And
the bridge is light and open at the sides, making an excellent lookout
place for us inquisitive folk.
Down on the raft of tangled logs the men are shouting, as they strain to
free the timber that has caught and stuck fast among the rocks and
boulders in the river-bed. Stick after stick comes floating down and joins
the mass already gathered; the jam grows and grows; at times there may be
a couple of hundred dozen balks hung up at one spot. But if all goes well,
the gang can clear the jam in time. And if fate will have it ill, some
unlucky lumberman may be carried down as well, down the rapids to his
death.
There are ten men with boat-hooks on the jam, all more or less wet from
falling in. The foreman points out the log next to be freed, but we,
watching from the bridge, can see now and again that all the gang are not
agreed. There is no hearing what is said, but we can see some of them are
inclined to get another log out first; one of the old hands protests.
Knowing his speech as I do, I fancy I can hear him say stubbornly and
calmly: "I doubt we'd better see and get _that_ one clear first.
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