th a bristling red mustache--the kind that
invariably chew upon their cigars as they talk.

Appleton turned to the ladies.

"Make yourselves at home," he said as the fire roared up the
stove-pipe. "Ross and I will look over the works a bit. Where is the
boss?" he asked of the man who was returning to the wood-pile.

"Out in the cuttin' somewheres; er me'be over to the rollways," replied
the man, laughing. "Big Bill he's out among 'em _all_ the time."

"By Glory! H. D., we've all got to hand it to you when it comes to
picking out men. I'd like to catch one of _my_ foremen out on the works
some time--I wouldn't know whether to fire him or double his wages!"

Sheridan mouthed his cigar, and the two turned into a skidway.

Appleton smiled. He raised a finger and touched his eyelid.

"It's the eye," he said. "Look in a man's eye, Ross. I don't give a
damn what a man's record is--what he's done or what he hasn't done. Let
me get a good look into his eye when he talks and in half a minute I'll
know whether to hire him or pass him on to you fellows. Here he comes
now."

Bill took keen delight in showing the two lumbermen about the camp.

"What's the idea of the ell on the bunk-house?" asked Appleton.

"Teamster's bunk-house," replied the foreman. "You see, I know how it
feels to be waked up at four in the morning by the teamsters piling out
of their bunks; so I built a separate bunk-house for them. The men work
too hard to have their sleep broken into that way. And another thing--I
built a couple of big rooms onto the office where the men can play
cards and smoke in the evening. I ordered a phonograph, too. I expect
it in on the tote-wagon."

Sheridan grinned skeptically and spat out part of his cigar. Appleton
made no comment.

"Come over to the office, Bill," he said. "I want you to meet the
ladies--my wife and niece and Mrs. Sheridan."

"I am afraid I am not very presentable," replied Bill dubiously as they
crossed the clearing in the lengthening shadows; but he went with them
without hesitation.

They were met at the door by a plump-faced lady of ample proportions
who was evidently fighting a losing battle with a tendency toward
_embonpoint_; and a slight, gray-haired one who stood poised upon the
split puncheon that served as a door-step.

"Ladies, this is Bill, the foreman of this camp. Mrs. Sheridan, Bill,
and my wife."

The ladies bowed formally, and secretly approved of the grace with
which the fore