“Get to camp,” snapped Dick.  “You’re laid off.”

“Why did you ever take such a man on in the first place?” asked Welton.

“He was here when I come,” replied Roaring Dick, indifferently, “and, anyway, he’s bound he’s goin to be a river-hog.  You couldn’t keep him out with a fly-screen.”

“How’re things going?” inquired Welton.

“All right,” said Roaring Dick.  “This ain’t no drive to have things goin’ wrong.  A man could run a hand-organ, a quiltin’ party and this drive all to once and never drop a stitch.”

“How about old Murdock’s dam?  Looks like he might make trouble.”

“Ain’t got to old Murdock yet,” said Roaring Dick.  “When we do, we’ll trim his whiskers to pattern.  Don’t you worry none about Murdock.”

“I don’t,” laughed Welton.  “But, Dick, what are all these deadheads I see in the river?  Our logs are all marked, aren’t they?”

“They’s been some jobbing done way below our rollways,” said Roaring Dick, “and the mossbacks have been taking ’em out long before our drive got this far.  Them few deadheads we’ve picked up along the line; mossbacks left ’em stranded.  They ain’t very many.”

“I’ll send up a marking hammer, and we’ll brand them.  Finders keepers.”

“Sure,” said Roaring Dick.

He nodded and ran out over the logs.  The work leaped.  Wherever he went the men took hold as though reanimated by an electric current.

“Dick’s a driver,” said Welton, reflectively, “and he gets out the logs.  But I’m scared he don’t take this little job serious.”

He looked out over the animated scene for a moment in silence.  Then he seemed suddenly to remember his companion.

“Well, son,” said he, “that’s called ‘sacking’ the river.  The rear crew is the place of honour, let me tell you.  The old timers used to take a great pride in belonging to a crack rear on a big drive.  When you get one side of the river working against the other, it’s great fun.  I’ve seen some fine races in my day.”

At this moment two men swung up the river trail, bending to the broad tump lines that crossed the tops of their heads.  These tump lines supported rather bulky wooden boxes running the lengths of the men’s backs.  Arrived at the rear, they deposited their burdens.  One set to building a fire; the other to unpacking from the boxes all the utensils and receptacles of a hearty meal.  The food was contained in big lard tins.  It was only necessary to re-heat it.  In ten minutes the usual call of “grub pile” rang out across the river.  The men came ashore.  Each group of five or six built its little fire.  The wind sucked aloft these innumerable tiny smokes, and scattered them in a thin mist through the trees.

Welton stayed to watch the sacking until after three o’clock.  Then he took up the river trail to the rear camp.  This Bob found to be much like the other, but larger.

“Ordinarily on drive we have a wanigan,” said Welton.  “A wanigan’s a big scow.  It carries the camp and supplies to follow the drive.  Here we use teams; and it’s some of a job, let me tell you!  The roads are bad, and sometimes it’s a long ways around.  Hard sledding, isn’t it Billy?” he inquired of the teamster, who was warming his hands by the fire.