"And what was it you thought I might be doing?" he asked.

The Boss could scarcely repress a start. Somewhere before accident and
poverty there had been an ancestor who used cultivated English, even
with an accent. The boy spoke in a mellow Irish voice, sweet and pure.
It was scarcely definite enough to be called brogue, yet there was a
trick in the turning of the sentence, the wrong sound of a letter here
and there, that was almost irresistible to McLean, and presaged a misuse
of infinitives and possessives with which he was very familiar and
which touched him nearly. He was of foreign birth, and despite years of
alienation, in times of strong feeling he committed inherited sins of
accent and construction.

"It's no child's job," answered McLean. "I am the field manager of a
big lumber company. We have just leased two thousand acres of the
Limberlost. Many of these trees are of great value. We can't leave our
camp, six miles south, for almost a year yet; so we have blazed a trail
and strung barbed wires securely around this lease. Before we return to
our work, I must put this property in the hands of a reliable, brave,
strong man who will guard it every hour of the day, and sleep with one
eye open at night. I shall require the entire length of the trail to be
walked at least twice each day, to make sure that our lines are up and
that no one has been trespassing."

Freckles was leaning forward, absorbing every word with such intense
eagerness that he was beguiling the Boss into explanations he had never
intended making.

"But why wouldn't that be the finest job in the world for me?" he