wood, and the bullocks grunted with fore-bent shoulders as the great bole drew slowly from its port.
The logging-way was a cross between a skittle-alley and the ’tween-deck promenade of an ocean tramp. It was moist and chill as the grave, and very nearly as dark. Steve wound into it, where the dank smells and the utter silence gave him creeps up his spine, and the jar of the log on the iron earth and the creak of the twisting yokes sounded hideously loud and unfamiliar. Veil on veil of wide wet spider webs broke before the slow horns, and underfoot the young springs gave up their lives in splintered glass. Far above, where the sun was, a handful of moko-mokos made their prayer to God. Then behind, from mouth of the track, Lou’s whistle soared up to catch the falling notes: but to neither man was there aught of hymn in it. The tune broke to words that stung Steve with their rollicking derision.
Because she says so———”
Came a sudden clatter, hurried oaths, the curse of the whip; once and thrice. Then a full-lunged shout of command:
“Steve! Make way there! Make out! They’ve bolted!”
Steve stood. And there was all of the devil in his face. When that bolting team crashed
