Buck Thompson was just concluding a glowing tribute to the girl’s beauty of face and form when Young Matt reached for an axe lying near the speaker. Said Buck, “Preachin’ Bill ’lowed t’other day hit didn’t make no difference how much money th’ ol’ man left Ollie he’d be a poor sort of a man anyhow; an’ that there’s a heap better men than him right here in th’ hills that Sammy could a’ had fer th’ askin’.” “How ’bout that, Matt?” called a young fellow from the river. The big man’s face flushed at the general laugh which followed, and he answered hotly, as he swung his axe, “You’d better ask Wash Gibbs; I hear he says he’s the best man in these woods.” “I reckin as how Wash can back his jedgment there,” said Joe. “Wash is a sure good man,” remarked Buck, “but there’s another not so mighty far away that’ll pretty nigh hold, him level.” He looked significantly to where Young Matt was making the big chips fly. “Huh,” grunted Joe. “I tell you, gentlemen, that there man, Gibbs, is powerful; yes, sir, he sure is. Tell you what I seed him do.” Joe pulled a twist of tobacco from his hip pocket, and settled down upon his heels, his back against a post. “Wash an’ me was a goin’ to th’ settlement last fall, an’ jest this side th’ camp house, on Wilderness Road, we struck a threshin’ crew stuck in th’ mud with their engine. Had a break down o’ some kind. Somethin’ th’ matter with th’ hind wheel. And jest as Wash an’ me drove up, th’ boss of th’ outfit was a tellin’ ’em t’ cut a big pole for a pry t’ lift th’ hind ex, so’s they could block it up, an’ fix th’ wheel. “Wash he looked at ’em a minute an’ then says, says he, ‘Hold on, boys; you don’t need ary pole.’ “‘What do you know ’bout an engine, you darned hill billy,’ says th’ old man, kind o’ short. “‘Don’t know nothin’ ’bout an engine, you prairie hopper,’ says Wash, ‘but I know you don’t need no pole t’ lift that thing.’ “‘How’d you lift it then?’ says t’other. “‘Why I’d jest catch holt an’ lift,’ says Wash. “The gang like t’ bust themselves laughin’. ‘Why you blame fool,’ says the boss; ‘do you know what that engine’ll weigh?” “‘Don’t care a cuss _what_ she’ll weigh,’ says Wash. ‘She ain’t _planted_ there, is she?’ An’ with that he climbs down from th’ wagon, an’ dad burn me if he didn’t take holt o’ that hind ex an’ lift one whole side o’ that there engine clean off th’ ground. Them fellers jest stood ’round an’ looked at him t’ beat th’ stir. ‘Well,’ says Wash, still a keepin’ his holt; slide a block under her an’ I’ll mosey along! “That boss didn’t say a word ’till he’d got a bottle from a box on th’ wagon an’ handed, hit t’ Wash; then he says kind o’ scared like, ‘Where in hell are you from, Mister?’ “‘Oh, I’m jest a kid from over on Roark,’ says Wash, handin’ th’ bottle t’ me. ‘You ought t’ see some o’ th’ _men_ in my neighborhood!’ Then we went on.”