"Come right in and make yourselves at home," he said cheerily, after lighting a camp lantern and hanging it on a notch of one of the poles. "Nothing more to do to-night, so we might as well go to sleep." "The boys can sleep with you; I'll stay outside where I can get the fresh air," said Gilroy, and wrapping himself in a blanket he went to rest at the foot of a neighboring tree, with Andrews beside him. A youth not used to roughing it might have found the flooring of the shack rather a hard bed. But Dale and Owen thought nothing of this. The last day on the river had been a busy one, and soon each was in the land of dreams, neither of them being disturbed in the slightest by the loud snoring around them--for lumbermen in camp do snore, and that most outrageously--why, nobody can tell, excepting it may be as a warning to wild beasts to keep away! The next morning the sun came up as brightly as ever. Long before that time the camp was astir, and from the cook's shanty floated the aroma of broiled mackerel, fried potatoes, and coffee. "That smells like home!" exclaimed Owen and started for a spring near by, where there was a small tub, in which the men washed, one after another. A table of rough deal boards had been erected under the trees, with a long bench on either side. There was no tablecloth, but the table was as clean as water and soap could make it. Each man was provided with a tin cup, a tin plate, a knife, a fork, and a spoon, and each was served his portion by the cook or the cook's assistant. If the man wanted more he usually rapped on his empty cup or plate until he was supplied. The cook was a burly negro named Jeff, his full name being Jefferson Jackson. Jeff was usually good-natured, but when the men hurried him too much for their victuals he would often growl back at them. "Fo' de lan' sake!" he would bellow. "Say, can't you gib dis chile no chance 'tall? Yo' lobsters dun got no bottom to yo' stummicks. T'ink I'se heah to fill up de hull ob de 'Nobscot Ribber? Yo' dun eat like yo' been starvin' all summah." "Jeff wants to turn us into skeletons," cried one of the young lumbermen, winking at the others. "He's got a contract to furnish a Boston museum with 'em." "Skellertons, am it?" exploded Jeff. "Wot yo' is gwine to do is to hire out to 'em fer a fat man--if yo' kin git filled up yere. But Mastah Paxton aint raisin' no fat men fo' no museums 'round dis camp, so yo' jest dun hole yo' hosses till I gits 'round dar a fo'th time." And then the men would have to wait, until each had had his fill, when he would scramble from his seat with scant ceremony and prepare for the day's work. CHAPTER VI DEEP IN THE WOODS Before the morning meal was over Dale and Owen became acquainted with ten or a dozen of the lumbermen, all rough-and-ready fellows, but above the average of the lumber camps in manner and speech.