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The first thing a logger did after arriving in town after a long winter in the woods, was rig himself out in a new suit of clothes and sports a cheap watch and ring, and possibly a pair of patent leather shoes. He then meets a chum, and together they make for the low boarding houses. His watch and ring are gone. The side is out of his new shoe. His coat is torn down the back Men working the log drives were mostly in their late teens or early twenties.
The work was very physical and dangerous, and they had to be in peak physical condition to jump from log-to-log as they steered them downriver. For every logger killed by falling limbs, even more died on the spring log drive. I came from Grand Haven and the stage consisted of a lumber wagon with boards across for seats and without any springs. The road lay through the swamp between here and Grand Haven.
We went into a water hole some two or three feet deep, which was too much for iron and wood to stand and we broke our axle. We went down into the water, and from there we walked into Muskegon. It turned out that the big drive had just got down.
There were perhaps about a hundred drunken men within the space of a single block, in all stages of drunkenness from silly drunk, roaring drunk, fighting drunk, to dead drunk scattered along the street. That continued for three or four days before things quieted down again.
The big drive, though somewhat unruly when it got down here for the first few days, was really a necessary institution to Muskegon. We had sawmills down here and the sawmills must have logs, logs must have drivers, and when the drivers got done, they must have drink, and no one complained. When a logger refused to remove his muddy boots before entering her run-down dive she slugged him with a powerful roundhouse that broke his jaw. The Canterbury House, which was on the outskirts of the village, was run by Mollie Garde and Jennie Morgan, a couple of tough old whores.