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The
boy
drew
a
quivering
breath
.
Then
he
whipped
off
his
old
hat
and
beat
the
dust
from
it
carefully
.
With
his
left
hand
he
caught
the
right
sleeve
,
wiped
his
sweaty
face
,
and
tried
to
straighten
his
hair
with
his
fingers
.
He
broke
a
spray
of
ironwort
beside
him
and
used
the
purple
bloom
to
beat
the
dust
from
his
shoulders
and
limbs
.
The
Boss
,
busy
over
his
report
,
was
,
nevertheless
,
vaguely
alive
to
the
toilet
being
made
behind
him
,
and
scored
one
for
the
man
.
McLean
was
a
Scotchman
.
It
was
his
habit
to
work
slowly
and
methodically
.
The
men
of
his
camps
never
had
known
him
to
be
in
a
hurry
or
to
lose
his
temper
.
Discipline
was
inflexible
,
but
the
Boss
was
always
kind
.
His
habits
were
simple
.
He
shared
camp
life
with
his
gangs
.
The
only
visible
signs
of
wealth
consisted
of
a
big
,
shimmering
diamond
stone
of
ice
and
fire
that
glittered
and
burned
on
one
of
his
fingers
,
and
the
dainty
,
beautiful
thoroughbred
mare
he
rode
between
camps
and
across
the
country
on
business
.
No
man
of
McLean
’
s
gangs
could
honestly
say
that
he
ever
had
been
overdriven
or
underpaid
.
The
Boss
never
had
exacted
any
deference
from
his
men
,
yet
so
intense
was
his
personality
that
no
man
of
them
ever
had
attempted
a
familiarity
.
They
all
knew
him
to
be
a
thorough
gentleman
,
and
that
in
the
great
timber
city
several
millions
stood
to
his
credit
.
He
was
the
only
son
of
that
McLean
who
had
sent
out
the
finest
ships
ever
built
in
Scotland
.
That
his
son
should
carry
on
this
business
after
the
father
’
s
death
had
been
his
ambition
.
He
had
sent
the
boy
through
the
universities
of
Oxford
and
Edinburgh
,
and
allowed
him
several
years
’
travel
before
he
should
attempt
his
first
commission
for
the
firm
.
Then
he
was
ordered
to
southern
Canada
and
Michigan
to
purchase
a
consignment
of
tall
,
straight
timber
for
masts
,
and
south
to
Indiana
for
oak
beams
.
The
young
man
entered
these
mighty
forests
,
parts
of
which
lay
untouched
since
the
dawn
of
the
morning
of
time
.
The
clear
,
cool
,
pungent
atmosphere
was
intoxicating
.
The
intense
silence
,
like
that
of
a
great
empty
cathedral
,
fascinated
him
.
He
gradually
learned
that
,
to
the
shy
wood
creatures
that
darted
across
his
path
or
peeped
inquiringly
from
leafy
ambush
,
he
was
brother
.
He
found
himself
approaching
,
with
a
feeling
of
reverence
,
those
majestic
trees
that
had
stood
through
ages
of
sun
,
wind
,
and
snow
.
Soon
it
became
difficult
to
fell
them
.
When
he
had
filled
his
order
and
returned
home
,
he
was
amazed
to
learn
that
in
the
swamps
and
forests
he
had
lost
his
heart
and
it
was
calling
—
forever
calling
him
.
When
he
inherited
his
father
’
s
property
,
he
promptly
disposed
of
it
,
and
,
with
his
mother
,
founded
a
home
in
a
splendid
residence
in
the
outskirts
of
Grand
Rapids
.
With
three
partners
,
he
organized
a
lumber
company
.
His
work
was
to
purchase
,
fell
,
and
ship
the
timber
to
the
mills
.
Marshall
managed
the
milling
process
and
passed
the
lumber
to
the
factory
.
From
the
lumber
,
Barthol
made
beautiful
and
useful
furniture
,
which
Uptegrove
scattered
all
over
the
world
from
a
big
wholesale
house
.
Of
the
thousands
who
saw
their
faces
reflected
on
the
polished
surfaces
of
that
furniture
and
found
comfort
in
its
use
,
few
there
were
to
whom
it
suggested
mighty
forests
and
trackless
swamps
,
and
the
man
,
big
of
soul
and
body
,
who
cut
his
way
through
them
,
and
with
the
eye
of
experience
doomed
the
proud
trees
that
were
now
entering
the
homes
of
civilization
for
service
.
When
McLean
turned
from
his
finished
report
,
he
faced
a
young
man
,
yet
under
twenty
,
tall
,
spare
,
heavily
framed
,
closely
freckled
,
and
red
-
haired
,
with
a
homely
Irish
face
,
but
in
the
steady
gray
eyes
,
straightly
meeting
his
searching
ones
of
blue
,
there
was
unswerving
candor
and
the
appearance
of
longing
not
to
be
ignored
.
He
was
dressed
in
the
roughest
of
farm
clothing
,
and
seemed
tired
to
the
point
of
falling
.
“
You
are
looking
for
work
?
”
questioned
McLean
.
