Wallace Carpenter and Hamilton, the journalist, seated against the sun-warmed bench of Mrs. Hathaway's boarding-house, commented on the band as it stumbled in to the wash-room.

“Those men don't know how big they are,” remarked the journalist. “That's the way with most big men. And that man Thorpe belongs to another age. I'd like to get him to telling his experiences; he'd be a gold mine to me.”

“And would require about as much trouble to 'work,'” laughed Wallace. “He won't talk.”

“That's generally the trouble, confound 'em,” sighed Hamilton. “The fellows who CAN talk haven't anything to say; and those who have something to tell are dumb as oysters. I've got him in though.” He spread one of a roll of papers on his knees. “I got a set of duplicates for you. Thought you might like to keep them. The office tells me,” he concluded modestly, “that they are attracting lots of attention, but are looked upon as being a rather clever sort of fiction.”

Wallace picked up the sheet. His eye was at once met by the heading, “'So long, boys,'” in letters a half inch in height, and immediately underneath in smaller type, “said Jimmy Powers, and threw his hat in the face of death.”

“It's all there,” explained the journalist, “—the jam and the break, and all this magnificent struggle afterwards. It makes a great yarn. I feel tempted sometimes to help it out a little—artistically, you know—but of course that wouldn't do. She'd make a ripping yarn, though, if I could get up some motive outside mere trade rivalry for the blowing up of those dams. That would just round it off.”

Wallace Carpenter was about to reply that such a motive actually existed, when the conversation was interrupted by the approach of Thorpe and Big Junko. The former looked twenty years older after his winter. His eye was dull, his shoulders drooped, his gait was inelastic. The whole bearing of the man was that of one weary to the bone.

“I've got something here to show you, Harry,” cried Wallace Carpenter, waving one of the papers. “It was a great drive and here's something to remember it by.”

“All right, Wallace, by and by,” replied Thorpe dully. “I'm dead. I'm going to turn in for a while. I need sleep more than anything else. I can't think now.”

He passed through the little passage into the “parlor bed-room,” which Mrs. Hathaway always kept in readiness for members of the firm. There he fell heavily asleep almost before his body had met the bed.

In the long dining room the rivermen consumed a belated dinner. They had no comments to make. It was over.

The two on the veranda smoked. To the right, at the end of the sawdust street, the mill sang its varying and lulling keys. The odor of fresh-sawed pine perfumed the air. Not a hundred yards away the river slipped silently to the distant blue Superior, escaping between the slanting stone-filled cribs which held back the logs. Down the south and west the huge thunderheads gathered and flashed and grumbled, as they had done every afternoon for days previous.

“Queer thing,” commented Hamilton finally, “these cold streaks in the air. They are just as distinct as though they had partitions around them.”

“Queer climate anyway,” agreed Carpenter.

Excepting always for the mill, the little settlement appeared asleep. The main booms were quite deserted. Not a single figure, armed with its picturesque pike-pole, loomed athwart the distance. After awhile Hamilton noticed something.

“Look here, Carpenter,” said he, “what's happening out there? Have some of your confounded logs SUNK, or what? There don't seem to be near so many of them somehow.”

“No, it isn't that,” proffered Carpenter after a moment's scrutiny, “there are just as many logs, but they are getting separated a little so you can see the open water between them.”

“Guess you're right. Say, look here, I believe that the river is rising!”

“Nonsense, we haven't had any rain.”

“She's rising just the same. I'll tell you how I know; you see that spile over there near the left-hand crib? Well, I sat on the boom this morning watching the crew, and I whittled the spile with my knife—you can see the marks from here. I cut the thing about two feet above the water. Look at it now.”

“She's pretty near the water line, that's right,” admitted Carpenter.

“I should think that might make the boys hot,” commented Hamilton. “If they'd known this was coming, they needn't have hustled so to get the drive down.

“That's so,” Wallace agreed.

About an hour later the younger man in his turn made a discovery.

“She's been rising right along,” he submitted. “Your marks are nearer the water, and, do you know, I believe the logs are beginning to feel it. See, they've closed up the little openings between them, and they are beginning to crowd down to the lower end of the pond.”

“I don't know anything about this business,” hazarded the journalist, “but by the mere look of the thing I should think there was a good deal of pressure on that same lower end. By Jove, look there! See those logs up-end? I believe you're going to have a jam right here in your own booms!”

“I don't know,” hesitated Wallace, “I never heard of its happening.”

“You'd better let someone know.”

“I hate to bother Harry or any of the rivermen. I'll just step down to the mill. Mason—he's our mill foreman—he'll know.”

Mason came to the edge of the high trestle and took one look.

“Jumping fish-hooks!” he cried. “Why, the river's up six inches and still a comin'! Here you, Tom!” he called to one of the yard hands, “you tell Solly to get steam on that tug double quick, and have Dave hustle together his driver crew.”

“What you going to do?” asked Wallace.

“I got to strengthen the booms,” explained the mill foreman. “We'll drive some piles across between the cribs.”

“Is there any danger?”

“Oh, no, the river would have to rise a good deal higher than she is now to make current enough to hurt. They've had a hard rain up above. This will go down in a few hours.”

After a time the tug puffed up to the booms, escorting the pile driver. The latter towed a little raft of long sharpened piles, which it at once began to drive in such positions as would most effectually strengthen the booms. In the meantime the thunder-heads had slyly climbed the heavens, so that a sudden deluge of rain surprised the workmen. For an hour it poured down in torrents; then settled to a steady gray beat. Immediately the aspect had changed. The distant rise of land was veiled; the brown expanse of logs became slippery and glistening; the river below the booms was picked into staccato points by the drops; distant Superior turned lead color and seemed to tumble strangely athwart the horizon.

Solly, the tug captain, looked at his mooring hawsers and then at the nearest crib.

“She's riz two inches in th' las' two hours,” he announced, “and she's runnin' like a mill race.” Solly was a typical north-country tug captain, short and broad, with a brown, clear face, and the steadiest and calmest of steel-blue eyes. “When she begins to feel th' pressure behind,” he went on, “there's goin' to be trouble.”

Towards dusk she began to feel that pressure. Through the rainy twilight the logs could be seen raising their ghostly arms of protest. Slowly, without tumult, the jam formed. In the van the logs crossed silently; in the rear they pressed in, were sucked under in the swift water, and came to rest at the bottom of the river. The current of the river began to protest, pressing its hydraulics through the narrowing crevices. The situation demanded attention.

A breeze began to pull off shore in the body of rain. Little by little it increased, sending the water by in gusts, ruffling the already hurrying river into greater haste, raising far from the shore dimly perceived white-caps. Between the roaring of the wind, the dash of rain, and the rush of the stream, men had to shout to make themselves heard.

“Guess you'd better rout out the boss,” screamed Solly to Wallace Carpenter; “this damn water's comin' up an inch an hour right along. When she backs up once, she'll push this jam out sure.”

Wallace ran to the boarding house and roused his partner from a heavy sleep. The latter understood the situation at a word. While dressing, he explained to the younger man wherein lay the danger.

“If the jam breaks once,” said he, “nothing top of earth can prevent it from going out into the Lake, and there it'll scatter, Heaven knows where. Once scattered, it is practically a total loss. The salvage wouldn't pay the price of the lumber.”

They felt blindly through the rain in the direction of the lights on the tug and pile-driver. Shearer, the water dripping from his flaxen mustache, joined them like a shadow.

“I heard you come in,” he explained to Carpenter. At the river he announced his opinion. “We can hold her all right,” he assured them. “It'll take a few more piles, but by morning the storm'll be over, and she'll begin to go down again.”

The three picked their way over the creaking, swaying timber. But when they reached the pile-driver, they found trouble afoot. The crew had mutinied, and refused longer to drive piles under the face of the jam.

“If she breaks loose, she's going to bury us,” said they.

“She won't break,” snapped Shearer, “get to work.”

“It's dangerous,” they objected sullenly.

“By God, you get off this driver,” shouted Solly. “Go over and lie down in a ten-acre lot, and see if you feel safe there!”

He drove them ashore with a storm of profanity and a multitude of kicks, his steel-blue eyes blazing.

“There's nothing for it but to get the boys out again,” said Tim; “I kinder hate to do it.”

But when the Fighting Forty, half asleep but dauntless, took charge of the driver, a catastrophe made itself known. One of the ejected men had tripped the lifting chain of the hammer after another had knocked away the heavy preventing block, and so the hammer had fallen into the river and was lost. None other was to be had. The pile driver was useless.

A dozen men were at once despatched for cables, chains, and wire ropes from the supply at the warehouse.

“I'd like to have those whelps here,” cried Shearer, “I'd throw them under the jam.”

“It's part of the same trick,” said Thorpe grimly; “those fellows have their men everywhere among us. I don't know whom to trust.”

“You think it's Morrison & Daly?” queried Carpenter astonished.

“Think? I know it. They know as well as you or I that if we save these logs, we'll win out in the stock exchange; and they're not such fools as to let us save them if it can be helped. I have a score to settle with those fellows; and when I get through with this thing I'll settle it all right.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“The only thing there is to be done. We'll string heavy booms, chained together, between the cribs, and then trust to heaven they'll hold. I think we can hold the jam. The water will begin to flow over the bank before long, so there won't be much increase of pressure over what we have now; and as there won't be any shock to withstand, I think our heavy booms will do the business.”

He turned to direct the boring of some long boom logs in preparation for the chains. Suddenly he whirled again to Wallace with so strange an expression in his face that the young man almost cried out. The uncertain light of the lanterns showed dimly the streaks of rain across his countenance, and, his eye flared with a look almost of panic.

“I never thought of it!” he said in a low voice. “Fool that I am! I don't see how I missed it. Wallace, don't you see what those devils will do next?”

“No, what do you mean?” gasped the younger man.

“There are twelve million feet of logs up river in Sadler & Smith's drive. Don't you see what they'll do?”

“No, I don't believe—”

“Just as soon as they find out that the river is booming, and that we are going to have a hard time to hold our jam, they'll let loose those twelve million on us. They'll break the jam, or dynamite it, or something. And let me tell you, that a very few logs hitting the tail of our jam will start the whole shooting match so that no power on earth can stop it.”

“I don't imagine they'd think of doing that—” began Wallace by way of assurance.

“Think of it! You don't know them. They've thought of everything. You don't know that man Daly. Ask Tim, he'll tell you.”

“Well, the—”

“I've got to send a man up there right away. Perhaps we can get there in time to head them off. They have to send their man over—By the way,” he queried, struck with a new idea, “how long have you been driving piles?”

“Since about three o'clock.”

“Six hours,” computed Thorpe. “I wish you'd come for me sooner.”

He cast his eye rapidly over the men.

“I don't know just who to send. There isn't a good enough woodsman in the lot to make Siscoe Falls through the woods a night like this. The river trail is too long; and a cut through the woods is blind. Andrews is the only man I know of who could do it, but I think Billy Mason said Andrews had gone up on the Gunther track to run lines. Come on; we'll see.”

With infinite difficulty and caution, they reached the shore. Across the gleaming logs shone dimly the lanterns at the scene of work, ghostly through the rain. Beyond, on either side, lay impenetrable drenched darkness, racked by the wind.

“I wouldn't want to tackle it,” panted Thorpe. “If it wasn't for that cursed tote road between Sadler's and Daly's, I wouldn't worry. It's just too EASY for them.”

Behind them the jam cracked and shrieked and groaned. Occasionally was heard, beneath the sharper noises, a dull BOOM, as one of the heavy timbers forced by the pressure from its resting place, shot into the air, and fell back on the bristling surface.

Andrews had left that morning.

“Tim Shearer might do it,” suggested Thorpe, “but I hate to spare him.”

He picked his rifle from its rack and thrust the magazine full of cartridges.

“Come on, Wallace,” said he, “we'll hunt him up.”

They stepped again into the shriek and roar of the storm, bending their heads to its power, but indifferent in the already drenched condition of their clothing, to the rain. The saw-dust street was saturated like a sponge. They could feel the quick water rise about the pressure at their feet. From the invisible houses they heard a steady monotone of flowing from the roofs. Far ahead, dim in the mist, sprayed the light of lanterns.

Suddenly Thorpe felt a touch on his arm. Faintly he perceived at his elbow the high lights of a face from which the water streamed.

“Injin Charley!” he cried, “the very man!”