"No wonder we couldn't get a draw," said Orde. "Let's hunt up old
What's-his-name and have a pow-wow."
"His name is plain Reed," explained North. "There he comes now."
"Sainted cats!" cried Orde, with one of his big, rollicking
chuckles. "Where did you catch it?"
The owner of the dam flapped into view as a lank and lengthy
individual dressed in loose, long clothes and wearing a-top a
battered old "plug" hat, the nap of which seemed all to have been
rubbed off the wrong way.
As he bore down on the intruders with tremendous, nervous strides,
they perceived him to be an old man, white of hair, cadaverous of
countenance, with thin, straight lips, and burning, fanatic eyes
beneath stiff and bushy brows.
"Good-morning, Mr. Reed," shouted Orde above the noise of the water.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," replied the apparition.
"Nice dam you got here," went on Orde.
Reed nodded, his fiery eyes fixed unblinking on the riverman.
"But you haven't been quite square to us," said Orde. You aren't
giving us much show to get our logs out."
"How so?" snapped the owner, his thin lips tightening.
"Oh, I guess you know, all right," laughed Orde, clambering
leisurely back to the top of the dam.
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