14 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
“‘T could,’ he laughed. ‘‘I ought to be able to! 
I’ve worked at it most all my life. But,’’ he added 
blandly, ignoring the question in our eyes, ‘‘I’d 
rather earn my living as I do... . Let’s have 
another, what do you say?”’ 
Frazer shrugged his shoulders. As we lined up 
at the bar he said, casually, ‘‘We move to-morrow, 
you know, Ewing!’’ 
“Yes, know. I’ll be on deck allright. I’ve got 
to play for the dance to-night; the boys expect it. 
But I’ll be on the job in the morning. Better come 
on over this evening,’’ he added, as we turned away, 
‘‘you and the rest. You might see some fun.’’ 
None of us, however, accepted the suggestion. 
We decided to enjoy instead a last sleep ‘‘between 
sheets.’’ But we heard until late the shuffle and 
stamp of feet, the shrill laughter of women, the 
deeper, louder voices of the men, and through the 
confused medley of sounds the singing of Ewing’s 
magic violin, sweet, insistent, weaving its living 
melody, making articulate in many tones the deter- 
mined, fleeting joy of the dancers. 
