The forest officers took up their broken conversation. Bob found himself a silent but willing listener. He heard discussion of policies, business dealings, plans that widened the horizon of what the Forest had meant to him. In these discussions the girl took an active and intelligent part. Her opinion seemed to be accepted seriously by both the men, as one who had knowledge, and indeed, her grasp of details seemed as comprehensive as that of the men themselves. Finally Thorne pushed his chair back and began to fill his pipe. "Anybody here to-day?" he asked. The girl ran over rapidly a half-dozen names, sketching briefly the business they had brought. Then, one after the other, she told the answers she had made to them. This one had been given blanks, forms and instructions. That one had been told clearly that he was in the wrong, and must amend his ways. The other had been advised but tentatively, and informed that he must see the Supervisor personally. To each of these Thorne responded by a brief nod, puffing, meanwhile, on his pipe. "All right?" she asked, when she had finished. "All right but one," said he, removing his pipe at last. "I don't think it will be advisable to let Francotti have what he wants." "Pull the string, then!" cried the girl gaily. Thorne turned to California John in discussion of the Francotti affair. "What do you mean by 'pull the string'?" Bob took the occasion to inquire. "I settle a lot of these little matters that aren't worth bothering Ashley with," she explained, "but I tie a string to each of my decisions. I always make them 'subject to the Supervisor's approval.' Then if I do wrong, all I have to do is to write the man and tell him the Supervisor does not approve." "I shouldn't think you'd like that," said Bob. "Like what?" "Why, it sort of puts you in a hole, doesn't it? Lays all the blame on you." She laughed in frank amusement. "What of it?" she challenged. "Any letters?" Thorne asked abruptly. "Morton brought mail this morning, didn't he?" "Nothing wildly important--except that they're thinking of adopting a ranger uniform." "A uniform!" snorted California John, rearing his old head. "Oh, yes, I've heard of that," put in Thorne instantly. "It's to be a white pith helmet with a green silk scarf on it; red coat with gold lace, and white, English riding breeches with leather leggins. Don't you think old John would look sweet in that?" he asked Bob. But the old man refused to be drawn out. "Supervisors same; but with a gold pompon on top the helmet," he observed. "What _is_ the dang thing, anyway, Amy?" he asked. "Dark green whipcord, green buttons, gray hat, military cut." "Not bad," said Thorne. "About one fifty-mile ride and one fire would make that outfit look like a bunch of mildewed alfalfa. Blue jeans is about my sort of uniform," observed John.