Thorpe had instinctively seized the only method by which these strong men could be impressed.A rough-and-tumble attempt at ejectment would have been useless.Now the entire crew looked with vast admiration on their boss as a man who intended to have his own way no matter what difficulties or consequences might tend to deter him.And that is the kind of man they liked.This one deed was more effective in cementing their loyalty than any increase of wages would have been.
Thorpe knew that their restless spirits would soon tire of the monotony of work without ultimate interest.Ordinarily the hope of a big cut is sufficient to keep men of the right sort working for a record.But these men had no such hope--the camp was too small, and they were too few.Thorpe adopted the expedient, now quite common, of posting the results of each day's work in the men's shanty.
Three teams were engaged in travoying, and two in skidding the logs, either on the banking ground, or along the road.Thorpe divided his camp into four sections, which he distinguished by the names of the teamsters.Roughly speaking, each of the three hauling teams had its own gang of sawyers and skidders to supply it with logs and to take them from it, for of the skidding teams, one was split;--the horses were big enough so that one of them to a skidway sufficed.Thus three gangs of men were performing each day practically the same work.Thorpe scaled the results, and placed them conspicuously for comparison.
Red Jacket, the teamster of the sorrels, one day was credited with 11,OOO feet; while Long Pine Jim and Rollway Charley had put in but 1O,500 and 1O,250 respectively.That evening all the sawyers, swampers, and skidders belonging to Red Jacket's outfit were considerably elated; while the others said little and prepared for business on the morrow.
Once Long Pine Jim lurked at the bottom for three days.Thorpe happened by the skidway just as Long Pine arrived with a log.The young fellow glanced solicitously at the splendid buckskins, the best horses in camp.
"I'm afraid I didn't give you a very good team, Jimmy," said he, and passed on.
That was all; but men of the rival gangs had heard.In camp Long Pine Jim and his crew received chaffing with balefully red glares.
Next day they stood at the top by a good margin, and always after were competitors to be feared.
Injin Charley, silent and enigmatical as ever, had constructed a log shack near a little creek over in the hardwood.There he attended diligently to the business of trapping.Thorpe had brought him a deer knife from Detroit; a beautiful instrument made of the best tool steel, in one long piece extending through the buck-horn handle.One could even break bones with it.He had also lent the Indian the assistance of two of his Marquette men in erecting the shanty; and had given him a barrel of flour for the winter.From time to time Injin Charley brought in fresh meat, for which he was paid.This with his trapping, and his manufacture of moccasins, snowshoes and birch canoes, made him a very prosperous Indian indeed.
Thorpe rarely found time to visit him, but he often glided into the office, smoked a pipeful of the white man's tobacco in friendly fashion by the stove, and glided out again without having spoken a dozen words.
Wallace made one visit before the big snows came, and was charmed.
He ate with gusto of the "salt-horse," baked beans, stewed prunes, mince pie, and cakes.He tramped around gaily in his moccasins or on the fancy snowshoes he promptly purchased of Injin Chariey.
There was nothing new to report in regard to financial matters.
The loan had been negotiated easily on the basis of a mortgage guaranteed by Carpenter's personal signature.Nothing had been heard from Morrison & Daly.
When he departed, he left behind him four little long-eared, short-legged beagle hounds.They were solemn animals, who took life seriously.Never a smile appeared in their questioning eyes.
Wherever one went, the others followed, pattering gravely along in serried ranks.Soon they discovered that the swamp over the knoll contained big white hares.Their mission in life was evident.
Thereafter from the earliest peep of daylight until the men quit work at night they chased rabbits.The quest was hopeless, but they kept obstinately at it, wallowing with contained excitement over a hundred paces of snow before they would get near enough to scare their quarry to another jump.It used to amuse the hares.All day long the mellow bell-tones echoed over the knoll.It came in time to be part of the color of the camp, just as were the pines and birches, or the cold northern sky.At the fall of night, exhausted, trailing their long ears almost to the ground, they returned to the cook, who fed them and made much of them.Next morning they were at it as hard as ever.To them it was the quest for the Grail,--hopeless, but glorious.
Little Phil, entrusted with the alarm clock, was the first up in the morning In the fearful biting cold of an extinct camp, he lighted his lantern and with numb hands raked the ashes from the stove.A few sticks of dried pine topped by split wood of birch or maple, all well dashed with kerosene, took the flame eagerly.Then he awakened the cook, and stole silently into the office, where Thorpe and Shearer and Andrews, the surveyor, lay asleep.There quietly he built another fire, and filled the water-pail afresh.
By the time this task was finished, the cook sounded many times a conch, and the sleeping camp awoke.
