The drive, then, was due to break up as soon as the logs should be
safely impounded.
The last camp was made some six or eight miles above the mill. From
that point a good proportion of the rivermen, eager for a taste of
the town, tramped away down the road, to return early in the
morning, more or less drunk, but faithful to their job. One or two
did not return.
Among the revellers was the cook, Charlie, commonly called The
Doctor. The rivermen early worked off the effects of their rather
wild spree, and turned up at noon chipper as larks. Not so the
cook. He moped about disconsolately all day; and in the evening,
after his work had been finished, he looked so much like a chicken
with the pip that Orde's attention was attracted.
"Got that dark-brown taste, Charlie?" he inquired with mock
solicitude.
The cook mournfully shook his head.
"Large head? Let's feel your pulse. Stick out your tongue, sonny."
"I ain't been drinking, I tell you!" growled Charlie.
"Drinking!" expostulated Orde, horrified. "Of course not! I hope
none of MY boys ever take a drink! But that lemon-pop didn't agree
with your stomach--now did it, Charlie?"
"I tell you I only had two glasses of beer!" cried Charlie, goaded,
"and I can prove it by Johnny Challan.
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