mills Stanley laughed aloud. “You’re the queerest chap I ever met, Bub,” he said. “No, Mr. White—please don’t call him Whiskers—has treated me mighty well. He’s rough as a bear, but he’s good to me. Where’ve you been?”
“O trotting ’round with Abner Whitten, our best timber cruiser. He’s a sort of cousin to my father and I work with him. In winter time he’s the walking boss and goes all up through the region north of the Rangeleys, visiting camp after camp, crosses over to the Kennebec Valley and on up to the West Branch of the Penobscot. I tell you that man knows his business.”
Stanley’s eyes glistened. “I wish he’d let me go with you. That’s the kind of life I’d like; free and easy and out in the open.”
Bub smothered a smile and assured, “My son, if you are looking for a snap don’t take to cruising. It may read pretty in books, but did you ever carry seventy-five pounds of grub and equipment through an overgrown tote road? It’s no picnic.”
“I can do it,” promptly declared Stanley. “Mr. White says I can do almost as well as a man on the loading gang.”
