They did not know that this song had been shouted by valiant fighters and workers in many tongues--sometimes to reputable words, oftener not--for centuries, nor did they care. It would not have interested them to hear that, thanks to its wonderful vitality, this same melody had served generations of students as “We won't go home till morning”; had swung thousands of wearied French soldiers along wild roads before Napoleon was born as “_Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre_”; had perhaps led white-clad swordsmen, with a lilt and rhythm that fairly lifted the feet, off to the taking of Jerusalem nearly a thousand years ago. And now here it was again, sung to disreputable words, but as truly as ever a shout of good-will and dauntless effort. Somebody had bucked the Old Gentleman--no matter who or how--and the Old Gentleman, through Mr. Halloran, was bucking back, was nearer than ever to winning. And when he should win, as win he must, there would be steady work and meat every day for the labourers of Wauchung. This was all they knew or cared. But was the spirit less honest and earnest than the spirit of those jack-booted Frenchmen or those white-clad crusaders? Allowing for the glamour of the past, for the shining mist that enlarges the old figures as their real outlines grow steadily fainter, were these hard-handed fellows, heaving the new lumber from the deck of the _Number Two_ to the wharf, laughing and joking and swearing like pirates all the while, so different? Was there no romance here? Before the work had begun, Halloran saw Du Bois, an old lumber inspector, on the wharf and called to him. The old man, a soft felt hat pulled down on the side of his head, his gray beard streaked with tobacco, turned and waited for him to come up. “I have a boy here, Du Bois” [pronounced DoO Boyce], “who thinks he'd like to learn lumber-checking. Suppose you take hold of him and see if we can make anything out of him.” “All right, Mr. Halloran. Where is he?” “Up at the office. You'd better send a man after him. His name's George Bigelow.” “All right, sir; I'll keep an eye on him.” The Inspector spat voluminously and hailed one of the labourers. “Hi, you there! Run up to the office and tell George to get a scale and a tally-board and come down here. Grease your knees!” The labourer ambled off and soon returned with George. “Well, young man,” said Du Bois, “they tell me you're a lumber-checker.” “I--I thought maybe I could learn.” “What's that in your hand?” “A tally-board.” “Other hand?” “A scale.” “What's the size of that stick over there? No, don't scale it--stand here. What are your eyes for?” George had not passed the last few days idly. The lumbermen were a picturesque, vigorous lot of men, and simply by associating with them he had begun absorbing some knowledge of their work. Now he made a snap guess. “Two-by-twelve-sixteen.” “Other one yonder?” “Two-by-eight-twelve.”