“Scannell wants fifteen feats,” he said. “That stick’ll cut two—and that.”
He scored the mark and passed, swearing at the wide-branched tops. For these shouted of second-class timber from each ruddy knot.
Lou swung his team where the great white chips flew, and the blue flame lit his eyes as Tod and Mair sprang back with the cross-cut. For the tree stood one tense second, then leapt on its stump; roaring headlong through the lighter timber, and bringing Steve to earth with a stray branch.
Steve picked himself up, wiped the blood from his neck with his sleeve, and backed his team to the stick Cox had marked.
“I’ll come back fur the chap as floored me when it’s ready,” he said. “What made yer fell the sloven end that a-way, Tod, yer animal?”
Tod lent his weight to the grip where Steve struggled with it.
“Begad; I cudn’t git the thing to turn a somersault, at all, at all,” he declared. “Maybe it’s easier drawin’ from the little ind, boy, dear.”
“Yer a fool,” proclaimed Pug, lifting the iron grip as he would have lifted a pair of scissors, and casting it into place. “Git a move on wi’ them brutes there.”
The chains shrieked as the strain fell on them; the grip bit and held in the bleeding
