consciousness asserted itself. He was, as Jackson expressed it,
backed off the skidway.

At dark the old man lit two lamps, which served dimly to gloze the
shadows, and thrust logs of wood into the cast-iron stove. Soon
after, the men came in. They were a queer, mixed lot. Some carried
the indisputable stamp of the frontiersman in their bearing and
glance; others looked to be mere day-laborers, capable of performing
whatever task they were set to, and of finding the trail home again.
There were active, clean-built, precise Frenchmen, with small hands
and feet, and a peculiarly trim way of wearing their rough garments;
typical native-born American lumber-jacks powerful in frame, rakish
in air, reckless in manner; big blonde Scandinavians and Swedes,
strong men at the sawing; an Indian or so, strangely in contrast to
the rest; and a variety of Irishmen, Englishmen, and Canadians.
These men tramped in without a word, and set busily to work at
various tasks. Some sat on the "deacon seat" and began to take
off their socks and rubbers; others washed at a little wooden sink;
still others selected and lit lanterns from a pendant row near the
window, and followed old Jackson out of doors. They were the
teamsters.

"You'll find the old man in the office," said Jackson.

Thorpe made his way across to the small log cabin indicated as the
office, and pushed open the door. He found himself in a little room
containing two bunks, a stove, a counter and desk, and a number of
shelves full of supplies. About the walls hung firearms, snowshoes,
and a variety of clothes.