."

"Well, Bill, you are hired! Most men would call me a fool! Maybe I
am--but it's got to be proven. I came up through the woods myself and I
know men. It is my business to know men. A name is nothing to me--nor
references. Both are easy to get. I hire men--not names. And as for
references--I don't pay for past performances. It is up to you to make
good!

"I like your eyes. There is honesty in those eyes--and purpose. Your
mother's eyes, I should say." The young man turned his face away and
the blood surged upward, reddening the skin below the white bandages.

Thoughts of his mother crowded his brain--the beautiful, gentle
girl-mother, who used to snatch him up and hold him close--way back in
the curly-locks days.

He remembered her eyes--deep, soft blue eyes that shone bright and
mysterious with love for the little boy--so often such a bad,
self-willed little boy--and he thought of the hurt in those eyes. It
was his very worst punishment in the long ago--to read the pain and
sorrow in those eyes.

"No, no, no!" he murmured. "Not her eyes--not mother's! Oh, I am glad
that she did not live to know--" He stopped abruptly and faced the
other, speaking quietly:

"Mr. Appleton, I am not a criminal--not a fugitive from justice--as you
may have guessed. But I have been an--an awful fool!" The older man
arose and extended his hand:

"Good-by, Bill. You better sleep now. I will see you in the morning."

As the door closed behind Appleton, the pleasant-voiced nurse appeared
at the bedside. She straightened the covers, patted the pillows into
shape, and fed the patient medicine out of a spoon. She hesitated when
she finished and smiled down at him.

"Would you like to send any messages," she asked--"telegrams, to let
your people know you are safe?"

Young Carmody returned the smile. The nurse looked into his face and
knew that behind the smile was sadness rather than mirth.

"No," he said; "there is no one to tell." She leaned over and laid soft
fingers on his bandaged brow.

"Isn't--isn't there a real Ethel--somewhere?" He did not resent the
question of the sweet-faced nurse.

"Yes," he answered, "there _is_ a real Ethel--but she would not care.
Nobody cares."

CHAPTER X

NORTHWARD, HO!

Buck Moncrossen was a big man with a shrunken, maggoty soul, and no
conscience.

He had learned logging as his horses learned it--by repetition of
unreasoning routine, and after fifteen years' experience in the wo