Charlie ate his supper by the fire, watched the men and teams string in at six o’clock. It was a big camp. He estimated four hundred men. Four hundred men ate a lot of beef. And two other camps drew supplies from there. He looked at the camp and at the grazing herd, and then he did a lot of thinking. He still lay thinking, looking up at the stars, long after he turned in. With the tarpaulin drawn up to his chin, he stared at the Big Dipper, the North Star, and at many a constellation glittering in its appointed place. But his mind was not on the stars in their courses--upon the cosmic wonder of an October night. No. More practical matters engaged his busy brain. And not until the sharp nip of the autumn frost made him draw his head under the canvas did he fall asleep. In the morning, with his own matutinal coffee bestowed where it would do the most good, and the grading crews stringing out to work in a cold dawn, Charlie walked into the camp and sought the head cook. “Who does the beef buying for this outfit?” he asked. The man pointed to a small tent-roofed wooden shack. “Chief’s office,” he said and turned to his work. * * * * * Charlie rapped on the door. Some one said: “Come in!” Charlie entered. A rotund man sat at a rudely constructed desk littered with account sheets. He half turned on the box that served for a chair. “What can I do for you?” he inquired briskly. “Buy some beef off me,” Charlie answered. “Patronize home industry an’ help the country flourish.” The man bit the end of a pencil reflectively. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “I’m telling you so you will know,” Charlie returned impudently. “Beef is my business, I raise it, buy it, and sell it, on the hoof or dressed--any old way that seems profitable. You must need a heap to feed this gang.” “Sure. But I don’t buy beef as casual as you’d buy a pair of socks,” the other declared. “I’ve got a considerable supply on hand and contracted for.” “I can deliver you prime dressed beef right here in your camp for four cents a pound,” Charlie offered crisply. “I can get it for less’n that.” The commissariat manager shook his head. “Don’t use prime beef, nohow.” “Still, if you could get first-class beef at third-class prices, you’d make money by buying it,” Charlie pointed out. “It goes farther. How about three and a half cents?” “Don’t interest me much.” “Say, now,” Charlie drawled, “I got quite a bunch of stuff I can turn over at a pretty low figure. And I know where I can get more. Say three cents a pound.” “Well, that’s fair enough,” the chubby one admitted. “But I think maybe I could do a mite better still, if I had to. And I’ve got some stock ahead. No; I guess we can’t do business, stranger. Thanks, just the same.” “You’re the doctor,” Charlie said and stepped out.