The cookee continued his occupations.
"I suppose the men got out to the marsh on time," suggested Dyer, still easily.
The cook laid aside his paper and looked the scaler in the eye.
"You're the foreman; I'm the cook," said he.

"You ought to know." The cookee had paused, the paste brush in his hand.
Dyer was no weakling.

The problem presenting, he rose to the emergency.
Without another word he pushed back his coffee cup and crossed the narrow open passage to the men's camp When he opened the door a silence fell.

He could see dimly that the room was full of lounging and smoking lumbermen.

As a matter of fact, not a man had stirred out that morning.