"That is what he said, Mr. Larson. He is short himself, and said he told you he thought he couldn't spare them. Not a drive has come down the river for three weeks." "I know that, Bradford." John Larson, the owner of the Enterprise Lumber Mill, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's hard luck. I guess I'll have to shut down after all. And I was calculating to keep you all working." The face of Dale Bradford became as serious as that of his employer. "How soon will you close up the mill?" he asked after a pause. "As soon as those logs over yonder are cut up." The owner of the sawmill kicked a block of wood out of his way rather savagely. "It's a shame not to get logs, with so much timber cut ready to use." "The pulp mill is what's done it," replied Dale. "They have a big contract to fill, so I was told over in Oldtown, and so they are willing to pay big prices for any sort of stuff." "You're right, Bradford. They'll buy little sticks that we couldn't afford to handle." "What we've got on hand won't keep us going longer than Saturday," continued Dale, gazing around at the small pile of logs resting partly in and partly out of the stream upon which the sawmill was situated. "Just about Saturday." "And there's no telling when we'll be able to start up again, I suppose." "Just as soon as I can get hold of the stuff to go ahead with. I don't like to have the mill idle any more than you or the others like to be out of work." "I'll have to get something to do pretty quick," said Dale earnestly. "I can't live on nothing." "You ought to have something saved." "A fellow can't save much out of six dollars a week, Mr. Larson. Besides, I've been paying off that little debt my father left when he died." "I see, I see," interposed the mill owner hastily. "You're a good sort of a lad, Dale--as good a lad as your father was a man. If we shut down on Saturday perhaps I can keep you on a week longer--cleaning up around the mill and along the river, and doing other odd jobs. That will give you more time in which to look for another opening." The head sawyer of the mill now came up to question John Larson concerning the cutting up of certain large logs, and Dale moved away to resume his regular work, that of piling up the boards in the little yard adjoining the steamboat landing. It was hard work, especially in this summer, noon-day sun, but Dale was used to it and did not complain. And this was a good thing, as nobody would have listened to his complaint, for all around that mill worked just as hard as he did. John Larson was a just man, but a strict one, and he required every man he employed to earn his salary. Dale Bradford was an orphan, eighteen years of age, tall, muscular, healthy, and as sunburnt as outdoor life could make him. He was the only son of Joel Bradford, who in years gone by had owned a good-sized lumber tract on the west branch of the Penobscot River, in Maine, where this story opens.