" Ten
pairs of eyes are turned towards the stick he has chosen, tracing the lie
of it in among its tangled fellows; if the men agree, ten boat-hooks are
thrust into it. Then for a moment the poles stand out from the log like
the strings of a harp; a mighty "_Ho!_" from the gang, a short, tense
haul, and it moves a trifle forward. A fresh grip, another shout, and
forward again. It is like watching half a score of ants about a twig. And
at last the freed log slides out and away down the foss.
But there are logs that are almost immovable, and often it is just one of
the worst that has to be cleared before anything else can be done. Then
the men spread out and surround it, fixing their hooks wherever they can
get a sight of it in the tangle, some hauling, others thrusting outward;
if it is dry, they splash water over it to make it slippery. And here the
poles are nowise regularly set like harp-strings, but lie crosswise at all
angles like a cobweb.
Sometimes the shouting of the gang can be heard all day long from the
river, silenced only for meals; ay, it may happen that it goes on for days
together.
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