snow-shoes. As the Boy buttoned the fur-lined flap down
over their heads he felt angrier with the Colonel than he had ever been
before.

"Took good care to hang on to his own shootin'-iron. Suppose anything
should happen"; and he said it over and over.

Exactly what could happen he did not make clear; the real danger was
not from wolves, but it was _something_. And he would need a rifle....
And he wouldn't have one.... And it was the Colonel's fault.

* * * * *

Now, it had long been understood that the woodman is lord of the wood.
When it came to the Colonel's giving unasked advice about the lumber
business, the Boy turned a deaf ear, and thought well of himself for
not openly resenting the interference.

"The Colonel talks an awful lot, anyway. He has more hot air to offer
than muscle."

When they sighted timber that commended itself to the woodman, if _he_
thought well of it, why, he just dropped the sled-rope without a word,
pulled the axe out of the lashing, trudged up the hillside, holding the
axe against his shirt underneath his parki, till he reached whatever
tree his eye had marked for his own. Off with the fur mitt, and bare
hand protected by the inner mitt of wool, he would feel the axe-head,
for there was always the danger of using it so cold that the steel
would chip and fly. As soon as he could be sure the proper molecular
change had been effected, he would take up his awkward attitude before
the selected spruce, leaning far forward on his snow-shoes, and seeming
to deliver the blows on tip-toe.

But the real trouble came when, after felling the dead tree, splitting
an armful of fuel and carrying it to the Colonel, he returned to the
task of cutting down the tough green spruce for their bedding. Many
strained blows must be delivered before he could effect the chopping of
even a little notch. Then he would shift his position and cut a
corresponding notch further round, so making painful circuit of the
bole. To-night, what with being held off by his snow-shoes, what with
utter weariness and a dulled axe, he growled to himself that he was
"only gnawin' a ring round the tree like a beaver!"

"Damn the whole--Wait!" Perhaps the cursed snow was packed enough now
to bear. He slipped off the web-feet, and standing gingerly, but
blessedly near, made effectual attack. Hooray! One more good 'un and
the thing was down. Hah! ugh! Woof-ff! The tree was down, but so was
he, flounde