fifty bucks, and what I can make besides, a month, why, it 'ud be me for
the coast where you can jamb the rivers in a three months' cut, and
souse rye the rest of the year till the bugs look as big as mountains.
Guess it's the summer rose garden of the lumber-jack, for all it's under
snow eight months in the year, when you can't tell your guts from an
iceflow, and the skitters, in summer, mostly reach the size of a
gasoline tank. It's a dog's life, mam, lumberin' anywhere. But they're
lap-dogs out that way."

The man's words brought the return of the girl's smile. "Yes, I spose
it's--tough," she observed thoughtfully. Then quite suddenly she spread
out her hands. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, with a sudden vehemence, "it's
worse than tough. It's hopeless. Utterly hopeless. I've seen it. I've
watched it. I had to. I couldn't escape it. It's so desperately patent.
But it's not the life as these folk live it. It's the future I'm
thinking of. It's middle life and old age. These boys. They're
wonders--now. How long does it last, and then--what happens? I'm here on
business, hard business. But I guess this thing's got hold of me so I
can't sometimes sleep at nights. Tell me about them."

Arden Laval, one of the hardest specimens of the lumber boss, turned
away. His understanding of women was built up out of intimacy with the
poor creatures who peopled the camps he knew. This girl's burst of
feeling only stirred him to a cynical humour.

"Mam," he said, with a grin that was almost hateful, "if I was to start
in to hand you the life history of a lumber-jack you'd feel like
throwing up your kind heart, and any other old thing you hadn't use for
in your stummick. But I guess I can say right here, a lumber-jack's a
most disgustin' sort of vermin who hasn't more right than a louse to
figger in your reckonin'. I guess he was born wrong, and he'll mostly
die as he was born. And meanwhile he's lived a life that's mostly dirt,
and no account anyway. There's a few things we ask of a lumber-jack, and
if he fulfils 'em right he can go right on living. When he can't fulfil
'em, why, it's up to him to hit the trail for the pay box, an' get out.
Guess you feel good when you see a boy swingin' an axe, or handlin' a
peavy. Sure. That sort of thing don't come your way often. Neither does
it come your way to see the rest. He's mostly a sink of filth in mind
and body, and if he ain't all that at the start he gets it quick. He's a
waster of God's