mill. Then in a wild crescendo of sound there rose the harsh chorus of

saws: the singing howl of the cut-off, the strident, slurring sound of the gang-saws, and the staccato snarl of the trimmer.

Smiling and rubbing his hands, Robert Rennie walked through the mill. “Running like a greased pig,” shouted Gillis above the clamour. The owner of the R. C. & L. Co. so far forgot his decorum as to slap the astonished Gillis heartily on the back.

Donald noticed an ever-increasing irritability on the part of the logging foreman during the next week. The ertswhile jocular Gillis became sulky and morose. Donald got an inkling as to the cause of his friend’s gloom when he heard Gillis in conversation with Andy.

“What the ’ell’s the matter, you big lunkus? You’re like a bear with a sore foot,” complained Andy.

“If my gang don’t get here pretty soon, and I have to put up with this crowd of bohunks much longer, I won’t be fit to live with,” growled Gillis.

Gillis’s gang of “redshirts” were known the length and breadth of British Columbia. Employers bid high for their services, but for many years they had stuck loyally with Gillis and the R. C. & L. Co. At present they were employed by the Company in one of their camps up the coast, but, at Gillis’s earnest request, Robert Rennie had promised to send them to Summit Lake.

Gillis’s “redshirts” had the well-earned reputation of being the wildest crew of lumber-jacks west of the Rockies. “They’re wild, all right,” Gillis had admitted; “a swearin’, drinkin’, fightin’ gang of roughnecks. But holy mackerel! How them boys can log!”

That night Gillis confided his troubles to Donald. “I don’t know what in tarnation’s to become of loggin’ in years to come if things keep on as they are now,” he began in a despondent tone. “It used to be that when you sent down town for loggers you got loggers. But now,” with a gesture of disgust, “you git a lot of silk-stockin’d, mandolin-playin’, gum-chewin’, smooth-haired guys, or else a bunch of snuff-chewin’, garlic-smellin’, macaroni-eatin’ bohunks, whose names sound like a war in Central Europe.”

Sighing reminiscently, he continued: “I often wonder if it’s because I’m gittin’ old; but, you know, when I look back on the days, when we logged with bull teams, it seems to me that the men at that time _liked_ to work. I can still see the old timers in their whiskers, and their big black hats and flannel shirts, as they sailed out on the old _Comox_ or the _Cassiar_.” He shook his head sadly. “Ah! there was only one kind of logger in them days.”

Seeing that Donald was interested, he went on: “Yes, there’s two kinds of loggers nowadays, Donnie, the ‘single-breasted’ and the ‘double-breasted.’ And there’s a hell of a lot of difference between the two. The ‘single-breasted’ logger is a man that don’t speak anythin’ but English, an’ he don’t belong to the ‘I won’t works’ neither. He knows loggin’ from A to Z; don’t mind sleepin’ in a bunk, and always carries his own blankets. If he borrows a ten-spot off you, as soon as he earns it he comes lookin’ for you, slips you the money, grabs you by the hand, and lookin’ you straight in the eye, says: ‘Thanks, friend, come and have a drink.’ At night, when he is through work, he’ll smoke his pipe, grind his axe, talk about the next day’s work with the boss, read the paper and go to bed. In the mornin’ he’ll swallow a big load of prunes and ham and eggs and go to work a-singin’.

“But this ‘double-breaster’,” he snorted disgustedly, “he’s a mixture of a taxi-driver, bartender and soap-box orator, and just because he lives in B.C., he thinks he is a logger. He knows the difference between a fallin’ saw and a bucket’s saw, and that just about lets him out. If he borrows a dollar off you, the minute the bill slips out of your hand you can see a look in his eye that says, ‘You’re hooked.’ And the devil of it is that he won’t cross to the other side of the street when he sees you comin’, but he’ll walk right up to you a-smilin’ and ask you for another buck.

“When he gets through at night he cleans his finger-nails and picks on a mandolin while he tells how many Janes is stuck on him in Vancouver; gives an opinion that the shower-bath was not hot enough, and how we sufferin’ workers should rise against the capitalists. He’ll kick at the breakfast table because there is only oranges and no grape-fruit. When he goes in the woods he’ll throw a few tools away so’s to help the cause of the workers.

“Workers!” he exploded, as he came to his feet and walked the floor, “we’ve got too many ‘double-breasteds’ and ‘hunks’ in this camp right now, Donnie. A hunk will work if you show him a pick and shovel, but these other guys are trouble-breeders. Did you see that big brute that came in to-day?”

Donald remembered seeing an enormous man with narrow, piggish eyes, in the crowd of men sent by the employment agency.

“That’s ol’ Hand. He’s a bad egg. I s’pose I’d ought to fire him, but he’s a good logger, and they are mighty scarce ’round these diggin’s.” He yawned sleepily. “Got to fix a ‘spar-tree’ for a ‘high-lead’ to-morrow, so I better hit the hay.”

Preparing the “spar-tree” for “high-lead,” or “sky-line” rigging, is the most spectacular and thrilling performance in the logging industry. A standing tree is trimmed of top and branches, then strengthened with guys. With the pull coming from this altitude, the advantage over the straight ground pull is enormous as logs are lifted high in air over all impedimenta. The men who do this hazardous work are known as “high-riggers.”

Next morning, a man with a short-handled axe, wearing a wide belt to pass around the treetrunk, and a pair of lineman’s spurs, slowly climbed a big fir. As he ascended he trimmed the trunk clear of limbs. Quite a crowd gathered, among them the trapper, with his rifle on his arm.

“I ain’t got a ‘high-rigger’ in the outfit,” growled Gillis. “This feller agreed to trim her, but he says he never chopped the top off one, so I guess we’ll dynamite her.”

The explosive, with a detonating cap, was tied around the top of the tree and wires strung to the ground. For some reason the batteries would not act, and Gillis chafed under the delay.

“I kin set her off for ye,” said the old trapper.

Gillis turned to him. “How?”

The trapper tapped his gun. “Put a piece of paper on the cap so’ I kin see her and I’ll pop it.”

“That’s a new one on me,” laughed Gillis.

He sent the man aloft to place a square piece of pasteboard on the cap. The men moved back from the foot of the tree, and Gillis gave the signal that all was clear. The old man sprang briskly to the top of a stump, tipped his big hat to the back of his head, and raised his rifle slowly. For an instant the long barrel wavered slightly, then steadied. The report of the rifle was drowned by a splintering crash. The heavily-branched top lifted, then came hurtling through the air to strike the ground a mass of wreckage. For a moment the big spar swayed drunkenly from the shock, then stood stark and rigid. Deprived of its fronds of green, it appeared a ghastly relic of its former self.

That afternoon, as they waited the arrival of the train, Gillis talked again of his “redshirts.” “White men, every one of them,” he declared proudly, “and every one of them with a nickname that is known all over the Coast. Ye just ought to see my two ‘high-riggers,’ ‘Hoop-la’ McKenzie and ‘Blackie’ Anderson. ‘Blackie’ is as black as an Indian, and ‘Hoop-la’ got his name from standing on the top of a spar-tree, after he cuts her off, wavin’ his hat and yellin’ ‘Hoop-la’.

“I got five Jack McDonalds in the gang. Their names are ‘Sly’ Jack, ‘Fightin’ Jack, ‘Check-Book’ Jack, ‘Johnnie-On-The-Spot,’ and ‘Crazy’ Jack. An’ if they had all bin named ‘Crazy’ Jack it wouldn’t bin no mistake,” he finished with a laugh.

The train rumbled to the station and the usual crowd of workers came pouring from the cars, while a crowd stood waiting to board the train. It was the same every day—men coming and men going.

Gillis uttered the glad cry, “Here they are!”

A big, ostentatious man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, stepped to the platform. His dress was truly colourful and striking—wide hat, high boots, a vivid scarlet shirt, with a cloth belt of the same bright hue tied at the side, the ends dangling loosely.

“Get out of the way, hunkies, and make room for a logger!” he roared, as he elbowed his way through a crowd of scattering foreigners behind him, a line of men clad in the same brilliant attire.

“Hello, Hoop-la! you ornery ol’ skate!” bellowed Gillis.

The big man turned. “Here he is fellers!” he shouted.

In a moment Gillis was surrounded by this picturesque crew, howling tumultuous greetings.

“Hello, ol’ hoss!”

“Hello, you son-of-a-gun!”

“How the hell are ye?”

Donald was subjected to crushing hand-clasps as he was introduced to each and every one of this crowd of husky loggers.

As Donald studied them he did not wonder at Gillis’s pride in these men. With the exception of Blackie, there was none under six feet in height, and they carried themselves with a loose swing that was almost a swagger. Many of them were well past middle age, some quite grey about the temples. They were all filled with the sparkling health of the great outdoors, their skins the colour of mahogany.

“Where’s the bunk-house?” asked Blackie.

“We don’t call them bunk-houses any more, we have dormitories,” corrected Gillis as he nudged Donald slyly.

“A what?” questioned the puzzled Blackie.

“Dormitories,” repeated Gillis.

Blackie glowered at his boss. “What are you runnin’, a ladies’ seminary?” he questioned sarcastically.

“And another thing, you don’t need your blankets. Company furnishes ’em,” informed Gillis.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing right now,” declared ‘Crazy’ Jack, “I ain’t goin’ to sleep in a pair of blankets that forty smelly bohunks has wrapped themselves in. What kind of a joint you brought us to, Jack?”

“What I want to tell you fellers,” said Gillis, ignoring ‘Crazy’ Jack’s remarks, “is this: I want you to stay all summer. None of this running to town to get your teeth fixed, or a new suit, see the ball game, or to meet your sister who’s comin’ out from the East, and all that old bunk. We got more orders——”

“Can that chatter,” interrupted ‘Fighting’ Jack with a wide grin. “We’re all goin’ to town on Dominion Day, ain’t we, boys?”

“You bet!” they roared as one.

Gillis shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “Thought you fellers was gettin’ old enough to have a little sense,” he said.

“Too much kick in us yet, Jack,” demurred Blackie.

“Where is this door-mee-tory, Jack?” asked Hoop-la.

Gillis pointed to the long building, and the boisterous crowd moved noisily up the hill. The men dropped their packs to the ground outside the door, and, shouldering each other, peered in. The long rows of white beds stood immaculate against the walls, and two white-coated flunkeys were sweeping the glossy varnished floor.

“This ain’t the right place,” growled Hoop-la, “this is the hospital. They must expect to kill about a hundred men every day. Hi! Jack! Come here. Where’s the bunk-room?” he asked as Gillis approached.

“That’s it.”

“That!”

“Sure.”

“Say! what you givin’ us? I wouldn’t dare sit down on one of them beds; ’fraid of dirty’n it.”

The others gathered round.

“Jack, can we put up a log shack for ourselves?” asked Blackie.

“You sure can,” responded Gillis tolerantly.

“All right, we’ll sleep in this morgue ’till we get a decent place,” said Blackie.

He poked his head in the door just as Andy, clad in white coat, entered by the rear.

“Say, nurse,” shouted Blackie, “get ready for twenty-two cases of delirium tremens!”

“That’s easy,” was Andy’s quick retort; “I’ve ’ad more than that by myself.” His eyebrows lifted in quick surprise as he saw the brilliant shirts.

“When does the blinkin’ circus start?” he grinned.

That evening in their explorations Blackie and Hoop-la found the log shack on the lake-shore.

“Say, Jack, can me and Hoop-la have that cabin down there?”

“You bet you can, Blackie. You and Hoop-la can have anythin’ round here,” replied Gillis heartily.

Blackie had turned to go, but on hearing this broad statement he stopped quickly. “Say, Jack, me and Hoop-la came away from Vancouver owin’ a little money—an’ I promised to send——”

“Ye’ve got me when the gittin’ is good,” interrupted Gillis. “How much do you want?”

“Let me see,” reflected Blackie, “I owe for my room in town; and I owe at Old Joe’s, and—and——”

“How much? Spit it out, I can stand the shock,” commanded Gillis.

“’Bout a hundred, Jack.”

“Whew!” whistled Gillis as he reached for his purse.

With Donald’s assistance the hundred dollars was found and Blackie ran joyously down the hill.

“Little devil!” smiled Gillis as he gazed after him. “Good-hearted a feller as ever lived,” he added feelingly, “but he can’t take one drink without goin’ crazy.”

The “redshirts” had been up in the woods looking over the logging operations, and they now came swinging down the hill, their bright shirts flashing in the sun. They were loggers, “every inch of them,” as Gillis had said.