The boy drew a quivering breath.  Then he whipped off his old hat and beat the dust from it carefully.  With his left hand he caught the right sleeve, wiped his sweaty face, and tried to straighten his hair with his fingers.  He broke a spray of ironwort beside him and used the purple bloom to beat the dust from his shoulders and limbs.  The Boss, busy over his report, was, nevertheless, vaguely alive to the toilet being made behind him, and scored one for the man.

McLean was a Scotchman.  It was his habit to work slowly and methodically.  The men of his camps never had known him to be in a hurry or to lose his temper.  Discipline was inflexible, but the Boss was always kind.  His habits were simple.  He shared camp life with his gangs.  The only visible signs of wealth consisted of a big, shimmering diamond stone of ice and fire that glittered and burned on one of his fingers, and the dainty, beautiful thoroughbred mare he rode between camps and across the country on business.

No man of McLean’s gangs could honestly say that he ever had been overdriven or underpaid.  The Boss never had exacted any deference from his men, yet so intense was his personality that no man of them ever had attempted a familiarity.  They all knew him to be a thorough gentleman, and that in the great timber city several millions stood to his credit.

He was the only son of that McLean who had sent out the finest ships ever built in Scotland.  That his son should carry on this business after the father’s death had been his ambition.  He had sent the boy through the universities of Oxford and Edinburgh, and allowed him several years’ travel before he should attempt his first commission for the firm.

Then he was ordered to southern Canada and Michigan to purchase a consignment of tall, straight timber for masts, and south to Indiana for oak beams.  The young man entered these mighty forests, parts of which lay untouched since the dawn of the morning of time.  The clear, cool, pungent atmosphere was intoxicating.  The intense silence, like that of a great empty cathedral, fascinated him.  He gradually learned that, to the shy wood creatures that darted across his path or peeped inquiringly from leafy ambush, he was brother.  He found himself approaching, with a feeling of reverence, those majestic trees that had stood through ages of sun, wind, and snow.  Soon it became difficult to fell them.  When he had filled his order and returned home, he was amazed to learn that in the swamps and forests he had lost his heart and it was calling—­forever calling him.

When he inherited his father’s property, he promptly disposed of it, and, with his mother, founded a home in a splendid residence in the outskirts of Grand Rapids.  With three partners, he organized a lumber company.  His work was to purchase, fell, and ship the timber to the mills.  Marshall managed the milling process and passed the lumber to the factory.  From the lumber, Barthol made beautiful and useful