hasn't but one hand."

The flush on Freckles' face burned deeper. His lips thinned to a mere
line. He lifted his shoulders, took a step forward, and thrust out his
right arm, from which the sleeve dangled empty at the wrist.

"That will do, Sears," came the voice of the Boss sharply. "I will
interview my man when I finish this report."

He turned to his work, while the cook hurried to the fires. Freckles
stood one instant as he had braced himself to meet the eyes of the
manager; then his arm dropped and a wave of whiteness swept him. The
Boss had not even turned his head. He had used the possessive. When he
said "my man," the hungry heart of Freckles went reaching toward him.

The boy drew a quivering breath. Then he whipped off his old hat and
beat the dust from it carefully. With his left hand he caught the right
sleeve, wiped his sweaty face, and tried to straighten his hair with
his fingers. He broke a spray of ironwort beside him and used the purple
bloom to beat the dust from his shoulders and limbs. The Boss, busy over
his report, was, nevertheless, vaguely alive to the toilet being made
behind him, and scored one for the man.

McLean was a Scotchman. It was his habit to work slowly and
methodically. The men of his camps never had known him to be in a hurry
or to lose his temper. Discipline was inflexible, but the Boss was
always kind. His habits were simple. He shared camp life with his gangs.
The only visible signs of wealth consisted of a big, shimmering diamond
stone of ice and fire that glittered and burned on one of his fingers,
and the dainty, beautiful thoroughbred mare he rode between camps and