Both Jean and Pierre were working with the crew and the boys could see that they were doing their utmost to make them work faster but with little success. At five o’clock they knocked off for the day and Jack declared bitterly, “They haven’t loosened up enough logs to make a good bunch of shingles.” “Them logs are packed in tighter nor I thought,” Pat declared as he came up the bank. “I hope none of your men over-exerted themselves,” Bob said looking him full in the eyes. Pat turned his head away. “Well, yez see, they’ve had a long tramp the day and I guess they’re kinder tired, but we’ll be after showin’ yez some action ter-morrer.” Supper was a hilarious meal. The men were in excellent spirits and jokes and stories ran around the table, interspersed with frequent snatches of song. “They know they’ve got a soft thing of it for a few days at least,” Bob whispered to Rex. As soon as supper was over the men went outside and gathered in groups and talked, sang songs and smoked in the twilight. It was about an hour later when Bob announced that he was going for a drink of water from a small spring a few rods back in the woods. He had known of that spring for a long time and often declared that there was no water quite so good as that. “Anybody coming along?” he asked. But both Rex and Jack decided that they were not thirsty, so he started off alone. A few feet back of the camp was a small shed used as a store house for tools. On his way to the spring Bob had to pass close to it and, as he approached, the sound of voices reached him. He stopped for a moment and listened. Two men, it was evident, were in the shed talking earnestly. Under ordinary circumstances Bob would have scorned the thought of being an eavesdropper, but he had recognized the voice of one of the men as that of Pat Murphy. He was quite sure that if Pat Murphy had brought one of his men out to the shed for a private conversation the matter under discussion concerned him and his father. So his conscience gave him no pricks as he crept closer until he was directly beneath a small window at the back of the shed. He could now hear distinctly all that was being said although the men were talking in low tones. “Yez see,” Pat was saying, “we can’t hold them logs here much longer. ’Tis a cinch ter git ’em started and Jean Larue well knows thot same.” “But there’s only six of ’em,” the other man declared, “and what kin they do wid us? Dem city kids don’t count.” “I know,” Pat explained, “but Baptiste Lamont and his crew of forty or more Canucks will be up here sometime tomorrow and Baptiste don’t stand for no funny work. He thinks as how the sun rises and sets fer Golden.” “Wall, an’ whot is it ye want me ter do?” the other asked.