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Knowing Moose for many years, Bainbridge had never been quite able to determine whether the man was attached to him personally, as sometimes in his stolid, self-restrained manner he seemed to be. It was more likely to be simply the canny shrewdness of the native knowing on which side his bread was buttered. At all events, Bob had never counted on it to the extent of any great familiarity, though, under the conditions in which they were frequently alone together in the woods, he could scarcely help letting down the bars a little.

What makes you say that? What earthly reason could Pete Schaeffer have for wanting to see the drive hang up? Mebbe he get more to hang up drive. Who the deuce are you talking about, Joe? Perhaps I do, perhaps not. Him Crane. Bill Kollock! You did, did you? You talk a lot about being a friend of mine. After all, the fellow was not to blame for possessing the characteristic Indian quality of reticence.

Knowing his habit of wandering all over the northern part of the state, Bob should have questioned him the instant the Indian set foot in Chebargo camp the day before. But questioned him for what purpose? The man had worked for them a number of years.

He was quiet and taciturn, sometimes almost sullen; but few woodsmen have much to say for themselves. He had proved himself more than competent, and was apparently faithful to the interests of those who paid his wages. Faithful so long as it suited his purpose and no longer!

I can hardly wait to get at the cur! He was obliged to postpone that gratification a good deal longer than he had expected, however. Though they strained every effort, and sent the canoe fairly flying upstream, the sun sank lower and lower, without the slightest sign of the drive appearing. With every thousand feet of progress Bob grew more raging.

When at length the sun dipped behind the cold, gray, distant hill line, he was filled with a hot, furious anger against the treacherous Schaeffer—an anger which needed every ounce of will power he possessed to suppress. Determined to find the drive, and have a settlement that night, he stubbornly continued to paddle long after darkness had fallen, and when they could not see much more than a boat length in any direction.

At length, however, there was forced upon him a realization of his folly. It would be much wiser to land now and camp, continuing the journey at daybreak, rather than try to make headway through this pitchy blackness. Still reluctant to pause, Bob milled this over in his mind for ten minutes or more before finally giving the word to Moose, who had made no comment of any sort. The Indian obeyed stolidly, driving the canoe toward the right bank.

Within five minutes the two men were hunting dry sticks for a fire. Later, as he sat relaxed before the grateful blaze, consuming the rough supper with an appetite which only life in those wonderful north woods can give, Bainbridge remained preoccupied, his forehead wrinkled thoughtfully, and his brooding eyes fixed upon the dancing flames.

There was no time lost either in turning in that night or in rising next morning. So early was Bainbridge astir that the cold, gray half-light dawn had barely begun to lighten the velvety blackness. The two men had embarked and were paddling vigorously upstream before it was possible to see more than the vague, indistinct shadows of concrete things.

Before sunrise they had reached and crossed the first of the three lakes, which was little more than a good-sized pond. Two miles northwest of the inlet another stream, almost as large, joined the Megantic. The juncture was scarcely passed before Bainbridge became aware of the slackening current, and unnaturally low level of water in the stream. Something was holding it back, and that something could be nothing less than a jam of unusual size and extent. Downstream there were several spots which had always been more or less dreaded by river drivers.

There all the skill and care in the world could not always prevent trouble. To the northward, however, was comparatively clear sailing. The most ordinary skill in driving, and just average attention to business would make the forming of a jam impossible. Bob set his teeth, and drove the canoe ahead swiftly.

He made no comment, nor did the guide. For ten minutes or so they paddled in silence. Bainbridge was quite aware that under ordinary conditions such a proceeding would have been foolhardy to a degree. For all he knew the jam might be started at any moment; the swirling, tumbling logs might sweep down upon them with irresistible force, overwhelming them before they could even reach the shore. But these were not ordinary conditions. Events proved the accuracy of this judgment.

Some three miles above the juncture of the two streams the Megantic curved suddenly to the westward almost at a right angle, narrowing around the bend to less than two-thirds its usual width. It was at this narrow spot that Bainbridge expected to find the jam, and before they had circled the bend he saw above the low fringe of bushes on the point the jagged, bristling line of logs thrust high above the surface of the choked and dwindling stream by the tremendous pressure of well-nigh the whole drive behind it.

There was not the slightest hint of hesitation or indecision in the manner of Bainbridge now. He had evidently made up his mind exactly what course to take, and he proceeded to take it without delay. His face was no longer impatient or angry, but stern and determined, while his black eyes gleamed with satisfaction that the tedious delay was over at last and he could begin to act. Speaking briefly in a low tone to the Indian, he turned the canoe inshore and drove the bow deftly up on the gently sloping bank.

Giving Moose a hand in carrying the light craft well back into the bushes, Bainbridge straightened up and pushed through the undergrowth toward the scene of action. From the location of the jam came the sound of intermittent clinking, as of peavies languidly applied.

He uttered not a word of comment, even to himself. His muscular fists were clenched as he strode on. Though he made not the slightest effort at concealment, conditions were such that his approach was entirely unnoticed. Passing swiftly through the bushes, with the Indian close behind, he reached the other side and paused for a moment, staring intently at the scene before him.

From this viewpoint the jam looked much more serious and far-reaching than from below. It seemed like some huge abatis bristling with spikes, and holding in place a vast expanse of tumbled timber piled up and mingled together in inextricable confusion. A greenhorn, unused to lumbering conditions, would have said at once that no human power could possibly break up this terrific tangle. He looked for Schaeffer, but at first he could see nothing of the person who was supposed to have charge of operations.

There were in sight some seventy or eighty men, fully half of whom were gathered on the near bank, lounging in groups, laughing; talking, smoking, or sprawling at full length in the sun, luxuriating in its increasing warmth. Scattered over the jam were the remainder of the crew, making a half-hearted pretense at working which could not possibly deceive any one. As he watched one after another of them dally with a peavey in an indolent, purposeless kind of way, smoking a cigarette the while, and carrying on a jocular sort of repartee with neighbors, Bainbridge felt swelling within him the fury he had so long suppressed, but which seemed now as if it must find expression.

He was about to step impetuously from the undergrowth, and wake up that crowd with a volley of vigorous English, when a figure appeared at the entrance of one of the tents pitched a little way back from the water. At the sight of this person the watcher held himself motionless, a gleam of intense satisfaction flashing into his eyes. The man was tall and lean and narrow-loined, with wide, muscular shoulders. His face was rather rough hewn, and the heavy black brows gave him a lowering, almost sullen look.

There was, however, no lack of strength and intelligence of a certain sort in his expression. One would never have called him stupid, even though his appearance might not seem particularly prepossessing. He stood for a second or two staring at the jam and that throng of men playing at work, without changing his expression a particle. Then he strolled slowly down toward the crowd, hands thrust into his pockets, and lithe body swaying easily from side to side in the manner of one having all the time there is.

His course led him along the edge of the bushes, and Bainbridge waited his coming with poorly restrained impatience. He stood there, lips tightly pressed together, and nails digging into the palms of his hands, until the foreman was almost opposite. Then he stepped suddenly forth. The man gave a barely perceptible start, and stopped with a jerk.

For an instant he stared at Bainbridge, the dull red creeping slowly up from the open collar of his flannel shirt. Then his thin curled in a smile which held little mirth in it. Schaeffer moved his shoulders slightly and his lids drooped a little. I never yet had a man who was fool enough to let a drive hang up at this bend unless he wanted to. Get me? For a second Bainbridge thought the man meant to pour out a furious stream of profane abuse. Fired without a chance to say a word in my own defense?

You are! As for saying anything in your own defense, you may as well save your breath. That so? I wonder, now? Without the slightest warning or preliminary movement of any sort, he whirled and smashed Bob square in the face with every ounce of strength he possessed. Bainbridge, staggered by the force and unexpectedness of it, stumbled back, tripped, and struck the ground with a crash.

Get up, you cur! He was filled with the sudden, fierce, elemental joy of physical combat. For what seemed an eternity he had been holding himself in check by sheer will power, and now the relief of handling with bare fists this fellow who had played such a contemptible trick upon him was indescribable. Schaeffer was on his feet like a cat, and came at Bainbridge with a rush.

To his astonishment the blow was blocked with the cleverness of a professional. An instant later Schaeffer whirled like a Dervish, and again his opponent felt the tearing of those spikes in the flesh of his left leg as he went staggering to both knees. The surprise of discovering that Schaeffer could box scientifically was undoubtedly what checked Bob, and gave the fellow a chance to get in that second foul kick.

The touch of those spikes, the realization that a man who could fight fairly and squarely was low enough to resort to such disgraceful tactics, made Bainbridge see red. Whether the Indian interfered again in his behalf he could not tell. He only knew that he was on his feet once more, fighting instinctively, and fairly overwhelming his opponent with a series of rushes which there was no withstanding. Schaeffer blocked them as best he could, depending a lot on clever footwork, and waited for his chance.

It seemed certain that Bainbridge would soon let up and take things easier, and then it would be possible for the tricky riverman to use some of the other fouls of which he seemed to be a master. The moment Bob came to his senses he did cut down his steam considerably. No human being could keep up that speed for any length of time and hope for victory, and Bainbridge meant to be victorious in this struggle. Even though Schaeffer possessed the skill of a champion, he must be beaten in some way, for the thought of succumbing to a treacherous cur like this was intolerable.

The fight which followed was a strange one. Bainbridge had never known anything like it in all his varied experience as a boxer. His opponent possessed exceptional skill in the art; he would, in fact, have been a hard man to defeat in the conventional ring.

Add to this a knowledge of fouling which was simply extraordinary, and it will be seen what sort of an antagonist he was. The mere mental strain involved was exhausting. Not only had Bob the thousand legitimate devices of the ring to look out for, but he never knew when to expect a vicious jab below the belt, or a nasty butt from the head. And always in the back of his mind was a fear that those murderous spikes might at any moment strike deeply, maimingly at the vital spot for which they had been aimed twice before.

By this time, of course, every river hog within sight had raced up, and the combatants were surrounded by a ring of eager spectators, several deep, which swayed and moved and billowed out elastically as the fight progressed. A number of them were evidently in sympathy with Schaeffer, and kept urging him to go in and win, but the majority remained silent save for occasional muttered ejaculations when a particularly clever or vicious blow struck home.

Moose, his small black eyes glistening, but otherwise as stolid and unmoved as ever, managed constantly to retain his position in the front row. For a long time Bainbridge kept his opponent in hand. Always the strain of waiting, expecting, planning to meet the unknown foul, was uppermost in his mind, to the exclusion of almost everything else.

He knew in an intuitive sort of way that he was fighting well. That proved little, however. He was evidently the sort that could take any amount of punishment, and come up for more. What if he should not win, as he had determined in the beginning? What if Schaeffer should, by fair means or foul, manage to knock him out? It would not be like an ordinary knock-out—simply the end of a fairly fought contest to decide which of two men is the better scrapper. He would be helpless for a space, and in the power of this cur who had thus far stopped at nothing.

He had so far instinctively avoided clinches as being favorable to fouls, but now, with his mind for a second partially distracted, after delivering a left-hand jab he did not spring back as swiftly as he might have done. In an instant Bainbridge had wrenched it away, but not too soon to prevent that close contact which he felt to be so dangerous.

I knew it! Like a flash he leaped to one side, his whole mind intent on thwarting the intended trick, and so he fell for a move which would never ordinarily have bothered him. A clenched fist, hard and compact almost as a stone, thudded solidly on the very point of his jaw. Bainbridge went suddenly limp, slipping noiselessly to the ground. As Bob toppled forward and lay still, a long, deep, concerted sigh of released tension arose from the spectators, followed by a chorus of admiring commendation.

Get your man, is the principle one. The manner of getting does not count. Schaeffer made no reply to these comments; in fact, it is doubtful if he heard them. His face, torn and bleeding in many places, bore an expression of utter savagery. His cut lips were drawn back over sharp teeth in a bestial snarl. His fists were clenched tightly, and every muscle was tense as he stood glaring down with hate-filled, bloodshot eyes at the body of his fallen opponent.

You meddling dog! Thought you could lick me, did you? Thought you could put one over on me, you skunk! He took a single swift step toward the prostrate man. It was plain to every one that he meant to drive that heavy, spiked boot again and again at the helpless body, yet not one of the rivermen uttered a word of protest.

Schaeffer paused beside the prostrate figure for a second or two, as if to prolong his pleasurable anticipation. Then, with a sudden snarl of returning fury, he swiftly drew back one foot. The word which came snapping across the circle held in it so much of the essence of command that the riverman obeyed instinctively; obeyed, and then, realizing what he had done, foamed with a fresh fury. Why, you copper-colored whelp! When I get through with this junk here——.

He stopped abruptly, and drew his breath with a whistling sound. He halted within a few feet of Schaeffer, and stood regarding him with that cool, expressionless stare which was so characteristic. On the ground between them Bainbridge gave a low groan, and moved his head uneasily from side to side.

Fight not finish, remarked the Indian blandly, Bell go clang, like in ring. Get me, Steve? Better not, he advised coolly, without raising his eyes. Hit Pete in bread basket. Make plenty bad hole no cork up. The silence was swiftly broken by a loud guffaw from one of the spectators, to whom the whole affair seemed to appeal as something uncommonly amusing.

By thunder, boys! Not one of them thought for an instant that the contest could possibly be drawn out for more than a few minutes longer, or they would, perhaps, not have been so eager. And so when Bainbridge struggled back to consciousness—it had not been a complete knock-out, and he had never, save for the briefest second, been entirely senseless—he found this unexpected condition of affairs.

Moose placed a firm, restraining hand quietly on his chest, and forced him back. Bob was no more anxious for this delay than was his complaining antagonist, but he was forced by Moose to keep his place even to a point when the spectators began to grumble. Even now his legs were not quite steady; the dragging lassitude and weakness which had gripped him were not wholly gone.

It vanished an instant later before that rush of vim and vigor and fierce determination—strange as the second wind which surprises the distressed runner—that suddenly came over him. But when the riverman was almost on him, he side-stepped neatly, lashing out a stinging right which caught his antagonist on one cheek, and sent him spinning around.

That blow was the beginning of the end. Hitherto his work had been clever boxing, to be sure, but just a trifle lacking in that dynamic energy which animated his opponent. The sense of fight convention was so strongly ingrained that, without consciousness of so doing, he was playing according to the rules. Now, though he lost not a particle of his former skill, he used the defensive part of it less.

He did not parry or block or feint so much. His work became more simple, more elemental, and—more deadly. He was out for results now. The hot blood tingled through his veins and flamed into his brain. The crude brute lust for combat gripped him to the exclusion of all else. This man had hurt him cruelly, and humiliated him beyond words.

He meant to make him pay, and pay well, for both these injuries. The only difference now between himself and his opponent was that he continued to fight fairly, if ferociously, while Schaeffer did not. The latter found little opportunity of fouling, however.

To his amazement, he discovered that he needed every bit of skill and strength he possessed to keep his feet. Bob bored into him relentlessly, slugging like a pile driver, hammering at his stomach, raining well-directed blows on the heart and kidneys, or varying them now and then with a solid jolt to the jaw. At first Schaeffer met this extraordinary assault with blind confidence in his ability to wear it out, accompanied by a furious anger at the presumption of the man.

But swiftly this mental attitude changed to doubt, nervousness—at length to fear. It was all so pitilessly indomitable, so machinelike, yet not at all mechanical, that Schaeffer began to grow afraid. He had a yellow streak, of course—men of his stamp usually have—and now it began to come out.

His defense grew weaker and more flurried. Once, after a series of swift, smashing blows in the face, Schaeffer staggered back and dropped his guard involuntarily. Put up your hands, you cur! A second later, having obeyed ineffectually, Schaeffer was flung back into the astonished crowd by a jolt which nearly cracked his jaw. Let up on him! Bainbridge flung back a long lock of black hair with a quick jerk of his head, and glared around the circle with fiercely blazing eyes.

Is that so? You were ready enough to let him do what he liked with me, so keep out of this now while he takes his medicine. Scared, are you? I thought you were yellow down at the bottom. Put up your hands! His voice was hard and cold, and utterly pitiless. When the riverman raised his hands in a weak, instinctive attempt at defense, Bainbridge leaped forward and broke his guard by smashing blows on the face.

Schaeffer gasped, cried out in agony and then thrust forward blind, groping hands. He was a picture of utter helplessness, and suddenly the sight of him standing there, with quivering lips and trembling hands, aroused in Bainbridge a bitter disgust—disgust for Schaeffer, for himself, and every one in sight. He stepped back, his heavy black brows contracted in a frown, and stood for a second sizing up his man, and deciding just what sort of a punch would most quickly end the contest.

Like a flash he leaped forward. It doubled Schaeffer like a jackknife, and sent him whirling backward into the arms of his men, a limp, utterly senseless mass. Consciously Bob Bainbridge stepped back a pace or two, and rested one hand on the shoulder of Moose. He was breathing hard, and the reaction from the stress and strain of vigorous fighting made him feel limp and unsteady.

No hint of this appeared on the surface. With cold, unemotional eyes he watched three or four men pick up the unconscious Schaeffer and carry him back to the tent. Some of the men stood staring curiously, but the majority had gathered about a brawny youngster, handsome in a physical way, with bold blue eyes, a thatch of tawny yellow curls, and a reckless, dare-devil manner.

For a second he thought it simply the result of a rather good memory. Curiously, yet—impassively, he watched the latter approach. There was a devil-may-care impudence in the very swing of his lithe, muscular body. I mean real work, too, and not an imitation of kids playing. Thanks to a crooked drive boss the logs are hung up where no drive ever hung before. By cripes! He said not another word, but something blazed in his black eyes which presently sent the lids fluttering down over the blue ones, and brought a touch of dull scarlet flaming dully beneath the deeply tanned skin.

It was simply the force of a stronger nature, a nature untroubled by brag and bluster which imposes its will on others by sheer strength of character. The instant the silent duel had ended, Bob flung back his head and glanced again at the puzzled, waiting throng of men. He got his foot near cut off with an ax. This would be termed an accident, of course, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was simply another score to the credit of Schaeffer and the men who had bribed him to do his dirty work.

Well, get your stuff down to the jam in a hurry. How many charges have been fired already? With downcast eyes the riverman explained that dynamite had not yet been used. I might have guessed it, he said scornfully. Well, hustle along the canned thunder! The rest of you get ready to follow down the drive. The men obeyed without question, and in a moment were streaming toward the jam.

Because Schaeffer ordered it they had dawdled along fruitlessly for several days, knowing perfectly well that the jam was beyond any hope from picking, and that dynamite was the only thing which would stir it. Superficially they had enjoyed these days of loafing, but deep down in their hearts had lingered a feeling of personal shame that a gang of supposedly A-1 lumberjacks should be knowingly throwing away their time in this manner.

The youngster with the bold blue eyes and curly yellow hair went with the rest, but more slowly, perhaps, and biting his lip as he strode away. His face was flushed darkly ad his muscular hands tightly clenched at the thought of having allowed himself to be called down in this humiliating manner, without even a word of retort.

Even now he did not know why he had done it. The fact that the newcomer was Bob Bainbridge was not a thing entirely to influence his independent soul. There was something else—some quality in the man himself that had made him knuckle down as he had never done before. Puzzled, chagrined, scowling blackly, he slouched after his comrades, hands thrust deep in trousers pockets, and feet kicking at roots or hummocks—for all the world like a spoiled, sullen schoolboy.

He had thrust from his mind every thought save the immediate pressing need of starting the jam, and to this end he bent every effort. While Jerry Calker was making ready the dynamite cartridges, Bob went out on the great mass of logs piled up like a heap of gigantic jackstraws, and inspected it hastily but thoroughly. It was he who directed the placing of the first blast, and he who was the first to seek cover.

He it was who first rushed to the spot in the very midst of that shower of bark and splinters and wood chips raining down after the upheaval of timber had subsided. He saw the whole vast surface of the jam quiver and heave, and for a moment he hoped the shot had been successful. That hope proved groundless, however. The jam settled back into immovability again; they would have to try once more.

The second blast seemed at first to be no more effective than the other. Over the surface of the jam a curious, uneasy motion began to spread from one log to another. The crew, which had run lightly out to the very face, worked swiftly with their peavies, pulling, shoving, jerking the timbers this way and that. From his point of vantage Bainbridge watched their work with approval.

They were evidently far from being the incompetents that first sight of them might have led one to suppose. He noticed that the fellow with the curly yellow hair was particularly skillful, having apparently laid aside his grouch, and taken hold from sheer love of the work and delight in accomplishing something. Somehow Bob could not help following his movements for a minute or two, and presently, in spite of all that had gone before, his heart began to warm to the lithe, active, fearless youngster who seemed to have the knack of always being in the right place and doing the thing most needed at precisely the right moment.

But now the jam was actually in motion, crawling forward with many creaks and crackings. The men worked harder, accelerating its progress, and making sure that nothing went wrong. Suddenly the whole central part of the face fell forward into the stream with a tremendous crash, and there was a whirling, backward rush on the part of those who had been working on the very brink.

As they zigzagged to shore by devious routes, they raised the gladsome cry:. His eyes were fixed on the foam and spray and rolling, rushing timbers, on some of which, holding by their sharp spikes and balancing perfectly, rode the skilled rivermen who preferred this method to the more prosaic one of walking ashore. One of these was the blond youngster, and presently, reaching a point on the bend where he thought a man was needed to prevent fresh jamming, Bob beckoned him ashore.

He came—lightly from log to log, or temporarily rode nearer the bank by means of his peavey. His last easy spring brought him to land beside Bainbridge, where he stood at silent attention, his boldly handsome face beginning to show anew the look of sullen embarrassment it had momentarily lost. Keep a lookout here for while, Bob said briefly. The young giant dropped his lids, and his muscular fingers interlocked tightly around the stout ash pole of the peavey. The frown deepened and there was silence for a moment.

Bill Kollock, the trouble man of Elihu Crane and his associates in the Lumber Trust, was not a character to commend himself to Bainbridge. The brother was more than likely to be of the same breed, he reflected as he stared with hard, narrowing eyes at the flushed, defiant face of the boy before him. And yet——.

Kollock shrugged his shoulders with an exaggerated nonchalance and ease which defeated its purpose. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode on along the river bank, leaving young Curly to stare after him, his face flushed, and a curious, unwonted expression in his blue eyes. As soon as the drive was actually started on its way downstream, Bob made haste to bring some sort of order out of the chaos he had found.

Having watched the men at work, he was able to get some slight idea of their capabilities, which was vitally necessary in dividing them into the rear and the jam crew. The latter, in charge of a hastily appointed foreman, went forward to take charge of the head of the drive.

The work of the rear comprised setting stranded logs afloat, breaking up incipient jams, and other duties too numerous to mention. The men composing the squad were always the most skillful and experienced in the gang. They had to be continually on the alert, working usually at high tension, and more than half the time in icy water to their waists.

They had to be able to ride anything in the shape of a log in any sort of water, and work day after day for twelve and fourteen hours at a stretch. They must be swift as lightning in their movements, and possessed of judgment, ability, and nerve.

It was impossible, of course, for Bob to pick out an ideal rear crew from merely having seen the men in action for a scant few minutes. He did not try. He simply used his very excellent judgment, reserving mentally the right to change his mind whenever he felt like it, and juggle the men around as he chose.

The principal necessity was to start things moving. When he had done so, Bainbridge returned to camp with the twofold object of giving the cook his orders, and having a final settlement with Schaeffer. The latter was not particularly pleasant, but it was important. The man must quit the crew at once. Bob had made up his mind not to let the fellow spend even the night where he would have a chance to talk with and perhaps influence the others.

With this determination uppermost, he passed by the mess tent to the other where the men slept, pulled aside the flap, and stepped inside. Evidently Schaeffer had recovered and vamoosed. Thoughtfully he sought the cook, and put the question. Bob frowned for a second, and then shrugged his shoulders. After all, what did it matter where the fellow had gone, so long as he had taken himself away?

It was very natural for him to avoid the man who had so humiliated him, though it was rather puzzling to have him slip away without apparently encountering any one. Bob proceeded to give his orders to the cook, explaining that he would have to pull up stakes at once and start down the river.

Outside the mess tent he hesitated an instant. Then he entered the other tent. This time he did not pause by the door, but crossed hastily to the farther corner, where there was a small space crudely partitioned off from the main portion. The place was in the utmost disorder. Blankets were rolled up in a ball and flung into the corner. Articles of wearing apparel were scattered about, while over everything were sifted scraps of white paper in seemingly endless quantity.

He seemed to know intuitively, without the evidence of the limp, empty book covers here and there, that the foreman had taken time to tear into shreds every record and paper connected with the drive which he possessed.

There would be no accurate way now by which the firm could figure their profits or costs or labor charges. The very paying of the drive crew would be a matter of guesswork. He stared at the wreck for a minute longer, and then turned over with his foot the square, wooden box which lay upset in the middle of the mess.

Apparently it had served Schaeffer as a receptacle for these same records. Thirty-eight caliber, he murmured, staring at the freshly opened pasteboard box which had contained fifty cartridges. Presently he let it drop again. He did not move for a space, but stood staring at the ground with that same odd, thoughtful pucker in his forehead.

That was not the point. It was simply the train of thought aroused which struck Bainbridge unpleasantly. He felt Schaeffer to be capable of almost any villainy provided it could be accomplished with safety to himself. The humiliation of that fight, too, had added a powerful incentive to the one already offered by Crane and the Lumber Trust for the eclipse of Bob Bainbridge.

And a total eclipse would be so easy! Just a single shot fired from the bushes at a moment when there was no one else about to see or hear. In this wild country the chances of escaping were infinite. The man might not even be suspected.

Bob suddenly moved his shoulders impatiently, frowned, and turned away. A moment later his eyes twinkled mirthfully. Patience is his middle name—patience and picture puzzles. He knew that they were far from being out of the woods yet, but a good beginning always means a lot, and he had no word to say against this start-off. Presently the various driving crews appeared, wet to the skin from the waist down, and ravenously hungry.

There was little conversation—they were too busy for that; but Bainbridge noticed with satisfaction that a certain element of good-tempered raillery seemed to prevail. Evidently the crowd as a whole bore no grudge against the man who had given them such a tongue-lashing that morning.

In fact, if one could judge from their manner toward their boss, they thought a lot more of him for having done so. Next day all hands did even better, and nightfall found them at the inlet of Loon Lake, with the drive before them. Bob could not understand it. All day he had been expecting some disagreeable happening of a nature to retard their progress which could be laid at the door of the trust.

When it did not come he was almost disappointed. It was impossible to believe that Crane had given up so easily; he was not that sort. He would explode a bombshell of some sort soon, and the longer he delayed the more deadly was likely to be the nature of his attack.

However, there was nothing to be gained in discounting the future, nor time to spare for fretting over the unknown. Bob was far too busy during the daylight hours even to think of Crane or his satellites. It was a ticklish job to get the drive across even so small a body of water as the so-called lake, and it took one entire day and the better part of another.

It was done without mishap, however, and Bainbridge was just congratulating himself on having got safely over one of the most disagreeable bits of the entire distance when Jerry Calker approached him as he stood watching the last few logs bob slowly out of the lake into the swifter current of the stream. Jack wants to know can you spare him a few minutes, sir, he explained.

What kind of trouble? Calker scratched his head slowly. A mill! Calker grinned. Thought it looked kinda new. Bainbridge frowned, but asked no further questions. He scarcely spoke, in fact, during all of the four miles, but it was evident to his observing companion that he was doing a lot of thinking.

Long before reaching the point of obstruction it became evident that another jam had formed. The current grew more and more sluggish, and the progress of the logs downstream became slower and slower, until at length the entire surface of the water was covered with floating timber. These in turn crowded upon one another with a rapidity which threatened to equal that first jam unless something was swiftly done. Hurrying on, Bob presently caught up with a throng of his own men, who had apparently just landed from the dangerous, constantly shifting surface of the river.

They looked at him with a frank curiosity, as if wondering what he meant to do in this emergency. On the faces of a few were expressions of grim, anticipatory amusement, but Bainbridge heeded these no more than he had the others. Without pausing even glancing to right or left, he strode on, and reached the scene of action.

On the same bank, a little way back from the water, stood a small building, so hastily thrown together that the roof was not yet completed. All this Bob took in without slackening his pace. Reaching the outer edge of the circle, he pushed through to where Jack Peters, his jam boss, stood facing a compact group of six or eight strangers, gathered closely about the end of the boom, Jack was florid with rage, and choking with impotent fury.

The strangers composing the little group instantly struck Bob as being singularly strong and rugged. They looked as if they had been picked for their physical efficiency. Each one was armed with rifle or pistol, while their leader, a competent-looking person with red hair and whiskers, held in one hand a snub-nosed, businesslike automatic.

I got a right to run my booms out in the river same as anybody else. Who be I? His unruffled composure served, as he hoped it might, to increase the rage of Mr. I dare say you could give us all points, Bainbridge murmured smoothly, with just the right inflection of sarcasm to sting.

Not only did he refuse to let go his grip, but he did his very best to goad Joyce himself into flaming out, and possibly betraying a few secrets. Never you mind that, retorted Joyce hotly. You even refuse to let us swing the boom around so we can break our jam? He raised his automatic significantly, but Bob was not even looking at him. Still without giving Joyce the satisfaction of a glance, he turned away, motioning Peters to accompany him.

A put-up job, of course, he said tersely, when they were through the circle of his own men. Same gang who bought Schaeffer. The jam boss nodded in a troubled way. Not at all, retorted Bob swiftly. Do nothing of the kind. At the sound of his imperative undertone Calker hustled up. There was a brief interchange of words between the trio, during which the faces of both lumberjacks brightened—amazingly. Then all three disappeared into the bushes a little way upstream, from which they did not emerge for a considerable time.

When they finally appeared, Bainbridge held by his side a shapeless package of considerable size. Had not Peters and Calker walked so close beside him as he bent his way leisurely toward the crowd about the jam, it would probably have been noticed that this package was made up of a dozen or more sticks of giant powder fastened securely together, and depending from a sling of stout manila rope. The line of rivermen had turned, and were watching his approach with interested curiosity, but Joyce and his gang could see nothing.

Reaching the men, Bob paused, struck a match, and carefully lighted the end of a protruding fuse. As it sputtered up he gave a short, sharp word of command, the line of men opened instantly to let him through, and a second later he stood not a dozen paces from Joyce, deliberately swinging the deadly package round and round his head. He broke off with a gurgling sound, and the color left his face. With a final swing, Bob loosened his hold on the bundle, which curved in a perfect arc over the rear of the jam, over the jagged crest, and dropped swiftly out of sight amid the massive timbers upended in confusion along the face and close to the spot where protruded the freshly driven spiles which had caused all the trouble.

Up spurted a great mass of water, carrying with it massive logs leaping like agonized things alive. From his place behind a stump Bainbridge rose swiftly, shielding his face with one crooked arm from the rain of chips and splinters and bits of bark, and stared eagerly toward the jam. It took but a moment to see that the spiles had disappeared, and the boom was shattered. Moreover, the key logs of the jam were so loosened that the whole drive was again on its way downstream.

Bob turned to Peters with a gesture of satisfaction. Get a wiggle on, now, and rush her along. He stopped abruptly, and whirled around as a voice, shrill and trembling with passion, was raised behind him. Things happened so swiftly after that that even the men standing around were quite unable to understand exactly what was doing, and which of the two was really the one who started the trouble.

The instant Bob turned he saw that Joyce was either beside himself with rage, or giving a most astonishingly good imitation of that condition. His face was purple, with veins standing out on his forehead like cords. His eyes glared with that combination of rage and hate which a badly frightened man almost invariably feels for the cause of his mental disturbance.

The automatic was leveled in his hand, and one finger trembled on the trigger. For a single instant Bainbridge stood rigid, every muscle suddenly tensing. At all events, suddenly, and without warning, he launched his lithe body through the air exactly as in the manner of the old forbidden flying tackle. There was a yell of fury, followed by a crash. Then almost oppressive silence. He did not have to speak twice. There was something in his voice, coupled with an emphatic gesture with the automatic, which made those six men, big and powerful as they were, obey him with remarkable unanimity.

Peters stepped forward to obey. The first man drew back instinctively, and started to pull down the hand which held a revolver. There was no more trouble after that, Peters collected four revolvers and two Remingtons. Then he glanced questioningly at Bainbridge.

The riverman walked a few steps toward the bank; then, pausing, he glanced back at the straight young figure standing behind him. He watched his man fling the weapons, one after another, into the stream, and then, sending the automatic splashing after the others, he turned suddenly back to the six humiliated individuals before him.

Here, take that scum with you. He waited, staring from under lowered lids, until the gang had disappeared in the bushes, half dragging, half carrying their stunned leader with them. Then, with a long sigh, he turned slowly and smiled at Peters. All right, Jack, he said quietly.

Just hustle all you can to make up for this delay. Peters grinned, and snapped out some orders to the men which sent them flying along the bank and even out on the stream over the tumbling logs. But as they went they cast glances of open, unadulterated admiration at the young man coolly brushing a bit of mud from one shoulder, and their comments to each other left no trace of doubt of their thorough approval of everything he had said and done.

Bob heard some of them, and when the men had gone on he smiled a bit. To get that drive down successfully he knew he must have the men with him. He knew also that deliberate planning could not have accomplished that result half so well as this encounter with the tools of the Lumber Trust. The whole affair had proved a great piece of luck for him, thought the young lumberman.

His meditation was broken in upon by the sound of a strange voice. A moment later Bainbridge was looking into a pair of pleasant, friendly eyes set in the handsome face of a man of about fifty. He was roughly dressed in well-worn, but finely made fishing clothes, and carried a good trout rod in one hand. There was, too, about the stranger an air of forceful capability which attracted the younger man.

The stranger smiled, and made a comprehensive gesture with his hands. And this is your idea of incident, he murmured whimsically. I should call it something decidedly stronger. Do you mind if I walk along with you?

Bainbridge acquiesced readily. There was something very taking about the stranger, and within ten minutes he found himself chatting as if to an old friend. The name was only vaguely familiar, but Bob felt sure from his manner that he was a man of affairs. He was tremendously interested in hearing all about the peculiar conditions of this particular drive, and before Bainbridge realized it he had given a brief narrative of his fight with the Lumber Trust and the events which had grown out of it.

You interest me extraordinarily, Mr. Bainbridge, the older man said, in his crisp, decisive way, when at last they paused at the point several miles below the scene of the last jam, where Sears had to branch off to reach his camp.

Bob shrugged his shoulders and smiled a little. You sadly underestimate the power of the trust, Mr. In spite of everything I think I should bet on you. Bainbridge, and I surely hope so. It has been a great pleasure to meet you, and I trust one to be repeated. I shall be hereabouts for some time yet, and may run across you before I leave. Bob warmly reciprocated his feeling, and, after a hearty handshake, turned south along the river, while Sears disappeared in the undergrowth to the westward.

Fine man, commented the younger man aloud. Hope I do run into him again. That would be one awful blow! It was one that was spared him. Within half an hour the clumsy scow hove in sight. It tied up to the bank a little later, and before dark preparations for supper were going on merrily. Bob did not get in till later. Assured that all was well with the cook and his staff, he went on downstream to see how Peters and his gang were progressing.

On his return he discovered a stranger warming himself by the drying fire. He looked like an old-time woodsman, and the instant Bainbridge appeared he was on his feet, extracting an envelope from the interior of his hat. The young lumberman ripped it open without a premonition of the blow in store for him. It was natural for Tweedy to write. He would be reporting his success in the matter of credit, of course, and probably gloating over the amount of manufactured lumber he had sold in so short a time.

Bainbridge noted that it had been written in the Bangor office the night before. Then, settling himself by the fire, he proceeded to read:. If I cut to meet them they go lower. You can see that. Let me hear from you at once. Yours ever, John Tweedy. His face was blank, and just a little white, for the blow had been a heavy one, and totally unexpected. He could not seem to understand it.

It was unbelievable that he and Tweedy, who had been fair and square in every one of their business dealings, could be forced to the wall by such a monster of corruption as Elihu Crane. There must be some mistake. Tweedy must have been thrown into one of his unjustifiable panics. That was it, of course. He perused it to the last word, and then leaned back against the sapling, his face drawn and somber.

It really did not sound like a mistake. It was all clear and logical, and singularly cohesive. It was the sort of thing Crane would delight in planning and putting into execution—the cutting of prices on a competitor. That was quite true. They would ruin him, no matter how great the cost, because he was dangerous to their continued well-being. With Bainbridge in the ring, and fighting vigorously against the graft and wholesale theft of timberlands, those juicy melon cuttings which had been so pleasing to the stockholders would cease—therefore Bainbridge must go.

For a second Bob stared, the blood rushing into his face, a crimson flood. Make terms with Crane? Go on his knees to that scoundrel, who had long ago parted with the last shred of decency and self-respect? Not much! They must have resources enough to meet that note, at least. The trust could not keep the price of lumber down indefinitely.

They must weather the storm in some way. And when this drive was safe at the mills, ready to be cut into lumber, they would have the laugh on Elihu Crane. Oblivious to the men about him, even to the fact that the cook had some time ago announced supper, Bainbridge began to search his mind for means of staving off the evil day.

Most of the stocks and bonds constituting his private fortune had been already pledged as collateral for loans to the firm. It should not be difficult to raise a mortgage of ten thousand, at least, on the place. The money from the stock can go for current expenses. He did. Fortunately Tweedy held his power of attorney with the right to sign checks and execute papers of any sort, so it was possible for him to put through these deals without his returning to Bangor.

That another note for nearly as much as the first fell due in little more than a fortnight Bainbridge knew quite well. By that time, however, he fully intended to have the drive down as far as their mill at Lancaster, fifty miles or so above Bangor.

And it is always possible to raise money on timber, even in the rough. He could not believe, however, that they would do such a thing for any great length of time. A dollar meant as much to them as to any one, and even the pleasure of ruining a competitor would scarcely compensate for the loss of so much money. A long letter of instruction and explanation was written to Tweedy that night, and despatched the first thing in the morning by the trusty hand of Joe Moose, the Indian.

That off his mind, Bob returned to his drive with renewed vigor, for the necessity for haste was now even greater than before. It was a question of getting the logs down in double-quick time or being dragged into the bankruptcy court; and that sort of notoriety did not appeal in the least to the young man.

It was this feeling of necessity which got Bob up next morning before the blackness of the night was more than faintly tinged by streaks of pale gray in the east. He wanted to be off and doing; even necessary inaction chafed. All morning Bob worked like a Trojan getting the drive out into the Katahdin River. He did not storm and swear at his men, as many bosses do. Instead he had a way of jollying them along in a manner which might sound superficially like fun, but which held more than an undercurrent of seriousness.

He treated them as human beings, not as if they were slaves from whom every last atom of work was to be extracted. The result was that the crew soon admired him, and when they found how urgent was the need for haste they fell to with a will, and gave the best that was in them. Bainbridge was not long in perceiving their attitude, and it gratified him intensely. He had never actually had charge of a drive before. He knew the theory, of course, but that is very different from the practical operation; and the discovery that he could handle a rough-and-ready crowd like this in a manner so totally different from that generally practiced by bosses of crews gave him no small satisfaction.

There was no real respite even then. The stream was almost as difficult as the Megantic, and constant watchfulness was necessary to prevent fresh jams at a number of points. Consequently the men snatched a hurried dinner in relays and hustled back to work again. It was about three, and Bob had just left the spot where only the most strenuous personal labor on the part of himself and four river jacks had kept the drive from jamming. He was hot and sweaty, and generally weary as he continued his way downstream, and his wrath was naturally instant when, on suddenly rounding a bend, he came upon Curly Kollock, cool, calm, and unruffled, sitting comfortably on a rock, enjoying a cigarette.

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Not much. Yet teams will end up paying, in terms of both players and dollars, as much as four or five times more to get that first player relative to the fourth player. Yet this pattern persists year after year. Is having the top pick in the NFL draft such a stroke of good fortune? Heads, you win a dime; tails, you lose a quarter. Massey and Thaler go so far as to contend that once you factor in salary, the first pick in the entire draft is worth less than the first pick in the second round.

Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyzed reviews to verify trustworthiness.

Enhance your purchase. Jon Wertheim to overturn some of the most cherished truisms of sports, and reveal the hidden forces that shape how basketball, baseball, football, and hockey games are played, won and lost. Drawing from Moskowitz's original research, as well as studies from fellow economists such as bestselling author Richard Thaler, the authors look at: the influence home-field advantage has on the outcomes of games in all sports and why it exists; the surprising truth about the universally accepted axiom that defense wins championships; the subtle biases that umpires exhibit in calling balls and strikes in key situations; the unintended consequences of referees' tendencies in every sport to "swallow the whistle," and more.

In an engaging narrative that takes us from the putting greens of Augusta to the grid iron of a small parochial high school in Arkansas, Scorecasting will forever change how you view the game, whatever your favorite sport might be. Previous page. Print length. Three Rivers Press. Publication date. January 17, See all details. Next page. Frequently bought together. Total price:. To see our price, add these items to your cart.

Choose items to buy together. In Stock. Customers who viewed this item also viewed. Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. Wayne L. Michael Lewis. The Logic Of Sports Betting. Ed Miller. Jon Wertheim. Statistical Sports Models in Excel. Andrew Mack. Review "The closest thing to Freakonomics I've seen since the original.

A rare combination of terrific storytelling and unconventional thinking. I love this book Levitt , Alvin H. If I told you why, the NBA would fine me again. It gets beyond the cliched narratives and tried-but-not-necessarily-true assumptions to reveal significant and fascinating truths about sports. With their lively minds and prose, Moskowitz and Wertheim will change the way you think about and watch sports. Not just for stats nerds, Scorecasting enlightens and entertains.

I wish I had thought of it! A must read for all couch analysts. He is the winner of the Fischer Black Prize, which honors the top finance scholar in the world under the age of For more information go to scorecasting. All rights reserved. Read more.

Start reading Scorecasting on your Kindle in under a minute. Don't have a Kindle? Amazon Explore Browse now. About the authors Follow authors to get new release updates, plus improved recommendations. Brief content visible, double tap to read full content.

Full content visible, double tap to read brief content. See more on the author's page. Tobias J. Customer reviews. How customer reviews and ratings work Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them. Learn more how customers reviews work on Amazon. Top reviews Most recent Top reviews. Top reviews from the United States.

There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Verified Purchase. Despite the non-sequential manner of chapters, the statistics given were not too overwhelming. Perhaps another reason for this is due to the fact that this book was published within the last five years and the examples used were up-to-date and still relevant in the world of sports.

For example, it was shown that home team advantage certainly does exist, as most sports fans would conclude as well. Different reasons as to why this is probable were analyzed. These included whether it was due to the home crowd, the rigor of travel for away teams, the gentler schedule for home teams, or the unique home characteristics including referees. At least one hundred diverse percentages were given to prove which factor prevailed. One of the remarkable aspects of this book included the way the authors answered a collective amount of underlying sports questions or myths.

The authors did a fantastic job at providing multiple statistical analyses with each myth and often multiple sports. While some chapters did seem rather lengthy and the main points were constantly being drilled in, the next advanced to introduce a brand new topic to consider. The charts and tables also provided good breaking points to stop and look at the data in a simpler way.

However, some of the graphical depictions could have been organized in a better or clear way. It took some time to analyze what exactly the graph or table was trying to portray. In the end, I can certainly say this book changed the way I think about sports.

Particularly, the way referees and industries are viewed. I would recommend this book to any sports fan out there. It would be a tough read if you are not familiar with the rules of football, baseball, or basketball, but no statistical background is necessary. It would also be a good read for anyone interested in how to think critically and analyze deeper into statistical data. Overall, the authors provided a great and entertaining read for the way overarching sports illusions were unfolded!

Scorecasting analyzes various sports-related problems and conventional wisdoms. Using ultra-basic statistics, the authors analyze problems and coaching conclusions in various sports. Some of the exceptional topics included: Why is there a home field advantage in all sports? Are NFL teams properly valuing draft picks? I thought this was the best written chapter in the book Rounding First why. It is written at a basic level; even someone with no math background at all can quickly absorb this.

I have only one real criticism of the book. In virtually every article, there is not enough explanation of the numbers, statistics and methodology. Only conclusions are given. Time and time again, I ask myself "what was the sample size? For example, when the authors are analyzing the home field advantage, they include playoff games, but compensate for the home team being the better team when analyzing win rates. Yet Johnnie Cochran, Jr.

At the time, Cochran and Mehri had been working on a case targeting what they saw as biased hiring practices at Coca-Cola. In the course of the Coke case, they had crossed paths with Janice Madden , a sociologist at the University of Pennsylvania specializing in labor economics. Madden was in Atlanta, also working on the same case, using a statistical model to prove that women were not, as the company alleged, inferior salespeople.

Although Madden shared a surname with the former NFL coach , popular NFL announcer and video game impresario, the football similarities ended there. She was not much of a fan. Her husband was a Philadelphia Eagles season ticket-holder, but she preferred to spend her Sundays at home. Still, she made Cochran and Mehri an offer:? Madden found that, between and , the African-American coaches in the NFL were statistically far more successful than the white coaches, averaging nine-plus wins a season, versus eight for their white counterparts.

Sixty-nine percent of the time, the black coaches took their teams to the playoffs, versus only 39 percent for the others.? In their first season on the job, black coaches took their teams to the postseason 71 percent of the time; rookie white coaches did so just 23 percent of the time. Clearly, black coaches had to be exceptional to win a job in the first place. Perhaps, one could argue, black coaches ended up being offered jobs by the better teams, i.

Madden reran her study, controlling for team quality. Still, African-American coaches clearly outperformed their colleagues. Given that the win-loss records of African-American coaches were substantially better, it suggested that the bar was being set much higher for them. When Madden went public with her findings, she was blind-sided by the criticism. Still, due in no small part to the work of a female sociologist whose football knowledge was admittedly modest, the NFL changed its ways.

In , the league implemented the so-called Rooney Rule, named for Dan Rooney , the progressive Steelers owner who chaired the committee looking into the issue. The rule decreed that teams interview at least one minority applicant to fill coaching vacancies. Otherwise, the franchise would face a stiff fine.

The league achieved its aim. And how has this new brigade of black coaches done?? Worse than their predecessors. Much worse, in fact.

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