"And it's something awful to hear!" said the man. "He walks the platform of that head-works, back and forth and back and forth. He cusses God and the angels, the wind and all it blows across. And then when he is well worked up to cussin', he 'tends to the case of the devil that blowed up Blunder Lake dam. And his face is as red as my shirt, and the veins stick out on his for'ead as big as a baby's finger. They say that you can't cuss only about so much without somethin' happenin' to you. I've read about the cap'n of a ship that done it too much once, and his ghost is still a-sailin'. All I've got to say is that if Pulaski Britt don't stop, he'll get his." The "It-'ll-git-ye Club" had listened to this recital intently. It agreed forebodingly. In fact, in special session the club passed a vote of dismal prophecy for the whole Jerusalem operation. CHAPTER XXIX THE PARADE PAST RODBURD IDE'S PLATFORM "'Twas a hundred wet miles to the handiest rail, And his home it was fifty more; And behind on our bateau's bubblin' trail Raced Death with his muffled oar." --Ballad of the Drive. Two days later the "It-'ll-git-ye's," as sombre prophets, were distinctly cheered by the sight of Boss Colin MacLeod borne past Rodburd Ide's store on a litter. They were hurrying him to the hospital down-river, and he had his teeth set into his lip to keep back the groans. "No, sir! No fifty more miles of that for you, my boy," declared Ide, when he was told that MacLeod's arm and leg were broken. "Into my house you go, and the doctor comes here." And MacLeod was put to bed in the spare room, weeping quietly. "It was the head-works warp done it, Mr. Wade," he moaned, turning hollow eyes upon his sympathizer. "Broke and snapped back. I told him man's strength couldn't warp them logs across against that wind, but he was bound to make us do it. He said I was a coward, Mr. Wade. But I took the place at the guide-block to show I wasn't. And then he cursed me for gettin' hurt!" When Wade left the room he found Kate Arden waiting outside. During the days he had been at Castonia the girl had appeared to avoid him. She had paled when he spoke to her, replied curtly, and hurried away as though she feared he was about to broach some topic that would distress her. Yet it was not towards him merely that she had displayed that apprehensive reserve. Not even to Nina Ide did she open her heart, and Nina told Wade of this with wonderment and grief. She had been docile, even to the subterfuge of sitting silent by John Barrett's bedside when Elva Barrett had resigned her trust to seek Dwight Wade in the wilderness. She had made no comment, asked no questions. She had showed dumb gratitude, and eagerly sought such household tasks as could be intrusted to her untrained hands. But wistful shrinking, the air of a wild thing confined but not tamed, was with her ever.