seemed the chatter of the foreman's wife that came to us in a torturing staccato from the fancy two-room shack in which they lived, somewhat apart from the rest of us. We could hear her sharp voice laughing at something her husband had said or done. She was always that way, talking and laughing. Just now she was telling her man what a fool he was for staying in the bush. Other men could make a living in town; why couldn't he? I heard her ask him that. We moved restlessly in our bunks and on the deacon-seats. All of us felt sorry for the foreman.
The wind rose and fell in short gusts. Not a crow could be heard from their favorite place near the pigpen. No fox barked in the timber. The half-blind old camp dog, usually sleeping his feeble days away on the steps of the filer's shack, was uneasy. Tonight he limped up and down ... up and down . . . and sniffing.
About half-past seven it happened. A short wail from the woods, turning in a flash from a wail to a long piercing scream that chilled the spine and made the hair stand. It was the yarder's whistle, held down by the watchman. Never was fire-siren like the uncanny shriek of a donkey-engine breaking through a silent forest night. . . . And it shook us to life.
A rush for the flat-cars lined up on the side-track in camp — everyone is ready—the locomotive sounds a warning blast — the donkey's screech is still cutting through our heads — hearts and ear-drums are pounding —the foreman gives the "highball"; we're off to the bush.
