They moved along a path beaten through fern and clawing blackberry vine
toward the camp, Benton carrying the two grips. A loud, sharp crack
split the stillness; then a mild swishing sound arose. Hard on the heels
of that followed a rending, tearing crash, a thud that sent tremors
through the solid earth under their feet. The girl started.

"Falling gang dropped a big fir," Charlie laughed. "You'll get used to
that. You'll hear it a good many times a day here."

"Good Heavens, it sounded like the end of the world," she said.

"Well, you can't fell a stick of timber two hundred feet high and six or
eight feet through without making a pretty considerable noise," her
brother remarked complacently. "I like that sound myself. Every big tree
that goes down means a bunch of money."

He led the way past the mess-house, from the doorway of which the
aproned cook eyed her with frank curiosity, hailing his employer with
nonchalant air, a cigarette resting in one corner of his mouth. Benton
opened the door of the second building. Stella followed him in.

It had the saving grace of cleanliness--according to logging-camp
standards. But the bareness of it appalled her. There was a rusty box
heater, littered with cigar and cigarette stubs, a desk fabricated of
undressed boards, a homemade chair or two, sundry boxes standing about.
The sole concession to comfort was a rug of cheap Axminster covering
half the floor. The walls were decorated chiefly with miscellaneous
clothing suspended from nails, a few maps and blue prints tacked up
askew. Straight across from the entering door another stood ajar, and
she could see further vistas of bare board wall, small, dusty