more my name than it is yours. I don't know what mine is, and I
never will; but I am going to be your man and do your work, and I'll be
glad to answer to any name you choose to call me. Won't you please be
giving me a name, Mr. McLean?"

The Boss wheeled abruptly and began stacking his books. What he was
thinking was probably what any other gentleman would have thought in the
circumstances. With his eyes still downcast, and in a voice harsh with
huskiness, he spoke.

"I will tell you what we will do, my lad," he said. "My father was my
ideal man, and I loved him better than any other I have ever known. He
went out five years ago, but that he would have been proud to leave you
his name I firmly believe. If I give to you the name of my nearest kin
and the man I loved best--will that do?"

Freckles' rigid attitude relaxed suddenly. His head dropped, and big
tears splashed on the soiled calico shirt. McLean was not surprised at
the silence, for he found that talking came none too easily just then.

"All right," he said. "I will write it on the roll--James Ross McLean."

"Thank you mightily," said Freckles. "That makes me feel almost as if I
belonged, already."

"You do," said McLean. "Until someone armed with every right comes to
claim you, you are mine. Now, come and take a bath, have some supper,
and go to bed."

As Freckles followed into the lights and sounds of the camp, his heart
and soul were singing for joy.

CHAPTER II

Wherein Freckles Proves His Mettle and Finds Friends

Next morning found Freckles in clean, whole clothing, fed, and rested.
Then McLean outfitted him and gave him careful instruction in the use of
his weapon. The Boss showed him around the timber-line, and engaged him
a place to board with the family of his head teamster, Duncan, whom he
had brought from Scotland with him, and who lived in a small clearing
he was working out between the swamp and the corduroy. When the gang was
started for the south camp, Freckles was left to guard a fortune in the
Limberlost. That he was under guard himself those first weeks he never
knew.

Each hour was torture to the boy. The restricted life of a great
city orphanage was the other extreme of the world compared with the
Limberlost. He was afraid for his life every minute. The heat was
intense. The heavy wading-boots rubbed his feet until they bled. He was
sore and stiff from his long tramp and outdoor exposure. The seven
miles of trail was agony