Murphy had figured that the tide would turn again at about six o’clock in the morning. By five he was up getting breakfast. Scott soon joined him. There was a cold fog hanging over the river and they crowded close around the fire. The temperature was not conducive to conversation. It was not till the heat of the fire had thawed them out a little that Murphy broke the silence.

“Are you dead sure that there were eight sections in that raft?” he asked. It was the second time that Scott’s observation had proved better than his own and it piqued him a little. The power of observation is one of the woodman’s most valuable faculties.

“I sure am,” Scott replied, “I counted them twice.”

“Do you suppose those fellows are selling those logs to the mill on a separate account?”

“That is what I want to find out if I can. I thought it would be interesting to see how they handle the thing when they come in with the raft.”

Murphy chuckled. “It will be good sport to stand there and see them sell those logs which they have been to so much trouble to steal for the credit of the company.”

They were in high spirits and sent the bateau skimming down the river at a tremendous rate. It was not yet nine o’clock when they landed at the mill dock. They knew that the raft could not get in before ten or eleven. It was the first southern mill Scott had ever seen, with its great open pile of ever-burning sawdust and slabs blazing away as though to invite the destruction of the mill by fire. The upper part of the mill was built like a summer house, with open sides. Instead of the little short logs he had seen in the north the big band saw was ripping up logs forty and even sixty feet long.

The manager saw them and came over for a chat. He knew Murphy and greeted Scott cordially. “Still looking for the timber thieves?” he asked pleasantly.

“Still at it,” Murphy admitted.

“I suppose you get a great many logs in here from all up and down the river?” Scott asked.

“No,” the manager answered, “not now. We used to buy in small lots from many owners, but that was before Qualley started up there. We had quite a supply on hand when he started and he is getting the stuff down to us now just about fast enough to keep us going. We only cut about forty thousand feet a day. I am not sure, but I do not believe that we have bought a log from any one else for almost a year.”

“Are there any other mills on the river?” Scott asked.

“No, this is the only one down this way. There may be some more up the river, but if there are they are a long way up.”

Just then a big doubledeck river steamer with her tall smokestacks and queer-looking stern paddle wheel went by spanking her way up against the current.

“Don’t suppose one of those things would tow a raft up the river?” Scott suggested.

“Too slow for them. They are slow enough any way and a raft tow would cost her more than the logs are worth.”

“I don’t see what good it would do any one to steal logs here, then,” Scott said. “What could they do with them when they get them?”

“That’s what Murphy has been trying to find out for a couple of years,” the manager laughed. “He thought for a while that I was buying stolen property here, but he has never been able to prove it on me. Like to look over the mill, Mr. Burton?”

Scott was glad of the opportunity to keep in touch with the manager till the rafts came in, and eagerly accepted the invitation. They followed the manager through the strange mill which looked so much like a summer house to Scott with its open sides and elevated tramways leading out to the lumber yard. He watched the long logs come dripping up the jack chain on to the log deck, saw the powerful steam nigger toss the great trunks on to the long saw carriage as though they had been so many toothpicks and listened to the shriek of the big band saw as it tore through the screaming log. The explosive exhaust of the shotgun feed as the newly sawed plank fell away from the cant had always sounded to Scott like a shout of triumph. In five minutes that shining ribbon of steel had slashed up the growth of three or four centuries. Perhaps La Salle had marched beneath the branches of that very tree.

It was fascinating to watch the perfect working of those powerful machines, and Scott never tired of it, but he was watching to-day with only one eye, the other was on the bend of the river above the mill. They followed the lumber clear through the sorting shed and even out to the piles in the lumber yard; they examined the dry kiln and watched the noisy flooring machines in the planing mill, and even then the raft had not arrived. Scott glanced questioningly at Murphy. What could be delaying them so long?

It was almost noon before the nose of the tardy raft poked around the distant bend in the river. They were sitting in the office talking as usual of the mystery of the stolen logs. Scott was so glad to see the rafts that he felt like shouting, but he wanted to see what the manager would do. Possibly it would be a little embarrassing for him to have visitors from the National Forest at his elbow when the raft came in. But if Scott expected any such thing he was disappointed.

“Here come some of your runaways now,” the manager remarked with a smile when he caught sight of the raft. “Let’s go down and see what they’ve got.”

The raft was still quite a distance up the river and well out in the middle of the stream, but they could see the men working steadily at the great sweeps edging the clumsy craft over toward the opening in the upper end of the log boom. They made their way out along the double boom to have a look at the logs and to get within speaking distance of the men.

“By George,” Murphy whispered excitedly to Scott, “those are niggers on that raft now.”

Scott paused to get a better look at the men and uttered a suppressed exclamation. He grasped Murphy’s arm. “Look there,” he whispered, “there are only six sections.”

“I thought you were............