His hundreds and hundreds
of rivermen already trod the sawdust-padded streets of the newer
Morrison that had sprung into being beyond the bend; they swarmed in on
the drives, a hard-faced, hard-shouldered horde, picturesque,
proficient and profane. They brought with them color and care-free
prodigality and a capacity for abandonment to pleasure that ran the
whole gamut of emotions, from raucous-roared chanties to sudden, swift
encounters which were as silent as they were deadly. And they spent
their money without stopping to count it.
The younger generation of the older Morrison was quick to point out the
virtues of this vice. And after a time, when the older generation
found that the rivermen preferred their own section of the town,
ignoring as though they had never existed the staid and sleepy
residential streets above, they heaved a sigh of partial relief and
tried to forget their proximity.
Little more than a year had been required for that transformation. The
boards of some of the newer shacks down river were still damp with
pitch. And twice during that period Dexter Allison had come into the
hills to take up a transitory abode in the stucco house which had been
quite six months in the building:--once, two years before, when he had
disappeared into the mountains upon a prolonged fishing trip, to return
fishless but with an astonishing mass of pencilled data and contour
maps; and the second time for an even longer stay, a year ago when the
mill was being erected.
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