cipated delights of a
spree, would indignantly champion their new friend. Morgan retired
grimly to the "office." There, the next morning, he silently made out
the "time" of six men, who had decided to quit. He wondered what would
become of the rollways.

Silver Jack, for the sake of companionship, took one of the "jumpers" in
the cutter with him. He was pleased over his success, and intended now
to try Camp Thirty, Darrell's headquarters. In regard to Morgan he had
been somewhat uneasy, for he had never encountered that individual; but
Darrell he thought he knew. The trouble at Bay City had inspired him
with a great contempt for the walking boss. That is where his mistake
came in.

It was very cold. The snow was up to the horses' bellies, so Silver Jack
had to drive at a plunging walk. Occasionally one or the other of the
two stood up and thrashed his arms about. At noon they ate sandwiches of
cold fried bacon, which the frost rendered brittle as soon as it left
the warmth of their inside pockets. Underfoot the runners of the cutter
shrieked loudly. They saw the tracks of deer and wolves and partridge,
and encountered a few jays, chickadees, and woodpeckers. Otherwise the
forest seemed quite empty. By half-past two they had made nine miles,
and the sun, in this high latitude, was swinging lower. Silver Jack
spoke angrily to his struggling animals. The other had fallen into the
silence of numbness.

They did not know that across the reaches of the forest a man was
hurrying to intercept them, a man who hastened to cope with this new
complication as readily as he would have coped with the emergency of a
lack of flour or the sickness of horses. They drove confidently.

Suddenly from nowhere a figure appeared in the trail before them. It
stood, silent and impassive, with forward-drooping, heavy shoulders,
watching the approaching cutter through inscrutable chipmunk eyes. When
the strangers had approached to within a few feet of this man, the
horses stopped of their own accord.

"Hello, Darrell," greeted Silver Jack, tugging at one of the stone jugs
beneath the seat, "you're just the man I wanted to see."

The figure made no reply.

"Have a drink," offered the big man, finally extricating the whiskey.

"You can't take that whiskey into camp," said Darrell.

"Oh, I guess so," replied Silver Jack, easily, hoping for the peaceful
solution. "There ain't enough to get anybody full. Have a taster,
Darrell; it's pretty go