One February afternoon a tremendous snow-storm was raging about the camp on the Upper Keswick.  The air was so thick with driving flakes that one could scarcely see five feet ahead of him.  It fell dark in the woods by the middle of the afternoon, and the chopping and the hauling came to an end.  Lamps were soon lighted in camp, and the lumbermen, in their steaming homespuns, gathered about the roaring stove to sing, smoke, swap yarns and munch gingerbread.  The wind screamed round the gables of the camp, rattled at the door and windows, and roared among the tree-tops like the breaking of great waves on an angry coast.  From the stables close by came ever and anon the neighing of a nervous horse.

Andy Mitchell had been detailing with tireless minuteness the virtues of his magnificent team of stallions, Tom and Jerry, and had described (as was his wont on all possible occasions) the manner in which they had once saved his life when he was attacked by a tremendous Indian Devil.  This Indian Devil (as the Northern Panther is called in Canada) had been literally pounded to pieces under the hoofs of the angry stallions.  As Mitchell concluded, there came a voice from the other side of the stove, and a tall Woodstocker spoke up.  This was a chopper very popular in the camp, and known by the name of Jabe.  His real name, seldom used except on Sundays, was Jabez Ephraim Batterpole.

“I’ll tell yez a leetle yarn, boys,” said Jabe, “about a chap ez warn’t egzackly an Injun Devil, but he was half Injun, an’ I’m a-thinkin t’ other half must ‘a’ been a devil.  I run agin him las’ June, three year gone, an’ he come blame near a-doin’ fur me.  I haint sot eyes on him sence, fur which the same I ain’t a-goin’ to complain.

“I’d been up to the Falls, an’ was a-takin’ a raft down the river fur Gibson.  Sandy Beale was along o’ me, an’ I dunno ez ever I enjoyed raftin’ more ‘n on the first o’ thet trip.  Doubtless yez all knows what purty raftin’ it is in them parts.  By gum, it kinder makes a chap lick his lips when he rickolecks it, a-slidin’ along there in the sun, not too hot an’ not too cold, a-smokin’ very comfortable, with one’s back braced agin a saft spruce log, an’ smellin’ the leetle catspaws what comes blowin’ off the shores jest ez sweet an’ saft ez a gal’s currls a-brushin’ of a feller’s face.”

“What gal’s currls be you referrin’ to Jabe?” interrupted Andy Mitchell.

“Suthin’ finer ’n horse-hair, anyways!” was the prompt retort; and a laugh went round the camp at Andy’s expense.  Then Batterpole continued: ­

“When we come to Hardscrabble it was sundown, so we tied up the raft an’ teetered up the hill to Old Man Peters’s fur the night.  Yez all knows Old Man Peters’s gal Nellie, ez there ain’t no tidier an honester slip on the hull river.  Nellie was purty glad to see Sandy an’ me, ef I does say it that shouldn’t; an’ she chinned with us so ez she didn’t hev no time to talk to some other chaps ez was puttin’ up there that night.  An’ this, ez I mighty soon ketched onter, didn’t seem nohow to suit one of the fellers.  He was a likely-lookin’ chap enough, but very dark-complected an’ sallow-like, with a bad eye, showin’ a lot o’ the white.  An eye like that’s a bad thing in a horse, an’ I reckon ’t ain’t a heap better in a man.

“Sez I to Nellie, sez I:  ’Nellie, who’s yer yaller friend over there by the windy, which looks like he’d like to make sassage-meat o’ my head?’

“Nellie’s eyes flashed, an’ she answered up right sharp:  ’’T ain’t no friend of mine.  ‘T ain’t no sort of a man at all.  It’s only somethin’ the freshet left on the shore, an’ the pigs wouldn’t eat nohow.’

“You bet I laffed, an’ so did Sandy.  Ez I heern later on, the chap had ben a-botherin’ roun’ Nellie all winter, fur all she’d gin him the mitten straight an’ sent him about his bizness heaps o’ times.  I reckon the feller suspicioned we was a-laffin’ at him, fur he squinted at me blacker ’n ever.

“Purty soon Nellie got fussin’ roun’ the room, over nigh to where the yaller chap was a-settin’, an’ he spoke to her, saft-like, so ez we couldn’t hear what he was a-gittin’ at.  Nellie she jest sniffed kinder scornful; an’ then, what would yez suppose that chap done?  He reached out suddent, grabbed her leetle wrist so hard ‘at she cried out, an’ slapped her ­yes, slapped her right across the mouth.  Nellie jest stood there white, like a image, an’ never said one word; an’ I seed the red marks o’ the blackguard’s fingers come out acrost her cheek.  Next minit yaller face jumped fur the door, ­an’ me arter him, you kin bet yer life!  He was a-makin’ tracks purty lively, but I kin run a leetle myself, an’ I was onter him ‘gin Sandy an’ the rest was outer the door.  An’ didn’t I whale him, now?  I twisted his knife outer his hand, an’ I laced him till I was clean tuckered out.  But the feller was grit, an’ never hollered oncet.  When I quit he laid still a bit.  Then he riz up slowly, started to walk away, turned half round, an’ hissed at me jest like a big snake er ’n old sassy gander: ­

“‘I’ll ­pay ­you!’

“‘Git!’ sez I, an’ he purceeded to git, joggin’ along towards Woodstock.

“Well, now, how thet Nellie did look at me, proud an’ grateful like, when I come back to the house; an’ sez I to myself, ’Jabez Ephraim, you’ve ben an’ gone an’ put in the big licks there, old feller!’ But I never sed nuthin’ about it at all to Nellie, nor Nellie didn’t to me.  Now yer a-smilin’, boys, so I may remark jest here, to save yez from interruptin’ hereafter, thet I’ve ben to Old Man Peters’s sence, on several occasions; an’ nex’ summer I hope to see yez all acceptin’ the hospitality of Mrs. Jabez E. Batterpole!  But thet ain’t no part o’ this here story!

“Nex’ day Sandy an’ me hed a fine run down by Woodstock.  The old raft rid kinder loose, however, an’ we blamed up an’ down the fellers ez had pinned her together to the Falls.  Howsumever, we tightened her up a bit, an’ calc’lated she’d hold through.

“Ez we come in hearin’ of the Meductic, Sandy sez to me, sez he:  ’Jabe, old ‘Ductic is a-hoopin’ her up to-day.  There’s a big head o’ water on, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll hev to keep our eyes peeled.  It’ll take some skittish steerin’, fur ef the old raft jest teches the rocks she’ll go all to slivers.’

“‘Right you be!’ sez I. An’ we braced up.

“Now, ez we soon seen, old ‘Ductic was jest a-rearin’.  The big raft shivered like a skeered filly ez she ketched the first nip of them cross-currents, an’ she commenced ter bulge an’ sag like a nonsense.  Sandy was on the forrard sweep, but obsarvin’ thet, ez the currents was a-settin’, he warn’t no use forrard, I called him aft to help me.  Ez I turned my head a leetle mite to holler to him I ketched a squint o’ that yaller chap a-steppin’ in behind a tree on the bluff.

“There warn’t no time to be a-considerin’ of yaller chaps, fur the raft was settin’ dead onter the big rocks in the middle o’ the rapid, an’ Sandy an’ me was a-heavin’ an’ a gruntin’ on them sweeps to swing her cl’ar.  ‘She’ll make it,’ sez Sandy, ‘t last ­an’ that very minit there comes a ringin’ shot from the bluff, an’ I feels like it was a dash o’ scaldin’ water ‘long the tip o’ my shoulder-blade.  Yez’ll notice, I was leanin’ forrard at the time.

“‘I’m shot!’ sez I; an’ then I sees Sandy’s sweep swing round, an’ Sandy drops on the logs.

“I jumped cl’ar over to where he laid, but straightways he hops up an’ yells, ‘It’s only me arm!  Look out for the raft, Jabe!’

“I looked out, boys, you bet!  But she was jest sheerin roun’ onter them rocks, an’ no man’s arm could ‘a’ stopped her.  I looked up at the bluff, an’ ketched a sight o’ the yaller blackguard standin’ there ez cool ez ye please, mind yez, a-loadin’ up fur a fresh shot.

“I hadn’t no time fur another squint at him, fur next minit the old raft struck the rocks.  She jest tumbled to pieces like a box o’ matches.  I hustled Sandy out to the tail o’ the raft jest in time, an’ told him to jump an’ strike out fur all was in him, an’ I’d see him through er else we’d kinder shuffle off together.

“‘Correct!’ sez Sandy, chipper ez ye please; an’ then we both jumped, me with a grip like grim death onter Sandy’s belt.

“Boys, but it was a caution to see them waves, an’ cross-currents, an’ chutes, an’ big ripples, an’ eddies, an’ whirlpools, how they jest sucked us down an’ slapped us up an’ smothered us an’ chucked us roun’ like chips.  I jes kep’ my mouth shet an’ said my pray’rs fur all was in me.  An’ ez for swallerin’ water ­I must ‘a’ tuk in half a bar’l.  How we was kep’ cl’ar of the rocks was a miracle, out an’ out.  A queer light got ter dancin’ an’ shiftin’ front o’ my eyes, an’ the singin’ in my ears was gittin’ kind o’ pleasant like, an’ I calc’late that yaller chap must a gone away purty well satisfied; when, on the suddent, a sorter shock brung me to, an’ I felt my feet tech bottom.  There was a sight o’ life left in Jabez Ephraim yet, ye can bet yer pile.

“I straightened up an’ found ‘at we was in a quiet eddy, at the foot o’ the rapids, on the furder side o’ the stream.  The water warn’t up to me arm-pits, neether.  Ez for Sandy, the starch was clean knocked out o’ him, so I jest hauled him ashore an’ spread him out on the rocks to dry while I hev a leetle o’ thet water off my stummick.  In half a minit I felt better, an’ then I went an’ tumbled Sandy roun’ till he was considerable lighter in the hold.  Presently he come to an’ opened his eyes.

“I swan, boys, we didn’t hurry noane.  We jest laid there in the sun a matter of an hour er so, kinder recooperatin’.  Then we pinted up river.  When the folks heerd what had tuk place, yez’ll allow there was lots o’ the boys out lookin’ for the yaller chap.  But he’d got scarce, an’ what’s more, he’s stayed scarce.  Any of yez fellers ever seen him?”

“Ef ever I runs agin him,” exclaimed Andy Mitchell, in a burst of generous enthusiasm, “I’ll feed him to my team fur Injun Devil.”