self-sufficient mud hens. From the reeds at the edgesflapped small green herons and thunder pumpers. And at last----

  "Oh, look, papa!" cried Bobby excited and awed. "There's a snap'n'turtle!"

  Indeed, there he was in plain sight, the boys' monster of the marshes,fully two feet in diameter, his rough shell streaming with long greengrasses, his wicked black eyes staring, his hooked, powerful jaws set ina grim curve. If once those jaws clamped--so said the boys--nothingcould loose them but the sound of thunder, not even cutting off thehead.

  Ten of the twelve miles to the booms had already been passed. The horsescontinued to step out freely, making nothing of the light fabric theydrew after them. Duke, the white of his coat soiled and muddied byfrequent and grateful plunges, loped alongside, his pink tongue hangingfrom one corner of his mouth, and a seraphic expression on hiscountenance. Occasionally he rolled his eyes up at his masters in sheerenjoyment of the expedition.

  "Papa," asked Bobby suddenly, "what makes you have the booms so faraway? Why don't you have them down by the bridge?"

  Mr. Orde glanced down at his son. The boy looked very little and verychildish, with his freckled, dull red cheeks, his dot of a nose, and hiswide gray eyes. The man was about to make some stop-gap reply. Hechecked himself.

  "It's this way Bobby," he explained carefully. "The logs are cut 'way upthe river--ever so far--and then they float down the river. Now,everybody has logs in the river--Mr. Proctor and Mr. Heinzman and Mr.Welton and lots of people, and they're all mixed up together. When theyget down to the mills where they are to be sawed up into boards, thelogs belonging to the different owners have to be sorted out. Papa'scompany is paid by all the others to do the floating down stream and thesorting out. The sorting out is done in the booms; and we put the boomsup stream from the mills because it is easier to float the logs, afterthey have been sorted, down the stream than to haul them back up thestream."

  "What do you have them so far up the stream for?" asked Bobby.

  "Because there's more room--the river widens out there."

  Bobby said nothing for some time, and Mr. Orde confessed within himselfa strong doubt as to whether or not the explanation had been understood.

  "Papa," demanded Bobby, "I don't see how you tell your logs from Mr.Proctor's or Mr. Heinzman's or any of the rest of them."

  Mr. Orde turned, extending his hand heartily to his astonished son.

  "You're all right, Bobby!" said he. "Why, you see, each log is stampedon the end with a mark. Mr. Proctor's mark is one thing; and Mr.Heinzman's is another; and all the rest have different ones."

  "I see," said Bobby.

  The road now led them through a small grove of willows. Emerging thencethey found themselves in full sight of the booms.

  For fifty feet Bobby allowed his eyes to run over a scene alreadyfamiliar and always of the greatest attraction to him. Then came what hecalled, after his Malory, the Stumps Perilous. Between them there wasbut just room to drive--in fact the delicate points of the whiffle treescratched the polished surfaces of them on either hand. Bobby loved toimagine them as the mighty guardians of the land beyond, and he alwaysheld his breath until they had been passed in safety.

  Shying gently toward each other, ears pricked toward the two obstacles,the horses shot through with pace undiminished and drew up proudlybefore the smallest of the group of buildings. Thence emerged a tall,spare, keen-eyed man in slouch hat, flannel shirt, shortened trousersand spiked boots.

  "Hullo, Jim," said Mr. Orde.

  "Hullo, Jack," said the other.

  "Where's your chore boy to take the horses?"

  "I'll rustle him," replied the River Boss.

  Bobby drew a deep breath of pleasure, and looked about him.

  From the land's edge extended a wide surface of logs. Near at handlittle streaks of water lay between some of them, but at a shortdistance the prospect was brown and uniform, until far away a narrowflash of blue marked the open river. Here and there ran the confines ofthe various booms included in the monster main boom. These confinesconsisted of long heavy timbers floating on the water, and joined end toend by means of strong links. They were generally laid in pairs, andhewn on top, so that they constituted a network of floating sidewalksthreading the expanse of saw-logs. At intervals they were anchored tobunches of piles driven deep, and bound at the top. An unbroken palisadeof piles constituted the outer boundaries of the main boom. At the upperend of them perched a little house whence was operated the mechanism ofthe heavy swing boom, capable of closing entirely the river channel.Thus the logs, floating or driven down the river, encountered thisobstruction; were shunted into the main booms, where they weredistributed severally into the various pocket booms; and later werereleased at the lower end, one lot at a time, to the river again. Thencethey were appropriated by the mill to which they belonged.

  Bobby did not as yet understand the mechanism of all this. He saw merelythe brown logs, and the distant blue water, and the hut wherein he knewdwelt machinery and a good-natured, short, dark man with a short, darkpipe, and the criss-cross floating sidewalks, and the men with long pikepoles and shorter peavies moving here and there about their work. And heliked it.

  But now the chore boy appeared to take charge of the horses. Mr. Ordelifted Bobby down, and immediately walked away with the River Boss,leaving with Bobby the parting injunction not to go out on the booms.

  Bobby, left to himself, climbed laboriously, one steep step at a time,to the elevation of the roofless porch before the mess house. The floorhe examined, as always, with the greatest interest. The sharp caulks ofthe rivermen's shoes had long since picked away the surface, leaving itpockmarked and uneven. Only the knots had resisted; and each of thesenow constituted a little hill above the surrounding plains, Bobby alwayswished that either his tin soldiers could be here or this well-orderedporch could be at home.

  The sun proving hot, he peeped within the cook-house. There long tablesflanked each by two benches of equal extent, stretched down the dimness.They were covered with dark oil-cloth, and at intervals on them aroseirregular humps of cheese cloth. Beneath the cheese cloth, which Bobbyhad seen lifted, were receptacles containing the staples and condiments,such as stewed fruit, sugar, salt, pepper, catsup, molasses and thelike. Innumerable tin plates and cups laid upside down were guarded byiron cutlery. It was very dark and still, and the flies buzzed.

  Beyond, Bobby could hear the cook and his helpers, called cookees. Hedecided to visit them; but he knew better than to pass through thedining room. Until the bell rang, that was sacred from the boss himself.

  Therefore he descended from the porch, one step at a time, and climbedaround to the kitchen. Here he found preparations for dinner well underway.

  "'Llo, Bobby," greeted the cook, a tall white-moustached lean man withbushy eyebrows. The cookees grinned, and one of them offered him a cookyas big as a pie-plate. Bobby accepted the offering, and seated himselfon a cracker box.

  Food was being prepared in quantities to stagger the imagination of oneused only to private kitchens. Prunes stewed away in galvanized ironbuckets; meat boiled in wash-boilers; coffee was made in fifty-poundlard tins; pies were baking in ranks of ten; mashed potatoes werehandled by the shovelful; a barrel of flour was used every two and ahalf days in this camp of hungry hard-working men. It took a good man toplan and organize; and a good man Corrigan was. His meals were neverlate, never scant, and never wasteful. He had the record for all thecamps on the river of thirty-five cents a day per man--and the mensatisfied. Consequently, in his own domain he was autocrat. The diningroom was sacred, the kitchen was sacred, meal hours were sacred. Eachman was fed at half-past five, at twelve, and at six. No man could get abite even of dry bread between those hours, save occasionally a teamsterin the line of duty. Bobby himself had once seen Corrigan chase awould-be forager out at the point of a carving knife. As for Bobby, hewas an exception, and a favourite.

  The place was enthralling, with its two stoves, eac
h as big as thedining room table at home, its shelves and barrels of supplies, its rowsof pies and loaves of bread, and all the crackle and bustle and aroma ofits preparations. Time passed on wings. At length Corrigan glanced up atthe square wooden clock and uttered some command to his twosubordinates. The latter immediately began to dish into largereceptacles of tin the hot food from the stove--boiled meat, mashedpotatoes, pork and beans, boiled corn. These they placed at regularintervals down the long tables of the dining room. Bobby descended fromhis cracker box to watch them. Between the groups of hot dishes theydistributed many plates of pie, of bread and of cake. Finally thetwo-gallon pots of tea and coffee, one for each end of each table, werebrought in. The window coverings were drawn back. Corrigan appeared forfinal inspection.

  "Want to ring the bell, Bobby?" he asked.

  They proceeded together to the front of the house where hung the bellcord. Bobby seized this and pulled as hard as he was able. But hisweight could not bring the heavy bell over. Corrigan, smiling grimlyunder his white moustache, gave him advice.

  "Pull on her, Bobby, hang yer feet off'n the ground. Now let up entire!Now pull again! Now let up! That's the bye! You'll get her goin' yitwidout the help of any man."

  Sure enough the weight of the bell did give slightly under Bobby'sfrantic, though now rythmic, efforts. Nevertheless Corrigan tookopportunity to reach out surreptitiously above the little boy's head toadd a few pounds to the downward pull. At last the clapper reached theside.

  _Cling!_ it broke the stillness.

  "There you got her goin', Bobby!" cried Corrigan, "Now all you got to dois to keep at her. Now pull! Now let go. See how much easier she goes?"

  The bell, started in its orbit, was now easy enough to manipulate. Bobbywas delighted at the noise he was producing, and still more delighted atits results. For from the maze of his toil he could see men coming--menfrom the logs near at hand, men from the booms far away--all coming tothe bell, concentrating at a common centre. By now the bell was turningentirely over. Bobby was becoming enthusiastic. He tugged and tugged.Sometimes when he did not let go the rope in time, he was liftedslightly off his feet. The sun was hot, but he had no thought ofquitting. His hat fell off backward, his towsled hair wetted at theedges, clung to his forehead, his dull red cheeks grew redder behindtheir freckles, his eyes fairly closed in an ecstasy of enjoyment. Hedid not hear Corrigan laughing, nor the gleeful shouts of the men asthey leaped ashore and with dripping boots advanced to the expectedmeal. All he knew was that wonderful _clang!_ _clang!_ _clang!_ overhim; the only thought in his little head was that he, _he_, Bobby Orde,was making all this noise himself!

  How long he would have continued before giving out entirely it would behard to say, but at this moment Mr. Orde and Jim Denning came around thecorner with some haste. Both looked worried and a little angry untilthey caught sight of the small bell-ringer. Then they too laughed withthe men.

  But Mr. Orde swooped down on his son and tossed him on his shoulder.

  "That'll do," he advised, "we're all here. Lord, Corrigan! I thought youwere afire at least."

  "You got to show us up a reg'lar Christmas dinner to match that," saidone of the men to Corrigan.

  After the meal, which Bobby enjoyed thoroughly, because it was sodifferent from what he had at home, he had a request to proffer.

  "Papa," he demanded, "I want to go out on the booms."

  "Haven't time to-day, Bobby," replied Mr. Orde. "You just play around."

  But Jim Denning would not have this.

  "Can't start 'em in too early, Jack," said he. "I bet you'd been fishedout from running logs before you were half his age."

  Mr. Orde laughed.

  "Right you are, Jim, but we were raised different in those days."

  "Well," said Denning, "work's slack. I'll let one of the men take him."

  At the moment a youth of not more than fifteen years of age was passingfrom the cook house to the booms. He had the slenderness of his years,but was toughly knit, and already possessed in eye and mouth the steadyunwavering determination that the river life develops. In all detailsof equipment he was a riverman complete: the narrow-brimmed black felthat, pushed back from a tangle of curls; the flannel shirt crossed bythe broad bands of the suspenders; the kersey trousers "stagged" off alittle below the knee; the heavy knit socks; and the strong shoes armedwith thin half-inch, needle-sharp caulks.

  "Jimmy Powers!" called the River Boss after this boy, "Come here!"

  The youth approached, grinning cheerfully.

  "I want you to take Bobby out on the booms," commanded Denning, "and becareful he don't fall in."

  The older men moved away. Bobby and Jimmy Powers looked a littlebashfully at each other, and then turned to where the first hewn logsgave access to the booms.

  "Ever been out on 'em afore?" asked Jimmy Powers.

  "Yes" replied Bobby; then after a pause, "I been out to the swing withPapa."

  They walked out on the floating booms, which tipped and dipped ever soslightly under their weight. Bobby caught himself with a little stagger,although his footing was a good three feet in width. On either side ofhim nuzzled the great logs, like patient beasts, and between them werenarrow strips of water, the colour of steel that has just cooled.

  "How deep is it here?" asked Bobby.

  "Bout six feet," replied Jimmy Powers.

  They passed an intersection, and came to an empty enclosure over whichthe water stretched like a blue sheet. Bobby looked back. Already theshore seemed far away. Through the interstices between the piles thewavelets went _lap_, _lap_, _slap_, _lap_! Beyond were men working thereluctant logs down toward the lower end of the booms. Some jabbed thepike poles in and then walked forward along the boom logs. Others ranquickly over the logs themselves until they had gained timbers largeenough to sustain their weight, whence they were able to work withgreater advantage. The supporting log rolled and dipped under the burdenof the man pushing mightily against his implement; but always theriverman trod it, first one way, then the other, in entireunconsciousness of the fact that he was doing so. The dark flanks of thelog heaved dripping from the river, and rolled silently back again,picked by the long sharp caulks of the riverman's boots.

  "Can you walk on the logs?" asked Bobby of his companion.

  "Sure," laughed Jimmy Powers.

  "Let's see you," insisted Bobby.

  Jimmy Powers leaped lightly from the boom to the nearest log. It was asmall one, and at once dipped below the surface. If the boy hadattempted to stand on it even a second he would have fallen in. But allJimmy Powers needed was a foothold from which to spring. Hardly had thelittle timber dipped before he had jumped to the next and the nextafter. Behind him the logs, bobbing up and down, churned the waterwhite. Jimmy moved rapidly across the enclosure on an irregular zigzag.The smaller logs he passed over as quickly as possible; on the larger hepaused appreciably. Bobby was interested to see how he left behind him awake of motion on what had possessed the appearance of rigid immobility.The little logs bobbed furiously; the larger bowed in more statelyfashion and rolled slowly in dignified protest. In a moment Jimmy wasback again, grinning at Bobby's admiration.

  "Look here," said he.

  He took his station sideways on a log of about twenty inches diameter,and began to roll it beneath him by walking rapidly forward. As thetimber gained its momentum, the boy increased his pace, until finallyhis feet were fairly twinkling beneath him, and the side of the logrising from the river was a blur of white water. Then suddenly with twoquick strong stamps of his caulked feet the young riverman brought thewhirling timber to a standstill.

  "That's birling a log," said he to Bobby.

  They walked out on the main boom still farther. The smaller partitionsbetween the various enclosures were often nothing but single round poleschained together at their ends. On these Bobby was not allowed toventure.

  "How deep is it here?" he asked again.

  "Bout thirty feet," replied Jimmy Powers.

  Bobby fo
r an instant felt a little dizzy, as though he were on a highbuilding. All this fabric on which he moved suddenly seemed to himunreal, like a vast cobweb in suspension through a void. It was a briefsensation, and little defined in his childish mind, so it soon passed,but it constituted while it lasted a definite subjective experiencewhich Bobby would always remember. As he looked back, the buildings ofthe river camp, lying low among the trees, had receded to a greatdistance; apparently at another horizon was the dark row of piling thatmarked the outer confines of the booms; up and down stream, as far as hecould see, were the logs. Bobby suddenly felt very much alone, with theblue sky above him, and the deep black water beneath, and about himnothing but the quiet sullen monsters herded from the wilderness. Hegripped very tightly Jimmy Powers's hand as they walked along.

  But shortly they turned to the left; and after a brief walk, mounted therickety steps to the floor of the hut where dwelt old man North, and thewinch for operating the swinging boom. Old man North was short, dark,heavy and bearded; he smoked perpetually a small black clay pipe whichhe always held upside down in his mouth. His conversation was notextensive; but his black eyes twinkled at Bobby, so the little boy wasnot afraid of him. When he saw the two approaching, he reached over inthe corner and handed out a hickory pole peeled to a beautiful white.

  "The wums is yonder," said he.

  Bobby put a fat worm on his hook and sat down in the opposite doorwaywere he could dangle his feet directly over the river. Where the shadowof the cabin fell, he could see far down in the water, which therebecame a transparent fair green. Close to the piles, on the tops ofwhich the hut was built, were various fish. Jimmy leaned over.

  "Mostly suckers," he advised. "Yan's a perch, try him."

  Bobby cautiously lowered his baited hook until it dangled before theperch's nose. The latter paid absolutely no attention to it. Bobbyjiggled it up and down. No results. At last he fairly plumped the wormon top of the fish's nose. The perch, with an air of annoyance, spreadhis gills and, with the least perceptible movement of his tail, sankslowly until he faded from sight.

  "Better let down your hook and fish near bottom," suggested JimmyPowers.

  Bobby did so. The peace of warm afternoon settled upon him. He dangledhis chubby legs, and tried to spit as scientifically as he could, andwatched the waving green current slip silently beneath his feet. Besidehim sat Jimmy Powers. The fragrant strong tobacco smoke from North'spipe passed them in wisps.

  "I'd like to walk on logs," proffered Bobby at last, "It looks like lotsof fun."

  "Oh, that's nothin'," said Jimmy Powers, "You ought to be on drive."

  The boys fell into conversation. Jimmy told of the drive, and thelog-running. Bobby listened with the envy of one whose imaginationcannot conceive of himself permitted in such affairs. He was entirelyabsorbed. And then all at once the peace was shattered.

  "Yank him, Bobby, yank him!" yelled Jimmy.

  "Christmas! he's a whale!" said old North.

  For, without wavering, the tip of the hickory pole had been ruthlesslyjerked below the water's surface, and the butt nearly pulled fromBobby's hands.

  Bobby knew the proper thing to do. In such cases you heaved strongly.The fish flew from the water, described an arc over your head, and litsomewhere behind you. He tried to accomplish this, but his utmoststrength could but just lift the wriggling, jerking end of the pole fromthe water.

  "Give her to me!" cried Jimmy Powers.

  "Le' me 'lone," grunted Bobby.

  He planted the butt of the pole in the pit of his stomach, and lifted ashard as ever he could with both hands. His face grew red, his earsrang, but, after a first immovable resistance, to his great joy the tipof the bending, wriggling pole began to give. Slowly, little by little,he pulled up the fish, until he could make out the flash of its bodydarting to and fro far down in the depths.

  "Black bass!" murmured Jimmy Powers breathlessly.

  And then just as his size and beauty were becoming clearly visible, theline came up with a sickening ease. The interested spectators caught aglimpse of white as the fish turned.

  Bobby let out a howl of disappointment.

  "Oh _gee_, that's hard luck!" cried Jimmy Powers.

  "Bet he weighed four pounds," proffered North curtly.

  But at this instant a faint clear whistle sounded from about the woodedbend of the river above.

  "Boat coming," said North, "Clear out of the way, boys."

  He began at once to operate the winch which drew the long slanting swingboom out of the channel, for the River was navigable water, and must notbe obstructed. In a moment appeared the _Lucy Belle_, ashallow-draught, flimsy-looking double decker, with two slimsmokestacks side by side connected by a band of fancy grill-work, awalking beam, two huge paddle boxes and much white paint. She sheeredsidewise with the current around the bend, and headed down upon themaccompanied by a vast beating of paddle wheels. Bobby could soon makeout atop the walking-beam, the swaying iron Indian with bent bow, andthe piles of slabs which constituted the _Lucy Belle_'s fuel. Almostimmediately she was passing, within ten feet or so of the hut. The waterboiled and eddied among the piles, rushing in and sucking back. A fat,ruddy-faced man in official cap and citizen's clothes leaned over therail.

  "Well, you made her to-day," shouted North.

  "Bet ye," called the man with a grin. "Only aground once."

  The _Lucy Belle_ swept away with an air of pride. She made the trip toand from Redding, forty miles up the River, twice a week. Sometimes shecame through in a day. Oftener she ran aground.

  Now Bobby reverted to his original idea.

  "I'd like to walk on the logs," said he.

  "Well, come on, then," said Jimmy Powers.

  They retraced their steps along the booms until near the shore.

  "You don't want to try her where she's deep," explained Jimmy Powers,"'Cause then if you should fall in, the logs would close right togetherover your head, and then where'd you be?"

  Bobby shuddered at this idea, which in the event continued to haunt himfor some days.

  "There's a big one," said Jimmy Powers. "Try her."

  Bobby stepped out on a big solid-looking log, which immediately provedto be not solid at all. It dipped one way, Bobby tried to tread theother. The log promptly followed his suggestion--too promptly. Bobbysoon found himself about two moves behind in this strange new game. Helost his balance, and the first thing he knew, he found himself waistdeep in the water.

  Jimmy Powers laughed heartily; but to Bobby this was no laughing matter.The penalties attached both by nature and his mother were dire in theextreme. He foresaw sickness and spankings, both of which had beenpromised him in the event of wet feet merely, and here he was drippingfrom the waist down! In any other surroundings or with any other companyhe would have wept bitterly. Even in the presence of Jimmy Powers hislower lip quivered; and his soul filled to the very throat with dismay.Jimmy Powers could not understand his very evident perturbation. If tooka great deal of explanation on Bobby's part; but finally there wasconveyed to the young riverman's understanding a slight notion of thesituation. To the child the day seemed lost; but Jimmy Powers was moreresourceful. He surveyed his charge thoughtfully.

  "You're all right, kid," he announced at last. "Your collar's all right,and your hair ain't wet. The rest'll dry out so nobody will know thediff'."

  Bobby brightened.

  "Won't I catch cold?" he asked doubtfully.

  "This kind of weather? Naw!" said Jimmy Powers with scorn. "You rustlein to the cook shanty and get Corrigan to let you sit by the stove."

  Bobby said farewell to his guide, and presented himself to the cook.

  "I fell in," he announced, "can I sit by the stove?"

  "Sure" said Corrigan hospitably. "Take a cracker-box and go over by thewood box. Tryin' to ride a log?"

  "Yes" confessed Bobby.

  "Well, you want to look out for them," warned Corrigan a little vaguely.He produced the customary cooky. Bobby sat and steamed, and mu
nched andtold about the fish he had almost caught. He liked Corrigan because thelatter talked to him sensibly, without ill-timed facetiousness, as to anequal. In a moment Duke thrust his muzzle in the door. Bobby lookedhastily down. His clothes were quite dry.

  "Don't tell Papa," he begged.

  For answer Corrigan portentously winked one eye, and went on peelingpotatoes. After a moment Mr. Orde appeared at the door.

  "Bobby here?" he inquired. "Oh yes! Come on, youngster."

  Bobby showed himself with considerable trepidation; but apparently Mr.Orde noticed nothing wrong, and the little boy's spirits rose. The teamwas waiting, and they mounted the buggy at once. Duke fell in behindthem soberly. For him the freshness of the expedition was over. It wasnow merely a case of get back home.

  "Have a good time?" asked Mr. Orde.

  Bobby talked busily all the way in. He told principally of the fish,although the _Lucy Belle_ and Jimmy Powers came in for a share. Fromtime to time Mr. Orde said, "That's good," or, "Yes," which sufficedBobby. Probably, however, the man heard little of his son's talk. Hismind was very busy with the elements of the game he was playing, sortingand arranging them, figuring how to earn and borrow the money necessaryto permit his taking advantage of a chance he thought he saw in thewestern timber lands. He heard little, to be sure, and yet he was inreality wholly occupied with the child prattling away at his side--withhis fortune, and his business prospects of thirty years hence.

  Under the maples the sun slanted low and golden and mote-laden. Bobbysuddenly felt a little tired, and more than a little hungry. Hedescended from the buggy with alacrity. The wetting was forgotten in thehome-coming. Only when washing for dinner did he remember with certainself-felicitation that even his mother had noticed nothing. For thefirst time it occurred to him that his parents were notomniscient:--that was the evil of the afternoon's experiences. For thefirst time also it occurred to him that he possessed the ability to meetan emergency without their aid:--that was the good of it. And the goodfar outweighed the evil.

  That night Bobby called upon the Lord to bless those dear to him, asusual; but he offered on his own account an addendum.

  "And make Bobby grow up a big man like Jimmy Powers."