“It's a fine country,” went on Thorpe so everyone could hear, “with a great cutting of white pine. It runs as high as twelve hundred thousand to the forty sometimes.” “Trees clean an' free of limbs?” asked Jackson. “They're as good as the stuff over on seventeen; you remember that.” “Clean as a baby's leg,” agreed Jackson. “Have a glass of beer?” asked Thorpe. “Dry as a tobacco box,” confessed Hines. “Have something, the rest of you?” invited Thorpe. So they all drank. On a sudden inspiration Thorpe resolved to ask the old man's advice as to crew and horses. It might not be good for much, but it would do no harm. Jackson listened attentively to the other's brief recital. “Why don't you see Tim Shearer? He ain't doin' nothin' since the jam came down,” was his comment. “Isn't he with the M. & D. people?” asked Thorpe. “Nope. Quit.” “How's that?” “'Count of Morrison. Morrison he comes up to run things some. He does. Tim he's getting the drive in shape, and he don't want to be bothered, but old Morrison he's as busy as hell beatin' tan-bark. Finally Tim, he calls him. “'Look here, Mr. Morrison,' says he, 'I'm runnin' this drive. If I don't get her there, all right; you can give me my time. 'Till then you ain't got nothin' to say.' “Well, that makes the Old Fellow as sore as a scalded pup. He's used to bossin' clerks and such things, and don't have much of an idea of lumber-jacks. He has big ideas of respect, so he 'calls' Tim dignified like. “Tim didn't hit him; but I guess he felt like th' man who met the bear without any weapon,--even a newspaper would 'a' come handy. He hands in his time t' once and quits. Sence then he's been as mad as a bar-keep with a lead quarter, which ain't usual for Tim. He's been filin' his teeth for M. & D. right along. Somethin's behind it all, I reckon.” “Where'll I find him?” asked Thorpe. Jackson gave the name of a small boarding-house. Shortly after, Thorpe left him to amuse the others with his unique conversation, and hunted up Shearer's stopping-place. Chapter XXVIII The boarding-house proved to be of the typical lumber-jack class, a narrow “stoop,” a hall-way and stairs in the center, and an office and bar on either side. Shearer and a half dozen other men about his own age sat, their chairs on two legs and their “cork” boots on the rounds of the chairs, smoking placidly in the tepid evening air. The light came from inside the building, so that while Thorpe was in plain view, he could not make out which of the dark figures on the piazza was the man he wanted. He approached, and attempted an identifying scrutiny. The men, with the taciturnity of their class in the presence of a stranger, said nothing. “Well, bub,” finally drawled a voice from the corner, “blowed that stake you made out of Radway, yet?” “That you, Shearer?” inquired Thorpe advancing. “You're the man I'm looking for.” “You've found me,” replied the old man dryly.