which seemed to penetrate his very flesh to the soul of him. He
experienced a distinct physical shock as at the encountering of an
elemental force.

He came to himself to hear Fox saying:

"That's Johnny Mason, our mill foreman. He has charge of all the sawing,
and is a mighty good man. You'll see more of him."

The speaker opened a gate in the picket railing and stepped inside.

A long shelf desk, at which were high stools, backed up against the
pickets; a big round stove occupied the centre; a safe crowded one
corner. Blue print maps decorated the walls. Coarse rope matting edged
with tin strips protected the floor. A single step down through a door
led into a painted private office where could be seen a flat table desk.
In the air hung a mingled odour of fresh pine, stale tobacco, and the
closeness of books.

Fox turned at once sharply to the left and entered into earnest
conversation with a pale, hatchet-faced man of thirty-five, whom he
addressed as "Collins." In a moment he turned, beckoning Bob forward.

"Here's a youngster for you, Collins," said he, evidently continuing
former remarks. "Young Mr. Orde. He's been in our home office awhile,
but I brought him up to help you out. He can get busy on your tally
sheets and time checks and tally boards, and sort of ease up the strain
a little."

"I can use him, right now," said Collins, nervously smoothing back a