Here Bob found himself at once in a small entry railed off from the main
room by a breast-high line of pickets strong enough to resist a
battering-ram. A man he had seen walking across from the mill was
talking rapidly through a tiny wicket, emphasizing some point on a
soiled memorandum by the indication of a stubby forefinger. He was a
short, active, blue-eyed man, very tanned. Bob looked at him with
interest, for there was something about him the young man did not
recognize, something he liked--a certain independent carriage of the
head, a certain self-reliance in the set of his shoulders, a certain
purposeful directness of his whole personality. When he caught sight of
Fox he turned briskly, extending his hand.

"How are you, Mr. Fox?" he greeted. "Just in?"

"Hullo, Johnny," replied Fox, "how are things? I see you're busy."

"Yes, we're busy," replied the man, "and we'll keep busy."

"Everything going all right?"

"Pretty good. Poor lot of men this year. A good many of the old men
haven't showed up this year--some sort of pull-out to Oregon and
California. I'm having a little trouble with them off and on."

"I'll bet on you to stay on top," replied Fox easily. "I'll be over to
see you pretty soon."

The man nodded to the bookkeeper with whom he had been talking, and
turned to go out. As he passed Bob, that young man was conscious of a
keen, gimlet scrutiny from the blue eyes, a scrutiny instantaneous, but