Chapter V: Jack in Camp

The lumber-jack in camp can, in his walk and conversation, easily be distinguished from the angels; but at least he is industrious and no wild brawler. He is up and heartily breakfasted and off to the woods, with a saw or an axe, at break of day; and when he returns in the frosty dusk he is worn out with a man's labor, and presently ready to turn in for sound sleep. They are all in the pink of condition then--big and healthy and clear-eyed, and wholly able for the day's work. A stout, hearty, kindly, generous crew, of almost every race under the sun--in behavior like a pack of boys. It is the Saturday in town--and the occasional spree--and the final debauch (which is all the town will give them for their money) that litters the bar-room floor with the wrecks of these masterful bodies.

* * * * *

Walking in from Deer River of a still, cold afternoon--with the sun low and the frost crackling under foot and all round about--we encountered a strapping young fellow bound out to town afoot.

"Look here, boy!" said Higgins; "where _you_ going?"

"Deer River, sir."

"What for?"

There was some reply to this. It was a childish evasion; the boy had no honest business out of camp, with the weather good and the work pressing, and he knew that Higgins understood. Meanwhile, he kicked at the snow, with a sheepish grin, and would not look the Pilot in the eye.

"You're from Three, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I _thought_ I saw you there in the fall," said the Pilot. "Well, boy," he continued, putting a strong hand on the other's shoulder, "look me in the eye."

The boy looked up.

"God help you!" said the Pilot, from his heart; "nobody else 'll give you a show in Deer River."

We walked on, Higgins in advance, downcast. I turned, presently, and discovered that the young lumber-jack was running.

"Can't get there fast enough," said Higgins. "I saw that his tongue was hanging out."

"He seeks his pleasure," I observed.

"True," Higgins replied; "and the only pleasure the men of Deer River will let him have is what he'll buy and pay for over a bar, until his last red cent is gone. It isn't right, I tell you," he exploded; "the boy hasn't a show, and it isn't right!"

It was twelve miles from Camp Three to Deer River. We met other men on the road to town--men with wages in their pockets, trudging blithely toward the lights and liquor and drunken hilarity of the place. It was Saturday; and on Monday, ejected from the saloons, they would inevitably stagger back to the camps. I have heard of one kindly logger who dispatches a team to the nearest town every Monday morning to gather up his stupefied lumber-jacks from the bar-room floors and snake-rooms and haul them into the woods.