And so the life of alternate work and pleasure, both full of personal danger, develops in time a class of men whose like is be found only among the cowboys, scouts, trappers, and Indian fighters of our other frontiers.The moralists will always hold up the hands of horror at such types; the philosopher will admire them as the last incarnation of the heroic age, when the man is bigger than his work.Soon the factories, the machines, the mechanical structures and constructions, the various branches of co-operation will produce quasi-automatically institutions evidently more important than the genius or force of any one human being.The personal element will have become nearly eliminated.In the woods and on the frontier still are many whose powers are greater than their works; whose fame is greater than their deeds.They are men, powerful, virile, even brutal at times; but magnificent with the strength of courage and resource.
All this may seem a digression from the thread of our tale, but as a matter of fact it is necessary that you understand the conditions of the time and place in which Harry Thorpe had set himself the duty of success.
He had seen too much of incompetent labor to be satisfied with anything but the best.Although his ideas were not as yet formulated, he hoped to be able to pick up a crew of first-class men from those who had come down with the advance, or "jam," of the spring's drive.They should have finished their orgies by now, and, empty of pocket, should be found hanging about the boarding-houses and the quieter saloons.Thorpe intended to offer good wages for good men.He would not need more than twenty at first, for during the approaching winter he purposed to log on a very small scale indeed.The time for expansion would come later.
With this object in view he set out from his hotel about half-past seven on the day of his arrival, to cruise about in the lumber-jack district already described.The hotel clerk had obligingly given him the names of a number of the quieter saloons, where the boys "hung out" between bursts of prosperity.In the first of these Thorpe was helped materially in his vague and uncertain quest by encountering an old acquaintance.
From the sidewalk he heard the vigorous sounds of a one-sided altercation punctuated by frequent bursts of quickly silenced laughter.Evidently some one was very angry, and the rest amused.
After a moment Thorpe imagined he recognized the excited voice.So he pushed open the swinging screen door and entered.
The place was typical.Across one side ran the hard-wood bar with foot-rest and little towels hung in metal clasps under its edge.
Behind it was a long mirror, a symmetrical pile of glasses, a number of plain or ornamental bottles, and a miniature keg or so of porcelain containing the finer whiskys and brandies.The bar-keeper drew beer from two pumps immediately in front of him, and rinsed glasses in some sort of a sink under the edge of the bar.The center of the room was occupied by a tremendous stove capable of burning whole logs of cordwood.A stovepipe led from the stove here and there in wire suspension to a final exit near the other corner.
On the wall were two sporting chromos, and a good variety of lithographed calendars and illuminated tin signs advertising beers and spirits.The floor was liberally sprinkled with damp sawdust, and was occupied, besides the stove, by a number of wooden chairs and a single round table.
The latter, a clumsy heavy affair beyond the strength of an ordinary man, was being deftly interposed between himself and the attacks of the possessor of the angry voice by a gigantic young riverman in the conventional stagged (i.e., chopped off) trousers, "cork" shoes, and broad belt typical of his craft.In the aggressor Thorpe recognized old Jackson Hines.
"Damn you!" cried the old man, qualifying the oath, "let me get at you, you great big sock-stealer, I'll make you hop high! I'll snatch you bald-headed so quick that you'll think you never had any hair!""I'll settle with you in the morning, Jackson," laughed the riverman.
"You want to eat a good breakfast, then, because you won't have no appetite for dinner."The men roared, with encouraging calls.The riverman put on a ludicrous appearance of offended dignity.
"Oh, you needn't swell up like a poisoned pup!" cried old Jackson plaintively, ceasing his attacks from sheer weariness."You know you're as safe as a cow tied to a brick wall behind that table."Thorpe seized the opportunity to approach.
"Hello, Jackson," said he.
The old man peered at him out of the blur of his excitement.
"Don't you know me?" inquired Thorpe.
"Them lamps gives 'bout as much light as a piece of chalk,"complained Jackson testily."Knows you? You bet I do! How are you, Harry? Where you been keepin' yourself? You look 'bout as fat as a stall-fed knittin' needle.""I've been landlooking in the upper peninsula," explained Thorpe, "on the Ossawinamakee, up in the Marquette country.""Sho'" commented Jackson in wonder, "way up there where the moon changes!""It's a fine country," went on Thorpe so everyone could hear, "with a great cutting of white pine.It runs as high as twelve hundred thousand to the forty sometimes.""Trees clean an' free of limbs?" asked Jackson.
"They're as good as the stuff over on seventeen; you remember that.""Clean as a baby's leg," agreed Jackson.
"Have a glass of beer?" asked Thorpe.
"Dry as a tobacco box," confessed Hines.
"Have something, the rest of you?" invited Thorpe.
So they all drank.
On a sudden inspiration Thorpe resolved to ask the old man's advice as to crew and horses.It might not be good for much, but it would do no harm.
Jackson listened attentively to the other's brief recital.
"Why don't you see Tim Shearer? He ain't doin' nothin' since the jam came down," was his comment.
"Isn't he with the M.& D.people?" asked Thorpe.
"Nope.Quit."
"How's that?"
