"But when you come to think of what he found there on that township," said Charlie, "you have to make allowances. More'n a third of the board measure left right there on the ground as slash, and slash that's propped on the branches of the tops like powder-houses on stilts. And the whole township only devilled over at that! Barn only took the stuff that would roll downhill into the water when it was joggled." "You ain't blamin' your own boss, be ye?" demanded the cook. "Not by a darned sight!" rejoined Charlie, stoutly. "If I was an operator, doin' all the hard liftin', with a rich stumpage-owner with a rasp file goin' at me on one end and a log-buyer whittlin' me at the other, I'd figger to save myself. But I've always lived and worked in the old woods, gents. I ain't one of those dudes that never want to see an axe put in. The old woods need the axe to keep 'em healthy. We, here, need the money, and the folks outside need the lumber. But when I see enough of the old woods wasted on every winter operation to make me rich, and all because the men that are gettin' the most out of it are fightin' each other so as to hog profits, it makes me sorry for the old woods and sick of human nature." The morning bustle of the camp began in earnest now. Men crowded at the tin wash-basins on the long shelf outside the log wall. As fast as they slicked their wet hair with the broken comb they hurried into the meal camp. There they heaped their tin plates with beans steaming from the hole where they had simmered overnight, devoured huge chunks of brown bread deluged with molasses, and "sooped" hot coffee. The odor of warm food was good in the nostrils of old "Ladder" Lane, the fire warden of Jerusalem, as he strode down the valley wall towards the camp. He hung his extinguished lantern on a nail outside the cook camp and stooped and entered the low door. Among woodsmen the amenities of a camp are as scant as welcome is plentiful. Lane seized up a tin plate, loaded it with what he saw in sight, and began to eat hastily and voraciously. "Fire?" inquired the cook. Lane jerked a nod of affirmation. "Where?" "Misery." "Big?" Another nod. "Talk about your bounty on wildcats and porky-pines," raged the cook, slamming on a stove-cover to emphasize his remarks, "the State treasurer ought to offer twenty-five dollars for the scalp and thumbs of every Skeet and Bushee brought in." The fire warden ran his last bit of brown bread around his plate, stuffed it dripping into his mouth, and stood up after sixty seconds devoted to his breakfast. "Where's Withee?" he asked the boss chopper, who had lounged to the camp door and was stuffing tobacco into his pipe. "Off on Square-hole," replied the boss, with a sideways cant of his head to show direction. "Fire on Misery eating north towards the Notch," reported Lane, with laconic sourness. "Withee ought to send twenty-five men." He was already starting away.