ter keep a boy's pockets whole in his breeches."



CHAPTER II.

Birt Dicey lay awake deep into the night, pondering and planning.
But despite this unwonted vigil the old bark-mill was early astir,
and he went alertly about his work. He felt eager, strong, capable.
The spirit of progress was upon him.

The tanyard lay in the midst of a forest so dense that, except at
the verge of the clearing, it showed hardly a trace of its gradual
despoliation by the industry that nestled in its heart like a worm
in the bud. There were many stumps about the margin of the woods,
the felled trees, stripped of their bark, often lying among them
still, for the supply of timber exceeded the need. In penetrating
the wilderness you might mark, too, here and there, a vacant space,
where the chestnut-oak, prized for its tannin, had once grown on the
slope.

A little log house was in the midst of the clearing. It had,
properly speaking, only one room, but there was a shed-room
attached, for the purpose of storage, and also a large open shed at
one side. The rail fence inclosed the space of an acre, perhaps,
which was covered with spent bark. Across the pits planks were
laid, with heavy stones upon them to hold them in place. A rude
roof sheltered the bark-mill from the weather, and there was the
patient mule, with Birt and a whip to make sure that he did not fall
into reflective pauses according to his meditative wont. And there,