of raw scalds.

He removed his foot-gear and the feel of the cold wind was good to his
burning feet. He scowled resentfully at the galling newness of his
high-laced boots and with a tentative finger explored his hurts.

Unbuckling his pack, he drew forth the ready prepared food with which
he had supplied himself at the store. The pack had seemed trifling when
he swung lightly into the trail that morning, but twelve hours later,
when he stumbled painfully into the disused shack, it had borne upon
his aching shoulders as the burden of Atlas.

Hungry as he was, he glared disgustedly at the flaunting label of the
salmon can and the unappetizing loaf of coarse bread dried hard, rather
than baked, from sodden dough, by Hod Burrage's slovenly spouse.

And as he glared he pondered the words of advice offered by the old man
with the twisted leg who sat upon Burrage's counter and punctuated his
remarks with quick, jerky stabs of his stout, home-made crutch.

"Tha' cann't fish ben't no good f'r trail grub, son. Ye're a greener,
you be. Better ye lay in what'll stay by ye--a bit o' bacon, like, or
some bologny--an' a little tin coffee-pot yonder.

"Ye'll be thinkin' o' steppin' out the door wi' ye're new boots an'
ye're pack an' trippin' up to Blood River in maybe it's two walks, wi'
naught in ye're belly but a can o' cold fish an' a stun weight o' Mary
Burrage's bread, which there ain't no more raisin' into it nor a
toggle-chain.

"'Tis plain ye're a greener, son; but take an old fool's advice an' get
ye a pair o' the shoe-packs yonder to spell off the boots. Bran' new,
they be, an' they'll gald ye're feet till ye'll be walkin' ankle-deep
in hell again' night. F'r Oi'll be tellin' ye Blood River lays a fine
two walks f'r a _good_ man, an' his boots broke in to the wear."

Now Bill Carmody was, by environment, undemocratic, and he resented
being called a greener. Also the emphasis which old Daddy Dunnigan had
placed upon the words "good man," in evident contrast to himself,
rankled.

How he wished, as he sat in the cold discomfort of the shack, that he
had heeded the timely and well-meant advice. His was not an arrogant
nature, nor a surly--but the change in his environment had been
painfully abrupt. All his life he had chosen for companions men whom he
looked upon as his social equals, and he knew no others except as paid
hirelings to do his bidding. And all his life money had removed from
his pathway the physical disco