Yes, sirree! That boy gets in at six o'clock last night
an' turns to on his paw's job when the whistle blows this mornin' at
seven."
"You mean young Bryce Cardigan?" Zeb queried incredulously.
"I shore do."
"'Tain't possible," Zeb declared. "You seen a new bookkeeper, mebbe,
but you didn't see Bryce. He aint no such hog for labour as his daddy
before him, I'm tellin' you. Not that there's a lazy bone in his
body, for there ain't, but because that there boy's got too much
sense to come bollin' down to work at seven o'clock the very first
mornin' he's back from Yurrup."
"I'm layin' you ten to one I seen him," Dan replied defiantly, "an'
what's more, I'll bet a good cigar--a ten-center straight--the boy
don't leave till six o'clock to-night."
"You're on," answered the chief engineer. "Them's lumberjack hours,
man. From seven till six means work--an' only fools an' hosses keeps
them hours."
The head sawyer leaned across the table and pounded with the handle
of his knife until he had the attention of all present. "I'm a-goin'
to tell you young fellers somethin'," he announced. "Ever since the
old boss got so he couldn't look after his business with his own
eyes, things has been goin' to blazes round this sawmill, but they
ain't a-goin' no more. How do I know? Well, I'll tell you.
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