the path.

Nine o'clock came, and the timber was still coming in. The men were
growing tired and surly from the merciless strain of carrying the long,
heavy sticks. The night was raw and chill. Bannon felt it as he stood
directing the work, and he kept his hands in his pockets, and wished he
had worn his overcoat; but the laborers, barearmed and bareheaded, clad
only in overalls or in thin trousers and cotton shirts, were shaking sweat
from their eyes, and stealing moments between trips to stand where the
keen lake breeze could cool them. Another half-hour or so should see the
last stick on the piles, and Bannon had about decided to go over to the
office when he saw Vogel moving among the men, marking their time in his
book.

"Here, Max," he called, adding, when Vogel had reached his side: "Just
keep an eye on this, will you? I'll be at the office. Keep things going
just as they are."

There was a light in the office. Bannon stepped into the doorway, and,
with a suppressed word of impatience, stood looking at the scene within.
The desk that Peterson had supplied for the use of his clerk was
breast-high from the floor, built against the wall, with a high stool
before it. The wall lamp had been taken down; now it stood with its
reflector on the top of the desk, which was covered with books and papers.
A girl was sitting on the stool, bending over a ledger and rapidly footing
up columns. Bannon could not see her face, for a young fellow stood
leaning over the railing by the desk, his back to the door. He had just
said something, and now he was laughing in a conscious manner.

Bannon quietly stepped to one side. The girl looked up for a moment and