"Bah! I not bodder wid you," snapped Ducrot, and turned again to his work. Owen did the same. But he kept his eye on the French-Canadian, and Ducrot took care not to send any more chips flying in his direction. In the camp there were, all told, five French-Canadians: four loggers and a cook. The cook, it may be mentioned, in passing, had charge of one-half of the cooking, while Jeff had charge of the other. The French-Canadian would have nothing to do with the colored man, and thought he could not cook at all, while the negro looked with equal disdain upon the culinary efforts of the other. Baptiste Ducrot was on fairly good terms with one of the loggers, a wild fellow named Passamont, but he tried in vain to get into the good graces of Jean Colette. "I not like dat feller," said Colette to Dale. "He drink, he swear, he make von beast of himself." "You are right about that," answered the young lumberman. And then he went on: "Do you ever hear him talking about his doings before he came here?" "Some time, _oui_. He make de big boast. Say he make much money an' spend him. Bah! Why not he safe somet'ing fo' de day when he rains, like you say him?" "I know I can trust you, Colette. Will you do me a favor?" "Favair? Sure. What shall I do?" "If you ever hear him talking about a horse he had and sold, let me know. But don't say anything to him about it." "A hoss? He sell a hoss an' you want to know 'bout dat? Verra good! I keep a big ear fo' dat." And then Jean Colette shut one eye tightly and gazed knowingly at Dale with the other, as if he suspected what was in the young lumberman's mind. After this many days passed without special importance. Following the holidays the lumbermen began to look forward to the time when the ice in the rivers should break and the task of getting the winter's cut to market should begin. Cutters, swampers, sled tenders, and drivers were all equally busy, while big logs were being rolled down the hillside nearly every day. Down by the pond and the river were four yards, where the piles of logs, big and little, grew continually. Two extra sleds had come in, and six horses, besides a team of oxen, and having returned to camp from his visit to a sick relative, Joel Winthrop was dispatched to Oldtown and Bangor to employ the best river drivers money could get for the spring rafting. "The best drivers in the world aint none too good for this work," said one old cutter to Dale. "A poor driver can do more harm than a billy goat in a dynamite shed. If he lets the drive get away from him and jam up where it hadn't ought to, every lumberman on the river will feel like kicking him full o' holes for it."