On the side facing the lake he found the source of the cook's intoxication. A tall and swarthy lumberjack squatted on his haunches, gabbling in the Chinook jargon to a _klootchman_ and a wizen-featured old Siwash. The Indian woman was drunk beyond any mistaking, affably drunk. She looked up at Benton out of vacuous eyes, grinned, and extended to him a square-faced bottle of Old Tim gin. The logger rose to his feet. "H'lo, Benton," he greeted thickly. "How's every-thin'?" Benton's answer was a quick lurch of his body and a smashing jab of his clenched fist. The blow stretched the logger on his back, with blood streaming from both nostrils. But he was a hardy customer, for he bounced up like a rubber ball, only to be floored even more viciously before he was well set on his feet. This time Benton snarled a curse and kicked him as he lay. "Charlie, Charlie!" Stella screamed. If he heard her, he gave no heed. "Hit the trail, you," he shouted at the logger. "Hit it quick before I tramp your damned face into the ground. I told you once not to come around here feeding booze to my cook. I do all the whisky-drinking that's done in this camp, and don't you forget it. Damn your eyes, I've got troubles enough without whisky." The man gathered himself up, badly shaken, and holding his hand to his bleeding nose, made off to his rowboat at the float. "G'wan home," Benton curtly ordered the Siwashes. "Get drunk at your own camp, not in mine. _Sabe?_ Beat it." They scuttled off, the wizened little old man steadying his fat _klootch_ along her uncertain way. Down on the lake the chastised logger stood out in his boat, resting once on his oars to shake a fist at Benton. Then Charlie faced about on his shocked and outraged sister. "Good Heavens!" she burst out. "Is it necessary to be so downright brutal in actions as well as speech?" "I'm running a logging camp, not a kindergarten," he snapped angrily. "I know what I'm doing. If you don't like it, go in the house where your hyper-sensitive tastes won't be offended." "Thank you," she responded cuttingly and swung about, angry and hurt--only to have a fresh scare from the drunken cook, who came reeling forward. "I'm gonna quit," he loudly declared. "I ain't goin' to stick 'round here no more. The job's no good. I want m' time. Yuh hear me, Benton. I'm through. Com-pletely, ab-sho-lutely through. You bet I am. Gimme m' time. I'm a gone goose." "Quit, then, hang you," Benton growled. "You'll get your check in a minute. You're a fine excuse for a cook, all right--get drunk right on the job. You don't need to show up here again, when you've had your jag out." "'S all right," Matt declared largely. "'S other jobs. You ain't the whole Pacific coast. Oh, way down 'pon the Swa-a-nee ribber--" He broke into dolorous song and turned back into the cookhouse. Benton's hard-set face relaxed. He laughed shortly.