The bell, started in its orbit, was now easy enough to manipulate. Bobby was delighted at the noise he was producing, and still more delighted at its results. For from the maze of his toil he could see men coming--men from the logs near at hand, men from the booms far away--all coming to the bell, concentrating at a common centre. By now the bell was turning entirely over. Bobby was becoming enthusiastic. He tugged and tugged. Sometimes when he did not let go the rope in time, he was lifted slightly off his feet. The sun was hot, but he had no thought of quitting. His hat fell off backward, his towsled hair wetted at the edges, clung to his forehead, his dull red cheeks grew redder behind their freckles, his eyes fairly closed in an ecstasy of enjoyment. He did not hear Corrigan laughing, nor the gleeful shouts of the men as they leaped ashore and with dripping boots advanced to the expected meal. All he knew was that wonderful _clang!_ _clang!_ _clang!_ over him; the only thought in his little head was that he, _he_, Bobby Orde, was making all this noise himself! How long he would have continued before giving out entirely it would be hard to say, but at this moment Mr. Orde and Jim Denning came around the corner with some haste. Both looked worried and a little angry until they caught sight of the small bell-ringer. Then they too laughed with the men. But Mr. Orde swooped down on his son and tossed him on his shoulder. "That'll do," he advised, "we're all here. Lord, Corrigan! I thought you were afire at least." "You got to show us up a reg'lar Christmas dinner to match that," said one of the men to Corrigan. After the meal, which Bobby enjoyed thoroughly, because it was so different from what he had at home, he had a request to proffer. "Papa," he demanded, "I want to go out on the booms." "Haven't time to-day, Bobby," replied Mr. Orde. "You just play around." But Jim Denning would not have this. "Can't start 'em in too early, Jack," said he. "I bet you'd been fished out from running logs before you were half his age." Mr. Orde laughed. "Right you are, Jim, but we were raised different in those days." "Well," said Denning, "work's slack. I'll let one of the men take him." At the moment a youth of not more than fifteen years of age was passing from the cook house to the booms. He had the slenderness of his years, but was toughly knit, and already possessed in eye and mouth the steady unwavering determination that the river life develops. In all details of equipment he was a riverman complete: the narrow-brimmed black felt hat, pushed back from a tangle of curls; the flannel shirt crossed by the broad bands of the suspenders; the kersey trousers "stagged" off a little below the knee; the heavy knit socks; and the strong shoes armed with thin half-inch, needle-sharp caulks. "Jimmy Powers!" called the River Boss after this boy, "Come here!" The youth approached, grinning cheerfully.