That evening, however, four or five of the men disappeared, and did not return.  Such was the effect of an evil example on the part of the foreman.  Larsen took charge.  In almost unbroken series the logs shot through the sluiceways into the river below, where they were received by the jam crew and started on the next stage of their long journey to the mills.  In a day the dam was passed.  One of the younger men rode the last log through the sluiceway, standing upright as it darted down the chute into the eddy below.  The crowd of townspeople cheered.  The boy waved his hat and birled the log until the spray flew.

But hardly was camp pitched two miles below town when one of the jam crew came upstream to report a difficulty.  Larsen at once made ready to accompany him down the river trail, and Bob, out of curiosity, went along, too.

“It’s mossbacks,” the messenger explained, “and them deadheads we been carrying along.  They’ve rigged up a little sawmill down there, where they’re cutting what the farmers haul in to ’em.  And then, besides, they’ve planted a bunch of piles right out in the middle of the stream and boomed in their side, and they’re out there with pike-poles, nailin’ onto every stick of deadhead that comes along.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Larsen.  “I guess they got a right to them as long as we ain’t marked them.”

“They can have their deadheads,” agreed the riverman, “but their piles have jammed our drive and hung her.”

“We’ll break the jam,” said Larsen.

Arrived at the scene of difficulty, Bob looked about him with great interest.  The jam was apparently locked hard and fast against a clump of piles driven about in the centre of the stream.  These had evidently been planted as the extreme outwork of a long shunting boom.  Men working there could shunt into the sawmill enclosure that portion of the drive to which they could lay claim.  The remainder could proceed down the open channel to the left.  That was the theory.  Unfortunately, this division of the river’s width so congested matters that the whole drive had hung.

The jam crew were at work, but even Bob’s unpractised eye saw that their task was stupendous.  Even should they succeed in loosening the breast, there could be no reason to suppose the performance would not have to be repeated over and over again as the close-ranked drive came against the obstacle.

Larsen took one look, then made his way across to the other side and down to the mill.  Bob followed.  The little sawmill was going full blast under the handling of three men and a boy.  Everything was done in the most primitive manner, by main strength, awkwardness, and old-fashioned tools.

“Who’s boss?” yelled Larsen against the clang of the mill.

A slow, black-bearded man stepped forward.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Our drive’s hung up against your boom,” yelled Larsen.