Part 69

“What do you think of that?” Marsh asked Orde.

“The commodore always acts as if that old raft was a sixty-gun frigate,” was Orde's non-committal answer. “Head up stream again.”

Heinzman saw the SPRITE coming, and rowed out frantically, splashing at every stroke and yelling with every breath.

“Don't you go through there! Vait a minute! Stop, I tell you!”

“Hold up!” said Orde to Marsh.

Heinzman rowed alongside, dropped his oars and mopped his brow.

“Vat you do?” he demanded heatedly.

“I forgot the money to buy my stamp with,” said Orde sweetly. “I'm going back to get it.”

“Not through my pooms!” cried Heinzman.

“Mr. Heinzman,” said Orde severely, “you are obstructing a navigable stream. I am doing business, and I cannot be interfered with.”

“But my logs!” cried the unhappy mill man.

“I have nothing to do with your logs. You are driving your own logs,” Orde reminded him.

Heinzman vituperated and pounded the gunwale.

“Go ahead, Marsh!” said Orde.

The tug gathered way. Soon Heinzman was forced to let go. For a second time the chains were snapped. Orde and Marsh looked back over the churning wake left by the SPRITE. The severed ends of the booms were swinging back toward either shore. Between them floated a rowboat. In the rowboat gesticulated a pudgy man. The river was well sprinkled with logs. Evidently the sorting was going on well.

“May as well go back to the works,” said Orde. “He won't string them together again to-day--not if he waits for that tug he sent Simpson for.”

Accordingly, they returned to the booms, where work was suspended while Orde detailed to an appreciative audience the happenings below. This tickled the men immensely.

“Why, we hain't sorted out more'n a million feet of his logs,” cried Rollway Charlie. “He hain't SEEN no logs yet!”

They turned with new enthusiasm to the work of shunting “H” logs into the channel.

In ten minutes, however, the stableman picked his way out over the booms with a message for Orde.

“Mr. Heinzman's ashore, and wants to see you,” said he.

Orde and Jim Denning exchanged glances.

“'Coon's come down,” said the latter.

Orde found the mill man pacing restlessly up and down before a steaming pair of horses. Newmark, perched on a stump, was surveying him sardonically and chewing the end of an unlighted cigar.

“Here you poth are!” burst out Heinzman, when Orde stepped ashore. “Now, this must stop. I must not lose my logs! Vat is your probosition?”

Newmark broke in quickly before Orde could speak.

“I've told Mr. Heinzman,” said he, “that we would sort and deliver the rest of his logs for two dollars a thousand.”

“That will be about it,” agreed Orde.