Welton fell into low conversation with an old man, straight and slender as a Norway pine, with blue eyes, flaxen hair, eyebrows and moustache.  This was Larsen, in charge of the jam, honest, capable in his way, slow of speech, almost childlike of glance.  After a few minutes Welton rejoined Bob.

“He’s a square peg, all right,” he muttered, more to himself than to his companion.  “He’s a good riverman, but he’s no river boss.  Too easy-going.  Well, all he has to do is to direct the work, luckily.  If anything really goes wrong, Darrell would be down in two jumps.”

“Grub pile!” remarked the cook conversationally.

The men seized the utensils from a heap of them, and began to fill their plates from the kettles on the table.

“Come on, bub,” said Welton, “dig in!  It’s a long time till breakfast!”

XIII

The cook was early a foot next morning.  Bob, restless with the uneasiness of the first night out of doors, saw the flicker of the fire against the tent canvas long before the first signs of daylight.  In fact, the gray had but faintly lightened the velvet black of the night when the cook thrust his head inside the big sleeping tents to utter a wild yell of reveille.

The men stirred sleepily, stretched, yawned, finally kicked aside their blankets.  Bob stumbled into the outer air.  The chill of early morning struck into his bones.  Teeth chattering, he hurried to the river bank where he stripped and splashed his body with the bracing water.  Then he rubbed down with the little towel Tommy Gould had allowed him.  The reaction in this chill air was slow in coming—­Bob soon learned that the early cold bath out of doors is a superstition—­and he shivered from time to time as he propped up his little mirror against a stump.  Then he shaved, anointing his face after the careful manner of college boys.  This satisfactorily completed, he fished in his duffle bag to find his tooth brush and soap.  His hair he arranged painstakingly with a pair of military brushes.  He further manipulated a nail-brush vigorously, and ended with manicuring his nails.  Then, clean, vigorous, fresh, but somewhat chilly, he packed away his toilet things and started for camp.

Whereupon, for the first time, he became aware of one of the rivermen, pipe clenched between his teeth, watching him sardonically.

Bob nodded, and made as though to pass.

“Oh, bub!” said the older man.

Bob stopped.

“Say,” drawled the riverman, “air you as much trouble to yourself every day as this?”

Bob laughed, and dove for camp.  He found it practically deserted.  The men had eaten breakfast and departed for work.  Welton greeted him.

“Well, bub,” said he, “didn’t know but we’d lost you.  Feed your face, and we’ll go upstream.”