“That’s three games to your four,” Bob announced a little later, as the loud blast of a horn told them that breakfast was ready.

“Sure and yer no nade ter rub it in. It’s meself as knows that yer now siven games ahead, but I’ll be after catchin’ up wid yer ’fore the spring’s over.” Tom grinned as he put the board away. “But come on, let’s be after makin’ it snappy. We want ter git started wid thot raft jest as soon as we kin, or Big Ben’ll be after gittin’ in forninst us.”

It was barely light when the Comet was hitched to the second raft ready for another try. Bob and Tom agreed that it would be best to say nothing about the adventure of the night to anyone except Jack and Cap’n Seth. The captain, of course, had to be told, as he was quick to notice that the steamer was not tied as he had left her, and Bob had no hesitation in telling his brother.

“That must have been a peach of a fight,” the latter declared, after Bob had told him about it.

“It was while it lasted,” Bob assured him. “I’m mighty sorry that I had to break his arm, but it was that or have the life choked out of me and——”

“You did just right, of course,” Jack interrupted. “No one could blame you, so don’t worry about it.”

“Look, Jack,” Bob suddenly cried, as he caught his brother by the arm.

“There’s the Twilight towing one of Ben’s rafts.”

“Sure’s your born,” Jack agreed. “It’s going to be a race to see who’ll get across first.”

“It’ll be a race all right,” Bob said quietly. “A race of snails at about two miles an hour.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Jack laughed. “But the Comet can beat the Twilight any day so I don’t think we need to worry.”

“I’m not so sure about that last part of what you said,” Bob replied soberly. “It’s true that the Comet is the faster boat in an even race, but unless I’m much mistaken, the Twilight is hitched on to a smaller raft than the one we’re towing.”

“Jimminy crickets, you’re right. I never thought about that,” and Jack too looked sober. “Let’s go and ask Cap’n Seth what he thinks about it.”

They found the captain in the pilot-house steering.

“I dunno,” he replied in answer to their question. “Course the Comet’s the faster boat, but if the Twilight’s hitched on to a smaller raft she might beat us. Reckon we’ll jest hav’ ter wait an’ see. Give her all she’ll stand, Reds,” he shouted through the speaking tube.

The wind, which was light, was with them this time, and they were making good progress, but so was the Twilight. The two boats were now about two miles apart and it was plain, from the dense clouds of black smoke, that they were issuing from the Twilight’s stack, that her captain also was pushing her to the limit.

“Cap’n Bill may be nuthin’ but a kid, but he knows how ter git out o’ the Twilight all the speed that’s in her,” Cap’n Seth told them as he cast an anxious eye from the window toward the other boat. “An’ he ain’t got more’n about 20,000 logs in that raft, an’ we’ve got thirty, an’ it takes a lot o’ power ter pull that extra 10,000 through the water, let me tell yer.”

An hour passed and still another, and it could not be seen that either boat had gained on the other. Their course toward the same goal was bringing them, all the time, closer together and now they were not more than a mile apart.

“Tom made a mistake when he didn’t fix up a small raft for us to tow across,” Bob declared, as he leaned on the rail and watched the other boat. “Then we’d have been there first without any trouble.”

“No doubt about that,” Jack agreed, “but it’s too late now and I believe we’ll win out at that.”

Two more hours slipped by without any change in the relative positions of the two boats. They were making about two miles an hour and were about half way across the lake.

During the last hour Bob had been in the pilot-house with Cap’n Seth, but now he joined his brother who was standing in the stern.

“Of all the slow races this takes the cake,” he grumbled, as he sat down on a coil of rope.

“Yep, it’s all of that and then some,” Jack agreed. “I don’t believe either boat has gained a foot in the last four hours. Suppose we both get there at the same time?”

“I don’t know what we’d do in that case unless we flipped a coin for it,” Bob smiled.

The boats were now not more than a mile apart and, in the clear air, the boys could see a number of men in the stern of the Twilight.

“I believe that’s Ben himself on board there,” Bob said.

“Not much doubt of that,” Jack replied. “There’s no one else up here as big as he is.”

The outlet of Moosehead Lake into the Kennebec River is closed by a large dam, near the center of which was a sluice through which the logs were emptied into the river ten or twelve feet below the level of the lake. Watertight gates close the passageway when desired, so that by throwing the gates open the water in the river can be raised a number of feet in a few minutes. During the latter part of the driving season, when the water in the river is low, these gates are usually opened once each day, sending what is called the “head” down the river.

Toward this dam the two boats were towing their rafts. Big Ben as well as the boys knew that it was a case of first come first served in the matter of getting the logs first through the sluice. Could he but get there first and get his logs started down the river ahead of the Golden logs, he felt sure that abundant opportunity would present itself to cause delays. He hated the Goldens, first because Mr. Golden had beaten him in bidding on a big contract the summer before, and also because Bob and Jack had frustrated his attempts during the winter to delay their work. Another sore point was in regard to a very valuable tract of timber land, situated between the two camps. He had found, a short time before the previous Christmas, Mr. Golden’s deed to the land, and instead of returning it had kept it, and by means of a forged deed had claimed the tract as his own. But the boys had found the missing deed and Mr. Golden had had little trouble in proving his title to the property.

Big Ben Donahue was pacing the deck of the Twilight chewing nervously on a big black cigar. Every minute or two his glance would stray to the Comet, as he paced slowly back and forth.

“We seem to be just about holding our own and no more,” he said to the captain, a young man in his early twenties, as he stopped by the pilot-house.

“Just about,” the latter replied, as he shifted the wheel a few points to the right. “They’ve got a bigger raft than we have, but the Comet is a faster boat.”

“Hum, well, it’ll be twenty dollars in your pocket if we get there ahead,” the man said, as he again glanced toward the other boat.

“Nothin’ doin,” the young captain replied quickly. “You hired this boat and it’s my duty to get your logs across as soon’s I can an’ I’m a doin’ it, but I don’t want your money.”

Big Ben’s eyes snapped as he looked the boy in the face, but the latter met his glance with a steady gaze and, without saying anything more, the men soon walked away.

“I hope we lose this race though I’ve got to do my best to win it,” the young captain muttered, as he too glanced at the Comet.

Big Ben stopped at the door of the engine room. The fireman was leaning back in a chair in front of the furnace door, and as his eyes were closed Ben judged that he was asleep.

“Hey, there,” he shouted. “What do you think this is, bed time?”

The fireman, a half-breed named Joe Cooley, slowly opened his eyes.

“I no sleep,” he stammered. “I jest restin’, oui.”

“Well, you tend to business and get some wood on the top of that coal and see if you can’t get a little speed out of this tub,” Big Ben ordered.

“She no stan’ more. She bust, you put on wood, oui,” the fireman asserted as he glanced at the steam gage.

“Bust your eye,” Big Ben snorted. “Why, you’ve only got thirty pounds there.”

“Cap’n, him say nev’ geet more thirty pounds, she bust sure. Dat safety valve, she no work, geet stuck, oui,” and the man shook his head.

“I believe the fellow’s lying,” Big Ben muttered to himself, as he walked toward the stern. “She ought to carry forty pounds all right.”

A few minutes later, as he again paused at the door of the engine room, he saw that no one was there. For a moment he hesitated as though undecided what to do; then, glancing quickly and seeing the coast was clear, he stepped into the room and threw open the furnace door.

“Hump, that’s not half a fire,” he muttered, as he glanced about him.

In a small bin to one side of the furnace he saw a few sticks of wood, and moving with great quickness he threw four of the largest pieces in on top of the coal.

“There, I guess that’ll get some action out of her,” he muttered, as he closed the furnace door and quickly left the room.

The action was not long in manifesting itself, but not in the way he desired. Big Ben was again up forward talking with the captain, when a dull explosion came to their ears.

“There, that old engine’s blown out a cylinder head again,” the captain declared, as he left the wheel and started for the engine room, closely followed by the angry man.

By the time they reached the room the engine had stopped and the room was filled with steam.

“We’ll have to wait till she cools down,” the captain declared. “Where’s Joe? I told him not to let her get above thirty pounds. She blows off at thirty-two and the valve’s been sticking lately. Haven’t had time to fix it yet.”

Big Ben, knowing that he had lost the race through his own foolish action, said nothing but turned away mentally kicking himself for a meddling fool.

“Oh, Bob, something has happend to the Twilight. See, she stopped,” Jack shouted to his brother, who at that moment was talking with the captain in the pilot-house.

Bob, hearing the shout, came running out.

“So she has,” he agreed, as soon as he got to his brother’s side. “Well, here’s hoping that she stays stopped till we get a good lead on her. Wonder what happened?”

“If Ben had any reason for wanting to get ahead of us except to make father lose out on his contract, I might feel sorry for him; but, as it is, I don’t think that I shall shed any tears in his behalf.” And Jack grinned cheerfully as he started toward the pilot-house.

It was just four o’clock when they arrived at the dam. After some discussion it was decided that it would be best to wait until morning before beginning to shoot the logs through the sluice. There was a fairly comfortable boarding house near the outlet and in it the boys stayed, together with the members of the crew, who had been chosen to drive this first batch of logs to its destination.

They were up early the following morning, and the sun was barely showing itself when the gates were thrown open and the big logs began to shoot down into the waters of the Kennebec. To the boys it was a glorious sight to see the logs taking their initial dive into the foaming water below the dam.

The drivers, with their calked boots, were running here and there on the logs, busy with their peaveys in keeping them running free so that there would be no jam in the sluiceway. In this work the boys took no part, as it was work requiring a high degree of skill, which could be acquired only by long experience. Often situations arose where a misstep or a moment’s hesitation would be fatal, as the current was very swift and to be drawn into the sluiceway meant almost certain death.

By nine o’clock the last log was through, and the river, below the dam, was filled with the floating logs. The boys were to assist in driving them down, and in a very short time after the last of them were out of the lake they found themselves, peaveys in hand, slowly floating down the river.

It was strenuous work to keep all the logs in motion. Those at the sides were forever catching along the bank of the river and must be pried loose, and there was always the likelihood of a jam resulting should any of the front logs catch on an obstruction in the river. Then the logs behind, urged on by the irresistible force of the current, would pile up in a tangled mass, often many deep. It was at such times that seconds counted. Could the key log be located and be pried out in time the mass would begin to move again, but often this would be impossible and dynamite would have to be used.

Big Jean Larue was in charge of the crew and, as Tom Bean often declared, a better river driver never handled a peavey.

A few miles from the lake the river makes a sharp bend. Here the current is very swift and it is a place dreaded by the drivers as it requires quick and hard work to avoid a jam. Shallow water and large rocks, many of which are only a short distance beneath the rapidly swirling water, add to the difficulties. But at this time of year the melting snow makes the river higher than usual, and all hoped that they would be able to get past the bend without trouble.

It was about the middle of the afternoon when the head of the drive reached the rapids.

“Now for some fun and a fast ride,” Jack shouted, as the speed of the log he was riding increased.

“You be mighty careful,” yelled Bob, who was on a big log some forty feet to the right. “This is a nasty place for a spill.”

The boys were within a few logs of the head of the drive, Jack being near the center of the river and Bob well over toward the right bank. Four of the men, including Jean, were near the left bank where they were having all they could do in keeping the logs from jamming up on the shore.

“They’re running mighty close,” Jack declared to himself, as he saw the head of the drive start to take the curve.

The river at this point was not more than a hundred feet wide and the words had hardly left his lips when the thing which they had all dreaded happened. The logs were crowded too closely together and as they reached the sharp bend they suddenly jammed.

“Back for your life,” Bob shouted; and Jack, quick to see what had happened, turned and ran from log to log diagonally back toward the right bank.

He reached the shore in safety, and as he stopped beside Bob he gasped:

“Just look at them pile up.”

“Some mess, I’ll say,” Bob returned, as he watched the huge logs, urged on by the rapid current, pile one on top of the other, until many of them were several feet above the level of the river.

It was all over in a few minutes, and where a short time before had been a scene of swiftly moving logs, now there was no motion visible, only a confused mass reaching from shore to shore, hiding the water, and stationary.

To be sure only at the head and reaching back a distance of some thirty feet were the logs piled up to any extent. Back of them the logs had been brought to a stop more gently and had not “climbed.” But it was bad enough and both boys looked sober as they waited for Jean, who was rapidly making his way across the logs toward them.

“I tink we hav’ one mess, oui,” he declared, as he joined them.

“I know it,” Bob agreed. “What are you going to do?”

“Mebby one log hold ’em,” he said, as he waved his hand to the rest of the crew who were still some distance away. “We find heem an’ geet heem loose, all the logs go mebby. No find heem we hav’ use der powder.”

As soon as the rest of the crew came up, they started for the middle of the river.

“She one ver’ bad jam,” Jean declared, as they reached the very front of the drive.

For an hour they all worked, first at one log and then at another, hoping to locate one which would prove to be the “key.” Several times they thought they had hit it as, a log being pried loose, they were conscious of a quiver in the mass. But each time it was a false alarm, and at the end of the hour Jean declared that it was no use to try any longer.

He called to Bob, who at the moment was a little to his right, and as soon as he came to his side he said:

“I tink we put ’bout three sticks right dar,” pointing to a place where several logs were closely massed together, “mebby she start, hey?”

“You’re the doctor,” Bob said, shaking his head. “But it looks to me as though nothing short of an earthquake would start them.”

“Well, we try heem,” Jean said, as he started back toward the rear of the drive.

He was back in a few minutes, carrying the dynamite together with a battery outfit which he had gotten from the big scow, which always accompanies the drive, loaded with supplies.

“Now we feex heem,” Jean declared, and in a short time the three sticks of dynamite had been placed where Jean thought they would do the most good.

Soon the wires were connected and laid over the logs to the shore, and all was ready to close the circuit.

“Let her go,” Jean shouted, and Bob pressed the button.

But, to their surprise, nothing happened. Again and again he closed the circuit, but with no result.

“Guess we got a bum connection somewhere,” he declared, as he began to inspect the wire.

“Every connection’s all right now,” he declared a few minutes later, after he had examined the last one.

But again nothing happened when he pressed the button.

“Must be the batteries are dead,” Jack volunteered.

“Shouldn’t wonder,” Bob agreed, as he began to examine the cells. “They look like old ones.”

“I go see eef Bill got more,” Jean said, and started back on a run.

“Heem no more have, but I got one bon piece fuse he had. I feex heem ver’ queek,” Jean said, as he returned a few minutes later.

It was the work of but a moment to substitute the fuse for the wire, and the boys from their position on the bank soon saw the Frenchman strike a match and apply the light to the end of the fuse which was about a foot long. Instantly it began to sputter, and turning quickly Jean started for the bank. He had made but three or four steps, however, when, to their horror, they saw him stumble and fall. A log had rolled beneath his feet.

“Make it snappy,” Bob shouted at the top of his voice.

“His foot’s caught,” Jack yelled, and Bob saw that what his brother had said was true.

They could see that the Frenchman was making Herculean efforts to free himself.

“He may not be able to do it in time,” Bob gasped, as he started on the run across the logs.

The boy knew that the fuse would burn but a short minute, and that if he failed to reach it in time, he as well as Jean would probably be killed. But the man was in the greatest danger and the boy never hesitated. As he jumped from log to log he breathed a prayer that he might get there in time. He could see the fuse sputtering fiercely and growing rapidly shorter. How heavy his feet felt. It seemed like some hideous nightmare. He could hear Jack shouting for him to come back, but he paid no heed to the commands. But one thought filled his mind. He must get to that fuse before the fire reached the dynamite.

“I must, I must,” he said aloud, as he took the logs with flying leaps.

The end of the fuse had disappeared as he reached the spot, and he knew that only an inch or two remained. Quickly he shoved his hand between the two logs, and grabbing hold of the fuse he gave it a sharp jerk and flung it far out into the water. As it went flying through the air, he could see that less than two inches remained.

A strange feeling of weakness stole over him as he realized how near he had been to death, and he sank down on a log and buried his face in his arms.

In another minute Jack had his arms about him, and the tears running down his cheeks was imploring him to look up. Bob had not fainted and after a moment his strength began to come back and he got slowly to his feet.

“It was close, awful close, Jack boy,” he whispered. “But thank God I made it in time.”

“And it was the bravest thing I ever saw,” Jack declared.

Then, as if by one impulse, the brothers knelt there on the logs, and, with arms about each other, they thanked God for His goodness.

“But we must see to Jean,” Bob cried, as he sprang to his feet.

They found the Frenchman still tugging to get his foot free.

“Just a minute, old fellow, and we’ll have you out,” Bob said, as he bent to examine the log which held the man prisoner. “Catch hold here, Jack, and when I give the word lift as hard as you can.”

It was a hard lift, but by exerting all their strength they were able to move the log enough to permit Jean to pull his foot out. Fortunately, except for a little skin rubbed off in his efforts to get the foot free, the man was uninjured.

“You save my life one more time, oui,” the Frenchman said soberly, as they made their way to the shore. “I, Jean Larue, never forgeet heem. Sometime I pay you back, oui.”