wiped the flanks of his big bays with handfuls of pawpaw leaves, as he
softly whistled, "O wha will be my dearie, O!" and a cricket beneath
the leaves at his feet accompanied him. The green wood fire hissed and
crackled merrily. Wreathing tongues of flame wrapped around the big
black kettles, and when the cook lifted the lids to plunge in his
testing-fork, gusts of savory odors escaped.

Freckles approached him.

"I want to speak with the Boss," he said.

The cook glanced at him and answered carelessly: "He can't use you."

The color flooded Freckles' face, but he said simply: "If you will be
having the goodness to point him out, we will give him a chance to do
his own talking."

With a shrug of astonishment, the cook led the way to a rough board
table where a broad, square-shouldered man was bending over some
account-books.

"Mr. McLean, here's another man wanting to be taken on the gang, I
suppose," he said.

"All right," came the cheery answer. "I never needed a good man more
than I do just now."

The manager turned a page and carefully began a new line.

"No use of your bothering with this fellow," volunteered the cook. "He