"Britt has got orders from the court, and he's there to put the Skeets and Bushees out and torch off their shacks. That's all there is to that fire, Lane, and Britt don't want a stir and hoorah made about it. He told me to tell you that. He says the cussed newspapers get a word here and a word there, and they're always ready to string out a lot of lies about King Spruce and wild-landers, and how they abuse settlers, and all that rot--and it hurts prominent men, like Mr. Britt and his associates, because folks get wrong ideas from the papers. Now you know that! Don't report that fire, Lane." It was fulsome appeal and eager appeal, and MacLeod was apparently obeying some very emphatic orders from his superior, who had supplied language as well as directions of procedure. But the old fire-warden kept on with his preparations, exact, careful, without haste. "He said you understood--Britt did," clamored MacLeod, hastening around in front of the heliograph. "You know it ain't right to have those people there in this dry time, with all that slash about 'em. Mr. Britt will make it all right with them--the same as the land-owners always do. It will be the papers that will lie and call the land-owners names for the sake of stirrin' up a sensation about leadin' men--makin' politics out of it, and gettin' the people prejudiced so as to put more taxes onto wild lands." More of Britt's ammunition! "Mr. Britt said you'd understand--and you do understand--and you can't report that fire." Lane set his gaunt grasp about the handle of the screen, ready to tilt it for the first flash. "I understand just this, MacLeod--that I'm a fire-warden of the State, sworn to do my duty as my duty is spread before me." He swept his left arm in impressive gesture. "Look behind you! Do you see that?" Smoke was ballooning from the notch of the woods below them. Round puffs seemed to be dancing in fantastic ballet from tree-top to tree-top. "That's a fire, MacLeod. I take no man's say-so as to what and why. That may be Pulaski Britt smoking a cigar. It may be Jule Skeet's new spring bonnet on fire. I don't care what it is. It's a fire, and it's going to be reported. Stand out of range." His code-card was in the top of his hat. He waved the headgear impatiently at MacLeod, his right hand still on the handle of the screen.