Looking up, to his surprise he saw the solemn cook waving a frantic
dish-towel at him. Nothing could induce the cook to attempt the
logs.
"What is it, Charlie?" asked Orde, leaping ashore and stamping the
loose water from his boots.
"It's all off," confided the cook pessimistically. "It's no good.
He's stopped us now."
"What's off? Who's stopped what?"
"Reed. He's druv the men from the dam with a shotgun. We might as
well quit."
"Shotgun, hey!" exclaimed Orde. "Well, the old son of a gun!" He
thought a moment, his lips puckered as though to whistle; then, as
usual, he laughed amusedly. "Let's go take a look at the army,"
said he.
He swung away at a round pace, followed rather breathlessly by the
cook. The trail led through the brush across a little flat point,
up over a high bluff where the river swung in, down to another
point, and across a pole trail above a marsh to camp.
A pole trail consists of saplings laid end to end, and supported
three or four feet above wet places by means of sawbuck-like
structures at their extremities. To a river-man or a tight-rope
dancer they are easy walks. All others must proceed cautiously in
contrite memory of their sins.
Orde marched across the first two lengths confidently enough.
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