s holes in things and is mighty pow'ful--actin' unexpected at times--" He paused for further illustrations, but Swickey had grasped her idea of "dinnimite" from his large free gestures. It was something bigger and stronger than her father.
"Is dinnimite suthin' like--like God-A' mighty?" she asked in a timid voice.
"Ya-a-s, Swickey, it are--sometimes--"
So Swickey and her father came to Lost Farm. The river had said "stay," and according to Swickey's interpretation had repeated it. They both heard it, the old giant-powder deacon of the lumber company, and his "gal."
Woodsmen new to the territory had often misjudged him on account of his genial expression and indolent manner, but they soon came to know him for a man of his hands (he bared an arm like the rugged bole of a beech) and a man of his word, and his word was often tipped with caustic wit that burned the conceit of those who foolishly invited his wrath. Yet he would "stake" an outgoing woodsman whose pay-check was inadequate