It crossed his mind that there might be something less arduous than this shovelling in the wet thaw or picking at frozen gravel in the hot sun.  If so, the Colonel might be induced to exchange.  It was obvious that, like so many Southerners, he stood the sun very ill.  While they were agreeing upon a rendezvous the Superintendent came back.

“Our bunk-house is yonder,” he said, pointing.  A kind of sickness came over the Kentuckian as he recalled the place.  He turned to his pardner.

“Wish we’d got a pack-mule and brought our tent out from Dawson.”  Then, apologetically, to the Superintendent:  “You see, sah, there are men who take to bunk-houses just as there are women who want to live in hotels; and there are others who want a place to call home, even if it’s a tent.”

The Superintendent smiled.  “That’s the way we feel about it in Alabama.”  He reflected an instant.  “There’s that big new tent up there on the hill, next to the Buckeyes’ cabin.  Good tent; belongs to a couple o’ rich Englishmen, third owners in No. 0.  Gone to Atlin.  Told me to do what I liked with that tent.  You might bunk there while they’re away.”

“Now, that’s mighty good of you, sah.  Next whose cabin did you say?”

“Oh, I don’t know their names.  They have a lay on seventeen.  Ohio men.  They’re called Buck One and Buck Two.  Anybody’ll show you to the Buckeyes’;” and he turned away to shout “Gate!” for the head of water was too strong, and he strode off towards the lock.

As the Boy tramped about looking for work he met a great many on the same quest.  It seemed as if the Colonel had secured the sole job on the creek.  Still, vacancies might occur any hour.

In the big new tent the Colonel lay asleep on a little camp-bed, (mercifully left there by the rich Englishmen), “gettin’ ready for the night-shift.”  As he stood looking down upon him, a sudden wave of pity came over the Boy.  He knew the Colonel didn’t “really and truly have to do this kind of thing; he just didn’t like givin’ in.”  But behind all that there was a sense in the younger mind that here was a life unlike his own, which dimly he foresaw was to find its legitimate expression in battle and in striving.  Here, in the person of the Colonel, no soldier fore-ordained, but a serene and equable soul wrenched out of its proper sphere by a chance hurt to a woman, forsooth! an imagination so stirred that, if it slept at all, it dreamed and moaned in its sleep, as now; a conscience wounded and refusing to heal.  Had he not said himself that he had come up here to forget?  It was best to let him have the job that was too heavy for him—­yes, it was best, after all.

And so they lived for a few days, the Boy chafing and wanting to move on, the Colonel very earnest to have him stay.

“Something sure to turn up, and, anyhow, letters—­my instruction——­” And he encouraged the acquaintance the Boy had struck up with the Buckeyes, hoping against hope that to go over and smoke a pipe, and exchange experiences with such mighty good fellows would lighten the tedium of the long day spent looking for a job.