All told, Herrick had a crew of sixteen, including Jeff, the cook. Four men went with the driver, at the head of the drive, four followed a little further up the stream, and the remainder brought up the rear, either in the boat or on foot. The boat was a large, flat-bottomed affair, managed both with poles and with oars, and carried all the provisions for the trip, as well as numerous other articles, including dynamite, for blowing up a jam that became too dangerous and could not be started by hand power. "We are off!" said Dale, who was with Owen. "We've got a splendid start, too." He was right; the start of the drive was all that could be expected, and as log after log caught the current and started on its long journey, a cheer went up from those left at the camp. "Good-by to dat camp fo' anudder yeah," came from Jeff. "We dun hab a putty good time of it, didn't we?" "That's true," came from Owen. And he added to Dale: "Do you think we'll come up another season?" "That is more than I can say now. I'll be willing to go back if I can't find anything better to do." Day after day went by, and the work along the drive remained about the same. At noon the boat would tie up, and Jeff would go ashore and cook all hands a square meal, and this would either be carried to the workers in kettles, or they would come to the spot for it. At night the men slept anywhere that suited them. Thus the first of the lakes were passed, and they found themselves drawing down to what was locally termed the Sugar-Bowl, why, no lumberman could tell. The Sugar-Bowl was a place where the river made a double turn, and in the center were several rocks, where the water swirled and foamed continually. Dale wanted to know how the front end of the drive was making out at the Sugar-Bowl, and the news was not long in coming. "Hold back the rest of the logs as long as you can," was the word sent back. But it was too late. Most of the timber went forward with a rush, and in less than quarter of an hour there was a jam at the rocks half an acre in extent, and growing larger every moment. "Consarn the luck!" came from Herrick. "Why in the name of blue peter didn't ye hol' back them air logs as I told ye, Foley? Look at thet current a-roarin' over yander. Fust thing yeou know we'll be a-havin' a jam clear back to the lake, an' every lumberman on the 'Nobscot a-blamin' me for't. Git over thar with yer dog and turn thet stick around." And Foley, the man addressed, leaped to the place mentioned with his hooked pole, commonly called a cant-dog or dog. The log went over, and a few of the timbers went around the rocks in consequence, but the main part of the jam stuck tighter than ever. "I shouldn't wonder if they'd need some dynamite there," said Owen. "But Paxton said not to use the stuff if it could be helped. It spoils too much timber."