goin' to do th' work they pay me to do," answered FitzPatrick.

He took his way down the trail, his face set straight before him, the
smoke of his breath streaming behind. The first skidway he scaled with
care, laying his rule flat across the face of each log, entering the
figures on his many-leaved tablets of beech, marking the timbers swiftly
with his blue crayon.

The woods were empty. No ring of the axe, no shout of the driver, no
fall of the tree broke the silence. FitzPatrick comprehended. He knew
that at the next skidway the men were gathered, waiting to see what he
would do; gathered openly at last in that final hostility which had been
maturing all winter. He knew, besides, that most of them were partly
drunk and wholly reckless, and that he was alone. Nevertheless, after
finishing conscientiously skidway number one, he moved on to skidway
number two.

There, as he had expected, the men were waiting in ominous silence,
their eyes red with debauch and hate. FitzPatrick paid them no heed, but
set about his business.

Methodically, deliberately, he did the work. Then, when the last
pencil-mark had been made, and the tablets had been closed with a snap
of finality, the Rough Red stepped forward.

"Ye have finished with this skidway?" asked the foreman in soft
cat-tones.

"I have," answered FitzPatrick, briefly.

"Yo' have forgot to scale one stick."

"No."

"There is a stick still not marked."

"I culled it."

"Why?"

"It was not sawed straight."

FitzPatrick threw his head back proudly, answering his man at ease, as
an accomplished swordsman. The Rough Red shifted his feet, almost awed
in spite of himself. One after another the men dropped their eyes and
stood ill at ease. The scaler turned away; his heel caught a root; he
stumbled; instantly the pack was on him, for the power of his eye was
broken.

Mad with rage they kicked and beat and tore at FitzPatrick's huddled
form long after consciousness had left it. Then an owl hooted from the
shadow of the wood, or a puff of wind swept by, or a fox barked, or some
other little thing happened, so that in blind unreasoning panic they
fled. The place was deserted, save for the dark figure against the
red-and-white snow.

FitzPatrick regained his wits in pain, and so knew he was still on
earth. Every movement cost him a moan, and some agency outside himself
inflicted added torture. After a long time he knew it was the cook, who
was kindly kneading his