The river-driver chose to spend his idle hours in crude, rough
sprightliness; the salmon-fisher loved to lie upon the shore and listen
to the village story-teller,--almost official when successful,--who
played upon the credulity and imagination of his listeners. The
river-driver loved excitement for its own sake, and behind his
boisterousness there was little evil. When the salmon-fisher was roused,
his anger became desperately serious. It was not his practice to be
boisterous for the sake of boisterousness.
All this worked for a crisis.
From Sunburst I went over to Viking, and for a time watched a handful of
river-drivers upon a little island in the centre of the river, working to
loosen some logs and timber and foist them into the water, to be driven
down to the mill. I stood interested, because I had nothing to do of any
moment for a couple of hours. I asked an Indian on the bank to take his
canoe and paddle me over to the island. He did so. I do not know why I
did not go alone; but the Indian was near me, his canoe was at his hand,
and I did the thing almost mechanically. I landed on the island and
watched with great interest the men as they pried, twisted and tumbled
the pile to get at the key-log which, found and loosened, would send the
heap into the water.
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