ily. "I'll be over to
see you pretty soon."

The man nodded to the bookkeeper with whom he had been talking, and
turned to go out. As he passed Bob, that young man was conscious of a
keen, gimlet scrutiny from the blue eyes, a scrutiny instantaneous, but
which seemed to penetrate his very flesh to the soul of him. He
experienced a distinct physical shock as at the encountering of an
elemental force.

He came to himself to hear Fox saying:

"That's Johnny Mason, our mill foreman. He has charge of all the sawing,
and is a mighty good man. You'll see more of him."

The speaker opened a gate in the picket railing and stepped inside.

A long shelf desk, at which were high stools, backed up against the
pickets; a big round stove occupied the centre; a safe crowded one
corner. Blue print maps decorated the walls. Coarse rope matting edged
with tin strips protected the floor. A single step down through a door
led into a painted private office where could be seen a flat table desk.
In the air hung a mingled odour of fresh pine, stale tobacco, and the
closeness of books.

Fox turned at once sharply to the left and entered into earnest
conversation with a pale, hatchet-faced man of thirty-five, whom he
addressed as "Collins." In a moment he turned, beckoning Bob forward.

"Here's a youngster for you, Collins," said he, evidently continuing
former remarks. "Young Mr. Orde. He's been in our home office awhile,
but I brought him up to help you out. He can get busy on your tally
sheets and time checks and tally boards, and sort of ease up the strain
a little."

"I can use him, right now," said Collins, nervously smoothing back a
strand of his pale hair. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Orde. These 'jumpers' ...
and that confounded mixed stuff from _seventeen_ ..." he trailed off, his
eye glazing in the abstraction of some inner calculation, his long,
nervous fingers reaching unconsciously toward the soiled memoranda left
by Mason.

"Well, I'll set you to work," he roused himself, when he perceived that
the two were about to leave him. And almost before they had time to turn
away he was busy at the papers, his pencil, beautifully pointed, running
like lightning down the long columns, pausing at certain places as
though by instinct, hovering the brief instant necessary to calculation,
then racing on as though in pursuit of something elusive.

As they turned away a slow, cool voice addressed them from behind the
stove.

"Hullo, bub!