It was nearly noon when Andy came in sight of the lumber camp. From a distance he heard the ringing sounds of the axes, and the shouts of the men to "stand from under" as a mighty monarch of the forest was about to fall. Skirting the "yard," he approached the building which was known as the office. "Is Mr. Storburgh around?" he asked, of the young man in charge. "He is not," was the reply, and the clerk scarcely looked up from the sheet upon which he was figuring. "When will he be here?" "I don't know--he's gone to New York." "Do you know if he has an opening for a chopper, or on the teams?" "No opening whatever. We laid off four men last week, and we're going to lay off four more this coming Saturday." The clerk went on figuring, and in silence Andy withdrew. He had had a walk of nearly five miles for nothing. Was it any wonder that he was disheartened? "It's the same story everywhere," he told himself, as he moved away slowly. "I might tramp to the Elroy place--that's six miles from here--but what's the use? I'll wear out boot-leather for nothing. I guess Uncle Si and I will have to pull up stakes or starve." Not knowing what else to do, Andy walked along to where a number of men were at work. Just then the twelve o'clock whistle sounded, and the workers "knocked off" for their midday meal. "Hello, Andy!" sung out a cheery voice, and, turning, the boy saw a brawny chopper named Bill Carrow approaching. Carrow had once worked with Mr. Graham, and knew the son fairly well. "Hello," returned the youth. "Going to feed the inner man?" and he smiled. "That's what, son. How are you?" And the lumberman shook hands. "Fairly well, but I'd feel better if I had a job." "Out of work, eh? That's too bad. I don't suppose there is any opening here." "The clerk said there wasn't any--said they were discharging hands instead of taking 'em on." "That's true. Business is bad--account of the panic last year, you know." Bill Carrow paused a moment. "Had your dinner?" "No, but I can wait until----" "You ain't going to wait. You come with me and I'll fill you up. Your father did the same for me many a time. Come on." Andy was hungry, and could not resist this kindly invitation. Soon the pair were eating a plain but substantial dinner, which Carrow procured from the camp cook. It was disposed of in a corner of the mess cabin, apart from the other lumbermen. As they ate the lumberman asked the youth about himself and his uncle. "That uncle of yours ought to be ashamed of himself, that's my opinion of it," said Bill Carrow. "If I was you, I'd not lift my finger to support him. He was the laziest young feller I ever knew, and it's nothing but laziness now. He ought to be supporting you instead of you supporting him." "I can support myself--if he'd only leave me alone and not try to get my money away from me." "He squandered that money your father left--I know all about it. I'd make him go to work." "I can't make him do anything."