or Daddy Dunnigan and the big, rough men out in the timber who were
"tearing out the bone" that _her_ man might make good.

Day by day the black pyramids of the rollways lengthened, and the
skidways were pushed farther and farther into the timber. And, of all
the men in the crew, none worked harder nor to better purpose than
Stromberg, the big hulking Swede, whom Fallon had warned Bill was the
brains of Moncrossen's bird's-eye gang.

Neither Bill nor the big swamper had ever alluded to that affair in the
bunk-house upon the night of their first meeting, and it was with a
feeling of surprise that the foreman looked up one evening as he sat
alone in the little office to see Stromberg enter and cross to his
side.

The man lost no time in coming to the point.

"Bill," he began, "I went up with Buck Moncrossen this summer to bring
down the bird's-eye. We found a pile of ashes where the logs should
have been. Moncrossen thinks Creed burned them--or let someone do it.

"It was a crooked game, and I was in it as deep as any one. I ain't
trying to beg off--but, I'd rather be square than crooked--and that's
the truth. I ain't spent most of my life in the woods not to be able to
tell hardwood ashes from soft-wood, and I know you slipped one over on
us.

"You're going to make good in the woods. You'll be the big boss, some
day. I expect to do time for my part in the bird's-eye game, and I'll
take all that's coming to me. And I won't snitch on the rest to get a
lighter sentence, either.

"I know Appleton, and I know we'll get ours in the spring, but what I
want to know is: when I get out, can I come to you for a job?"

Bill rose from his chair and thrust a big hand toward the other.

"Stromberg," he said, "you are no more a crook than I am. You threw in
with a bad bunch--that's all. Suppose we just forget the bird's-eye
business. You and Fallon are the two best men I've got.

"We are going to beat Moncrossen this year, and every man in the crew
has got to help do it--and next winter--well, Mr. Appleton will have an
eye peeled for a man to take Moncrossen's job--see?"

The two big men shook hands, and as he made his way to the bunk-house,
Stromberg wondered at the peculiar smile on the boss's lips as he said:

"There are a hell of a lot of good men wasted because of a bad start.
So-long."

The weeks slipped rapidly by. The weather settled, keen and cold, with
the crew keyed to the highest pitch of efficiency.

"Beat