When Walter parted from Hal at Speckled Brook he quickened his pace to make up for lost time. Presently he came in sight of the Durant camp. Pat Malone, whose official capacity at the camp was that of “chore boy,” was on his way to the spring with a couple of empty pails. His usual good-natured grin lighted his face at Walter’s approach.

“Oi’d begun t’ think ye was afther fergittin’ ye had an ingagement wid yer frind av th’ woods,” he called.

“Hello, Pat! Sorry I’m late,” replied Walter, offering to carry one of the pails.

Pat waved him aside. “Shure, wud ye be takin’ th’ bread an’ butter out av the mouth av a poor worrkin’ man?” he demanded. “’Tis me job fer which Oi draws me pay, an’ now Oi’ve lost me market fer fish Oi’m thinkin’ Oi’d best be shure av me shtupendous sal’ry.”

[255] He picked up the pails brimming with cold spring water and started for the rear of the main cabin, whence the voice of “Cookie” could be heard commanding him to hurry, and heaping anathemas upon him for a lazy, good-for-nothing ne’er-do-well.

Pat winked. “Dogs that bark be afther havin’ poor teeth,” said he. “Oi’ll be wid ye in a minute.”

He was as good as his word, and was soon ready to play the host. Walter found the camp similar in arrangement to Woodcraft. It lacked the refinements of the latter, but was snug and comfortable, exactly adapted to the needs of the rough men to whom it was “home” the greater part of the year. When they had thoroughly inspected the cabins, stable and shop Pat suggested that they visit the present “cutting.” This Walter was most anxious to do, for he had never witnessed actual logging operations.

The trail was rough but well built, for upon the character of the trail depends much of the lumberman’s success in getting his logs to the water. A poorly built trail means costly waste of time, energy and strength of man and [256] beast when the time comes for getting the cut down to the driving point. Wherever the trail dipped to low or swampy ground logs had been laid with their sides touching one another. This is called a corduroy road, and is the only practical and effective method of preventing horses and wagons miring in low, swampy ground. Such a trail is rough traveling in dry weather, but when the heavy snows of winter have covered it and have been packed down and iced it forms an ideal slide for the lumber bobs with their huge loads of logs.

The trail gradually led up the lower slopes of Old Scraggy, and some two miles from the camp the boys came upon one of the crews at work. The crash of falling trees, the rasp of saws, the sharp ringing blows of axes biting into hard wood, the shouting of rough voices and now and then a snatch of rude song proclaimed that the work of destruction was in full blast.

The scene was one of intense interest to the city boy, and quite upset his preconceived ideas of how trees are felled. “Why, I thought they chopped trees down!” he exclaimed.

[257] “Not whin they’ve a good saw an’ two good byes fer th’ inds av it,” said Pat.

They walked over to where a couple of saw men were preparing to cut a great pine. There was a fascination in watching the huge cross-cut saw with its double hand grasp at each end eat its way into the trunk of the great tree, the two men swaying back and forth in perfect rhythm, broken only when it became necessary to drive in the wedges that kept the saw from binding and that would eventually send the tree crashing down on the exact spot that they had picked out for it.

Soon there came the warning snap of breaking fibers, the great tree swayed slightly, leaned ever so little and then, as with a shout for all hands to stand clear the saw men sprang back, it slowly and majestically swung forward until, gathering speed, it fell with a mighty crash, carrying down several small trees that stood in its path, and shivering its upper branches as it struck the earth.

It seemed to Walter as if it had hardly struck before the axemen were upon it, their great double edged axes flashing in the sun as they stripped off branch and stub until in an [258] incredibly short time it lay shorn of its glory, a huge bare pole fit to be the mast of one of the Yankee clippers that were once the pride of the American marine.

But no such honor awaited it. Another team of sawyers attacked it at once, cutting it into mill lengths. Then came “Jim.” Jim, so Pat proudly claimed, was “some hoss.” Clanking at his heels was a stout chain ending in a sharp heavy hook. This was driven into one end of one of the logs and then at a word from his master—one could hardly say driver, for there were no reins—the big horse set his neck into his collar and guided solely by the “gee” and “haw” of shouted command dragged his burden down to the skidway where the logs were piled to await the coming of snow. It was wonderful to see with what intelligence the horse picked his way through the tangled brush, and it was equally wonderful to see the lumber-jacks at the skidway catch the great log with their peaveys and roll it up to the very top of the huge pile already on the skids.

A rough lot, these lumbermen, of many nationalities, English, Irish, Scotch, French [259] “canucks,” a half-breed or two, and some who boasted that they were pure “Yank.” They were rough in looks and rough of speech, ready to fight at the drop of a hat, but warm-hearted, loyal to a fault to their employers, ever ready for work or frolic. Rough indeed, but theirs is a rough life. They took a kindly interest in Walter, explaining the many things he found so strange, and it was with real regret that he finally took the back trail.

And it was with something of sadness too, for he was a true lover of nature and there was something tragic in the crashing of those great trees and the despoiling of the great forest.

But Pat left him little time for thoughts of this kind. Producing a bag of the famous cookies of which Walter had once had a sample through the agency of Chip Harley, Pat kept up a running fire of comment on his camp mates, while they munched the crisp brown wafers.

As they sighted the camp the cook was hanging a wash. Pat’s eyes twinkled with mischief. Motioning Walter to follow him he stole in back of the stable. “Shure ’tis [260] meself that clane forgot to inthrodush ye to th’ most important number av Durant camp,” he whispered. “Shtay here till yez see some fun.”

He slipped into the stable, and in a few minutes was back, leaving the door open. Peeping around the corner Walter saw a crow walk out with the stately step of his tribe. “’Tis Crafty Moike!” whispered Pat.

The black rascal stood for a minute or two blinking in the sun. Then he flew up on the stable roof, where he appeared to have no interest in anything in the world save the proper preening and dressing of his feathers. In the meantime the cook finished hanging out his wash to dry and turned back to the cabin. Hardly was he inside the door when Crafty Mike spread his wings and without a sound flew over to the clothes-line, where he quickly and deftly pulled out every pin, giving each a throw to one side.

When the last pin was out and half the wash lay on the ground he flew swiftly to a tall pine on the far side of the clearing, cawing derisively as he went. It was plain that “Cookie” knew only too well what the [261] sound of that raucous voice meant. With a pot in one hand and a dish towel in the other he rushed from the cabin pouring out a perfect flood of vituperation and invective on his black tormentor, while behind the stable Pat fairly hugged himself with glee.

“Caw, caw, Billee, Billee! Caw, caw, caw!” shouted Mike, sidling back and forth along a bare limb of the pine, evidently in huge enjoyment of the joke.

“Oi shplit his tongue so he talks a little, and Billy is the cook’s name,” whispered Pat, noting the look of amazement on Walter’s face when he heard the crow speak.

“Caw, caw, Billee, Billee!” Mike was quite beside himself with enjoyment as he watched the angry cook pick up the fallen clothes, which he was too wise to rehang while the black rascal was at liberty. Besides, many of them must be returned to the tub.

“I’ll blow your blasted head off, that’s what I will!” shouted the cook furiously as he disappeared in the cabin with the last of the wash. In a moment he was out again with a shotgun in his hands. Walter grabbed Pat [262] by one arm. “You’re not going to let him shoot, are you, Pat?” he asked in real alarm.

Pat chuckled. “Don’t yez worry about Moike,” he said. “’Tis not fer nothin’ Oi named him Crafty. He knows a gun as well as Oi do, an’ just how far it will carry.”

The cook was now sneaking toward the pine, apparently quite unconscious that he was all the time in plain view of his would-be victim. Mike waited until he was half-way there, then spread his wings. The cook threw up the gun and blazed away with both barrels, though the range was hopelessly long, while Mike’s derisive, “Caw, caw, Billee, Billee!” floated back from the shelter of a thick clump of hemlocks beyond.

“But won’t the cook get Mike when he comes back?” Walter asked with real concern.

“Moike won’t come back to-night unless Oi call him,” replied Pat. “’Tis a woise burrd he be afther bein’! Whin Oi go in Oi’ll tell cookie how much the byes will enjoy th’ joke whin they come in. He’ll shware a bit an’ thin he’ll be afther beggin’ me not to say a wurrd about it. Oi’ll promise if he’ll promise [263] to lave Moike alone, an’ that’ll be th’ ind av it till nixt toime.” It was evident that Pat and Mike knew their man and were wise with the wisdom of experience.

“Moike is a great burrd,” continued Pat. “He’s as full av tricks as a dog is av fleas, an’ th’ wurst thafe in three counties, bad cess ter him. He’d shtale th’ shmoile off yez face if it was broight enough an’ he could pry it loose. He’d follow me into th’ prisince av th’ saints. Oi have ter shut him up whiniver Oi lave th’ camp or, glory be, he’ll be taggin’ along an’ mebbe gettin’ me in all sorts av t............