The second blast seemed at first to be no more effective than the other. Then Bob’s keen eye perceived an encouraging variation. Over the surface of the jam a curious, uneasy motion began to spread from one log to another. The crew, which had run lightly out to the very face, worked swiftly with their peavies, pulling, shoving, jerking the timbers this way and that. From his point of vantage Bainbridge watched their work with approval. They were evidently far from being the incompetents that first sight of them might have led one to suppose. He noticed that the fellow with the curly yellow hair was particularly skillful, having apparently laid aside his grouch, and taken hold from sheer love of the work and delight in accomplishing something. Somehow Bob could not help following his movements for a minute or two, and presently, in spite of all that had gone before, his heart began to warm to the lithe, active, fearless youngster who seemed to have the knack of always being in the right place and doing the thing most needed at precisely the right moment. “A good man,” Bainbridge muttered to himself at length, “Hanged if he isn’t!” But now the jam was actually in motion, crawling forward with many creaks and crackings. The men worked harder, accelerating its progress, and making sure that nothing went wrong. Suddenly the whole central part of the face fell forward into the stream with a tremendous crash, and there was a whirling, backward rush on the part of those who had been working on the very brink. As they zigzagged to shore by devious routes, they raised the gladsome cry: “She pulls, boys--she pulls!” The sound was as music to Bainbridge’s ears, but he only smiled grimly and strode rapidly along the bank of the stream. His eyes were fixed on the foam and spray and rolling, rushing timbers, on some of which, holding by their sharp spikes and balancing perfectly, rode the skilled rivermen who preferred this method to the more prosaic one of walking ashore. One of these was the blond youngster, and presently, reaching a point on the bend where he thought a man was needed to prevent fresh jamming, Bob beckoned him ashore. He came--lightly from log to log, or temporarily rode nearer the bank by means of his peavey. His last easy spring brought him to land beside Bainbridge, where he stood at silent attention, his boldly handsome face beginning to show anew the look of sullen embarrassment it had momentarily lost. “Keep a lookout here for while,” Bob said briefly. “It’s rather a bad place. By the way,” he went on, struck afresh by that haunting sense of familiarity which had come to him before, “what’s your name?” The young giant dropped his lids, and his muscular fingers interlocked tightly around the stout ash pole of the peavey. “Curly,” he said, in an oddly embarrassed tone. “Ah! That all?” The youngster hesitated, and then, flinging back his head, stared defiantly at Bainbridge.