“Wal, now, that’s a purtty hard question. Ben wasn’t with ’em, as you prob’ly know. Ike Smithers was in charge o’ the gang. Had about a dozen men with him. They seemed ter be goin’ all right till the last of ’em got into the river an’ then, all of a sudden, they stopped. I dunno what made ’em. Don’t often have a jam here.” “Did they try to start them?” Bob asked. “Can’t say fer sure, but Jeb Steps, he was in here an’ lowed as how they was a workin’ at it, but he did say that they didn’t seem ter be a workin’ hard ’nough ter hurt ’em any,” and the man grinned as much as to say that Jeb was probably right. “But there’s no one working on them now,” Jack broke in. “No, that’s a fact. You see Jeb he lowed as how Ike told him that they couldn’t start ’em without dynamite, and that he was goin’ ter Skowhegan ter git some. Anyhow, they all left bout three o’clock that same day, an’ I hain’t seen nothin’ of ’em since.” “And I’ll bet you won’t see them again, not for some time,” Bob said. “Shouldn’t wonder nor you’re right, son,” Sim grinned. At that moment the door opened and the rest of their men entered. Jean quickly explained the situation to them, and they all agreed that it was a put-up job to hold up their logs. “But can’t we start them?” Jack asked, as soon as he had finished. “Mebby. We go tak’ one look,” Jean replied, as he led the way out of the store. The drive of logs which blocked the river was a big one, and it was fully twenty minutes before they reached the head. “She packed in bon,” Jean declared, as he gazed ruefully at the huge logs which, piled up several deep, were holding back the thousands behind. “She no be easy start,” he added, shaking his head. Bob and Jack could readily see that what he said was true. The current at this point was swift, and whatever had been the cause of the jam had done its work thoroughly. “Well, let’s go back and get something to eat, and then we’ll decide on what’s best to be done,” Bob proposed, and all were heartily in favor of his motion. The Forks boasted of a small but well-kept hotel, and they were soon in the dining room disposing of an excellent dinner. “How much powder you got,” Jean asked, as he finished his fourth cup of coffee. He always called dynamite powder, as did most of the drivers. Sam Reddy, the man who had charge of the supplies, and of whom he asked the question, looked down at his plate, a guilty expression on his bronzed face. “Jean, I got not another stick,” he said, after the Frenchman had repeated the question. “I forgot to get it when I came up from Skowhegan, and those three sticks wus all I had.” For an instant Jean looked black, but evidently realizing that it was no use to cry over spilt milk or missing dynamite, he only said: “Dat too bad, oui. Mebby we do it widout der powder.”