The men welcomed him with eager nods and smiles, many coming forward to shake his hand in silent respect. The big plant was now going at full blast. Belts flapped, logs thudded, planers snored loudly, and the great saw ripped shrilly through the big logs in a raising crescendo of sound.
Down at the siding an engine bumped noisily into a long string of flat-cars piled high with lumber. With arms akimbo, his wet undershirt clinging to his powerful torso, the mop of blond hair hanging damp on his brow, Gillis stood surveying the heavily-laden cars with an air of complacency. The lumber handlers sat about in positions of weariness, mopping their hot faces.
Gillis smiled cheerfully as Donald approached.
“Last load for the big steamer,” replied Gillis, as he pointed at the moving train.
“We’re on time, then,” cried Donald gladly.
The engineer came to the cab window as the engine passed, and pantomimed his congratulations by shaking hands with himself. The train gathered speed, and as the caboose rattled by, the conductor came to the rear platform.
They stood watching the train until it struck the down grade and disappeared through the cut.
“Well, that’s over,” observed Gillis, as he sat down heavily and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked tired and worn, but the light of victory shone in his eyes.
“If it hadn’t been for you, Jack,” said Donald earnestly, “we would not have got that order away on time. You look all in; you’d better have a good sleep.”
The big man’s eyes brightened at Donald’s praise.
“You don’t look like you’d bin to a Sunday-school picnic,” replied Gillis with a chuckle.
As Donald walked up the hill the whistle blew for the noon-hour, and the men trooped past on their way to the dining-room. Blackie left the ranks and walked shamefacedly to Donald’s side.
“I’m sorry for the part I took in the strike, boss, I——”
“It’s all right, Blackie,” interrupted Donald, “you more than made up for it. We’ll forget all about that.”
Blackie’s face wore a relieved look as Donald gave his hand a friendly grip.
Meals in logging camps are eaten in silence and with a fixity of purpose. It is a business to be finished with as hurriedly as possible. From the time the men are seated until the chairs are pushed back, the clatter of dishes and an occasional “pass the butter” are the only sounds.