“Pretty work,” said the expert in Welton.

He drew nearer through the low growth until he stood well within hearing and seeing distance.  Then he stopped again.

Bob Orde was walking up and down the bank talking to the men.  They were laughing back at him.  His manner was half fun, half earnest, part rueful, part impatient, wholly affectionate.

“You, Jim,” said he, “go out and get busy.  You’re loafing, you know you are; I don’t give a damn what you’re to do.  Do something!  Don’t give an imitation of a cast-iron hero.  No, I won’t either tell you what to do.  I don’t know.  But do it, even if you have to make it up out of your own head.  Consider the festive water-beetle, and the ant and other industrious doodle-bugs.  Get a wiggle on you, fellows.  We’ll never get out at this rate.  If this drive gets hung up, I’m going to murder every last one of you.  Come on now, all together; if I could walk out on those logs I’d build a fire under you; but you’ve got me tied to the bank and you know it, you big fat loafers, you!”

“Keep your hair on, bub; we’ll make it, all right”

“Well, we’d just better make it,” warned Bob.  “Now I’m going down to the jam to see whether their alarm clock went off this morning.—­Now, don’t slumber!”

After he had disappeared down the trail, Welton stepped into view.

“Oh, Charley!” he called.

One of the rivermen sprang ashore.

“When did the rear leave Murdock’s?” he asked without preliminary.

“Thursday.”

“You’ve made good time.”

“Bet we have,” replied Charley with pride.

“Who’s jam boss?”

“Larsen.”

“Who’s in charge of the river, then?” demanded Welton sharply.

“Why, young Orde!” replied the riverman, surprised.

“Since when?”

“Since he blew up Murdock’s piles.”

“Oh, he did that, did he?  I suppose he fired Darrell, too?”

“Sure.  It was a peach of a scrap.”

“Scrap?”

“Yep.  That Orde boy is a wonder.  He just ruined Roaring Dick.”

“He did, did he?” commented Welton.  “Well, so long.”

He followed Bob down the river trail.  At the end of a half-mile he overtook the young fellow kneeling on a point gazing at a peeled stake planted at the edge of the river.

“Wish I knew how long this water was going to hold out,” he murmured, as he heard a man pause behind him.  “She’s dropped two inches by my patent self-adjusting gauge.”

“Young man,” said Welton, “are you on the payrolls of this company?”

Bob turned around, then instantly came to his feet.

“Oh, you’re here at last, Mr. Welton,” he cried in tones of vast relief.

“Answer my question, please.”

“What?” asked Bob with an expression of bewilderment.

“Are you on the payrolls of this company?”

“No, sir, of course not.  You know that.”