one: he sat him down at the slip-head on his bundle and began a
quavering chant. The teamster imperturbably finished his unloading, two
men meanwhile piling the goods aboard.

The wagon backed out, and the way was clear, save for the logger sitting
on his blankets, wailing his lugubrious song. From below his fellows
urged him to come along. A bell clanged in the pilot house. The exhaust
of a gas engine began to sputter through the boat's side. From her after
deck a man hailed the logger sharply, and when his call was unheeded, he
ran lightly up the slip. A short, squarely-built man he was, light on
his feet as a dancing master.

He spoke now with authority, impatiently.

"Hurry aboard, Mike; we're waiting."

The logger rose, waved his hand airily, and turned as if to retreat down
the wharf. The other caught him by the arm and spun him face to the
slip.

"Come on, Slater," he said evenly. "I have no time to fool around."

The logger drew back his fist. He was a fairly big man. But if he had in
mind to deal a blow, it failed, for the other ducked and caught him with
both arms around the middle. He lifted the logger clear of the wharf,
hoisted him to the level of his breast, and heaved him down the slip as
one would throw a sack of bran.

The man's body bounced on the incline, rolled, slid, tumbled, till at
length he brought up against the boat's guard, and all that saved him a