Jim sank down without a word. Steve leaned against a maple trunk, for they were now getting into the edge of the hardwood, and took out his pipe. Neither spoke for fifteen minutes. Then Steve straightened up and nodded. Jim got to his feet and followed. In another hour Steve spoke again: “Road’s right over there. First landin’s half a mile up.” They turned to the left and shortly were in last season’s slashings. Narrow lanes among the trees, uneven, impassable to teams at this season of the year, marked the tote roads, which in winter would be cared for more skilfully than many a city boulevard, iced, kept clear of refuse, so that heavily ladened sleds might pass smoothly, carrying logs from cutting to landings. Jim heard the toot of a locomotive whistle and looked at his watch. “Must be the empty trucks up from the mill,” he said. Steve nodded. The engine with its trail of trucks passed them at their right, whistled again, and at last came to a stop. Jim knew the stop was at the landing from which came his logs. “Where’s the camp?” he asked. “T’other side of the track.” In a moment they were at the edge of the clearing and Jim could see the landing, its skidways piled high with hardwood logs, beech, birch, maple, with here and there a soft maple, an ash or an oak. The train crew had already disappeared in the direction of the camp; only one man was visible, standing in the doorway of the sealer’s shanty. He looked after the trainmen, then emerged and mounted a skid way. With a big blue crayon he marked log after log. These, Jim knew, were being selected to go to his mill in the morning. Then the man returned to his shanty. Presently he appeared with a blacksmith’s hammer. He mounted the skidway again, knelt upon a marked log, and drove a spike into it near the middle. This he proceeded to sink with a punch. Steve did not so much as turn his head toward Jim. He merely watched the man with a curious intentness. The man repeated the operation five times on different logs, then returned his tools to the shanty and sauntered away toward the camp. Jim felt a hot flame of rage. With characteristic impulse he started to his feet and would have demanded a reckoning of the man there and then, but Steve caught him by the arm and drew him down. “Hungry?” he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Maybe I am,” snapped Jim, “but I’m too mad to notice it.” “Spring back here. I put a snack in my pocket.” “What’s that man’s name, Steve?” Jim demanded.