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The Boss of the Lumber Camp
(Edison)
By ALLEN STANHOPE
The lumber camp lay in the midst of a silent belt of woods, locked in the cold embrace of a northern winter's night. The air was as keen as a sharp knife, and just as fatal to the heart of the unsheltered man caught in its grip. The ice in the nearby pond thundered, as if in pain under the zero pressure, the great trees roared and every board in the two shacks emitted sounds like that of breaking bones.
The lumber "jacks" had one and all turned in to enjoy the balm of a warm bunk after a long day's toil.
In the boss' shack were two men. One sat before the blazing fire, reading. The other stood tapping a letter on the rough table and studying his companion. At length he spoke :
"I received a letter from your father today, Warner."
Warner looked up carelessly, a cigaret drooping from a weak mouth. "I'll bet he didn't say anything complimentary," he observed.
"Here, read it." Foster tossed it across the table. "It should have got here a couple of days ago. The snows delayed it, I suppose."
Warner read the letter aloud, his lip curling derisively.
My Dear Foster: I'm sending my son, Willis, to your camp with a purpose. He has been burning the candle at both ends. The outdoor life will do him good. Put him to work with one of the logging gangs, and keep an eye on him. Yours,
James Warner.
"And now we understand each other," said Foster, laying down his pipe.
"Well?" demanded Warner, quizzically.
"Nothing — except that, altho you are the own'er's son, I'm the whole thing up here, the boss. And I'm your friend."
"Thanks," nodded the other, smiling.
"So much for us two. But there is another and more serious consideration. I want to say just a word about the men. They're honest, bighearted, good fellows. Treat them right and they'll share their last shirt with you. But — and dont forget this ever, Warner — get them against you, and God help you ; I cant. They break bones and kill, these fellows do, when rubbed the wrong wav. That's all."
* ' Where do these fellows bury their dead ? ' ' Warner had risen purposely and was displaying his well-built, sixfoot figure.
If Foster heard him, his words gave no sign of it. "I think I '11 turn in now. Goodnight."
Three weeks passed. Willis Warner worked with such an honest good will that Foster became impressed favorably with the young man. The men, too, he noticed were getting over
WILLIS, THE SCAPEGRACE, LEAVES HOME FOR THE LOGGING CAMP
81