There he found evidences of the wildest excitement. The mill
had been closed down, and all the men turned in to rescue logs.
Boats plied in all directions. A tug darted back and forth.
Constantly the number of floating logs augmented, however. Many had
already gone by.
"If you think you're busy now," said Orde to himself with a chuckle,
"just wait until you begin to get LOGS."
He watched for a few moments in silence.
"What's he doing with that tug?" thought he. "O-ho! He's stringing
booms across the river to hold the whole outfit."
He laughed aloud, turned his team about, and drove frantically back
to the booms. Every few moments he chuckled. His eyes danced.
Hardly could he wait to get there. Once at the camp, he leaped from
the buckboard, with a shout to the stableman, and ran rapidly out
over the booms to where the sorting of "H" logs was going merrily
forward.
"He's shut down his mill," shouted Orde, "and he's got all that gang
of highbankers out, and every old rum-blossom in Monrovia, and I bet
if you say 'logs' to him, he'd chase his tail in circles."
"Want this job?" North asked him.
"No," said Orde, suddenly fallen solemn, "haven't time. I'm going
to take Marsh and the SPRITE and go to town.
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