"Suppose you _didn't_ get all the logs out this year," asked Bob, at length. "Of course it would be a nuisance; but couldn't you get them next year?" "That's the trouble," Welton explained. "If you leave them over the summer, borers get into them, and they're about a total loss. No, my son, when you start to take out logs in this country, you've got to _take them out!_" "That's what I'm going in here for now," he explained, after a moment. "This Cedar Branch is an odd job we had to take over from another firm. It is an unimproved river, and difficult to drive, and just lined with mossbacks. The crew is a mixed bunch--some old men, some young toughs. They're a hard crowd, and one not like the men on the main drive. It really needs either Tally or me up here; but we can't get away for this little proposition. He's got Darrell in charge. Darrell's a good man on a big job. Then he feels his responsibility, keeps sober and drives his men well. But I'm scared he won't take this little drive serious. If he gets one drink in him, it's all off!" "I shouldn't think it would pay to put such a man in charge," said Bob, more as the most obvious remark than from any knowledge or conviction. "Wouldn't you?" Welton's eyes twinkled. "Well, son, after you've knocked around a while you'll find that every man is good for something somewhere. Only you can't put a square peg in a round hole." "How much longer will the high water last?" asked Bob. "Hard to say." "Well, I hope you get the logs out," Bob ventured. "Sure we'll get them out!" replied Welton confidently. "We'll get them out if we have to go spit in the creek!" With which remark the subject was considered closed. About four o'clock of the afternoon they came out on a low bluff overlooking a bottom land through which flowed a little stream twenty-five or thirty feet across. "That's the Cedar Branch," said Welton, "and I reckon that's one of the camps up where you see that smoke." They deserted the road and made their way through a fringe of thin brush to the smoke. Bob saw two big tents, a smouldering fire surrounded by high frames on which hung a few drying clothes, a rough table, and a cooking fire over which bubbled tremendous kettles and fifty-pound lard tins suspended from a rack. A man sat on a cracker box reading a fragment of newspaper. A boy of sixteen squatted by the fire. This man looked up and nodded, as Welton and his companion approached. "Where's the drive, doctor?" asked the lumberman. "This is the jam camp," replied the cook. "The jam's upstream a mile or so. Rear's back by Thompson's somewheres." "Is there a jam in the river?" asked Bob with interest. "I'd like to see it." "There's a dozen a day, probably," replied Welton; "but in this case he just means the head of the drive. We call that the 'jam.'" "I suppose Darrell's at the rear?" Welton asked the cook. "Yep," replied that individual, rising to peer into one of his cavernous cooking utensils.