"Does the old hog begrudge that much from the acres he stole from the people of the State?" demanded Wade. "He'd ruther you'd pick your teeth with your knife-blade than pull even a sliver out of a blow down," replied Christopher, mildly. He tossed his brown hand to point his quiet satire, and Wade's eyes swept the vast expanse of wood, from the nearest ridges to the dim blue of the tree-spiked horizon. Christopher put his hand to his forehead and gazed north. "I can show you your first peek at it, Mr. Wade," he said, after a moment. "That's old Enchanted--the blue sugar-loaf you see through Pogey Notch there. Under that sugar-loaf is where we are bound, to Ide's holdin's." There was a thrill for the young man in the spectacle--in the blue mountains swimming above the haze, and in the untried mystery of the miles of forest that still lay between. Even the word "Enchanted" vibrated with suggestion. The zest of wander-lust came upon him later--a zest dulled at first by two days of perspiring fatigue, uneasy slumbers under the stars, breathless scrambles through undergrowth and up rocky slopes. "That's Jerusalem Mountain, layin' a little to the right," went on Christopher. "That's Britt's principal workin' on the east slope of that this season. He'll yard along Attean and the other streams, and run his drive into Jerusalem dead-water--and that's where you and Ide will have a chore cut out for you." The old man wrinkled his brows a bit, but his voice was still mild. The romance oozed from Wade's thrill. The thrill became more like an angry bristling along his spine. During the days of his preparation for this trip into the north country, Rodburd Ide--suddenly become his partner by an astonishing juncture of circumstances--had spent as much time in setting forth the character of the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt as he had in instructing his neophyte in the duties of a timber explorer. As a matter of fact, Ide left it mostly to old Christopher to be mentor and instructor in the art of "exploring," as search for timber in the north woods is called. Ide was better posted on the acerbities and sinuosities of Britt's character than he was on the values of standing timber and the science of economical "twitch-roads," and, with sage purpose, he had freely given of this information to his new partner. "Don't worry about the explorin' part--not with Christopher postin' you," Ide had cheerfully counselled, when he had shaken hands with them at the edge of Castonia clearing. "You and he together will find enough timber to be cut. But you can't get dollars for logs until they're sorted and boomed--and that part means dividin' white water with Britt next spring. So, don't spend all your time measuring trees, Wade. Measure chances!" Now, with his eyes on the promised field of battle, Wade growled under his breath. Britt!