ging slap of rain upon the windows, and
pressed Jack's loneliness deep into the soul of him.

"They'll be shutting up this joint for the winter," he told himself
many times that night, half hopefully, half regretfully. "They won't
pay a man to watch forests that are soaking wet. I guess my job's done
here."

The next morning a thin white blanket of snow fresh sifted from the
clouds lay all over the summit and far down the sides. Beyond its
edges the rain beat steadily upon the matted leaves and branches.
Surely his job was ended with that storm, Jack kept telling himself,
while he stared out at his drenched world capped with white. It was
the nearest he had ever been to snow, except once or twice when he had
gone frolicking up Mount Wilson with snowballing parties. He scooped
up handfuls of it with a dreary kind of gleefulness--dreary because he
must be gleeful alone--he made tracks all around just for the novelty
of it; he snowballed the rocks. He would soon go into a different kind
of exile, without rules and regulations to hamper his movements;
without seventy-five dollars a month salary, too, by the way! But he
would have the freedom of the mountains. He would be snug and safe in
his cave over there, and Marion would climb up to meet him every day
or so and bring him magazines and news of the outside world. And he
would fill in the time hunting, and maybe do a little prospecting, as
he had vaguely hinted to the man who brought his supplies. It would
not be so bad.

But his job did not end with that storm. The storm passed after a few
days of dreary drizzle in the lower country and howling winds over the
crest and a few hours of daytime snowfall that interested Jack hugely
because he had never in his life before seen snow actually falling out
of the sky. Then the sun came out and dried the forests, and
Supervisor Ross said nothing whatever about closing the lookout
station for the winter.

A week of beautiful weather brought other beautiful weeks. He had
another four days' relief and, warned by the storm, he spent the time
in laboriously carrying dead pine wood and spruce bark up to his cave.
It wouldn't do any harm to have a lot of wood stored away. It might
get pretty cold, some stormy days. Already the nights were pretty
nippy, even to a warm blooded young fellow who had never in his life
really suffered from cold. Some instinct of self-preservation impelled
him to phone in for a canvas bed sheet--a "tarp," h