It was even worse-looking than the slash. Rows of dirty tents, lines of
squatty log-cabins, and many flat-board houses clustered around an immense
sawmill. Evidently I had arrived at the noon hour, for the mill was not
running, and many rough men were lounging about smoking pipes. At the door
of the first shack stood a fat, round-faced Negro wearing a long, dirty
apron.

"Is Dick Leslie here?" I asked.

"I dunno if Dick's come in yet, but I 'specks him," he replied. "Be you the
young gent Dick's lookin' fer from down East?"

"Yes."

"Come right in, sonny, come right in an' eat. Dick allus eats with me, an'
he has spoke often 'bout you." He led me in, and seated me at a bench where
several men were eating. They were brawny fellows, clad in overalls and
undershirts, and one, who spoke pleasantly to me, had sawdust on his bare
arms and even in his hair. The cook set before me a bowl of soup, a plate
of beans, potroast, and coffee, all of which I attacked with a good
appetite. Presently the men finished their meat and went outside, leaving
me alone with the cook.

"Many men on this job?" I asked.

"More'n a thousand. Buell's runnin' two shifts, day an' night."

"Buell? Does he own this land?"