"Good gracious!" exclaimed Jack. "Wish I could throw a stick
of wood like that fellow."
Another and another shot after the first one in quick
succession. Sometimes there were two almost together, and we
noticed the bigger and heavier the stick the higher and farther
it was shot. We saw some almost a foot in diameter soaring like
straws before the wind.
"What a baseball pitcher that man would make!" went on Jack,
enthusiastically. "Think of his arm! Look at that big one go--it
must weigh two hundred pounds!"
"Let's get out of this shed and investigate the mystery," I
said.
Outside it was all clear. The narrow-gauge wood railroad
ended on the edge of the steep hill overlooking the mills. Down
this was a long wooden chute, or flume, like a big trough, which
for the last thirty or forty feet at its lower end curved upward.
Men were unloading wood from a train at the upper end. Each stick
shot down the flume like lightning, up the short incline at the
end, and soared away like a bird to the pile beyond and below the
shed.
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