Stretching the length of the limb, he thought deeply, though he was not thinking of Black Jack or Wessner.  Would the Bird Woman and the Angel come again?  No other woman whom he ever had known would.  But did they resemble any other women he ever had known?  He thought of the Bird Woman’s unruffled face and the Angel’s revolver practice, and presently he was not so sure that they would not return.

What were the people in the big world like?  His knowledge was so very limited.  There had been people at the Home, who exchanged a stilted, perfunctory kindness for their salaries.  The visitors who called on receiving days he had divided into three classes:  the psalm-singing kind, who came with a tear in the eye and hypocrisy in every feature of their faces; the kind who dressed in silks and jewels, and handed to those poor little mother-hungry souls worn toys that their children no longer cared for, in exactly the same spirit in which they pitched biscuits to the monkeys at the zoo, and for the same reason—­to see how they would take them and be amused by what they would do; and the third class, whom he considered real people.  They made him feel they cared that he was there, and that they would have been glad to see him elsewhere.

Now here was another class, that had all they needed of the world’s best and were engaged in doing work that counted.  They had things worth while to be proud of; and they had met him as a son and brother.  With them he could, for the only time in his life, forget the lost hand that every day tortured him with a new pang.  What kind of people were they and where did they belong among the classes he knew?  He failed to decide, because he never had known others similar to them; but how he loved them!

In the world where he was going soon, were the majority like them, or were they of the hypocrite and bun-throwing classes?

He had forgotten the excitement of the morning and the passing of time when distant voices aroused him, and he gently lifted his head.  Nearer and nearer they came, and as the heavy wagons rumbled down the east trail he could hear them plainly.  The gang were shouting themselves hoarse for the Limberlost guard.  Freckles did not feel that he deserved it.  He would have given much to be able to go to the men and explain, but to McLean only could he tell his story.

At the sight of Freckles the men threw up their hats and cheered.  McLean shook hands with him warmly, but big Duncan gathered him into his arms and hugged him as a bear and choked over a few words of praise.  The gang drove in and finished felling the tree.  McLean was angry beyond measure at this attempt on his property, for in their haste to fell the tree the thieves had cut too high and wasted a foot and a half of valuable timber.

When the last wagon rolled away, McLean sat on the stump and Freckles told the story he was aching to tell.  The Boss scarcely could believe his senses.  Also, he was much disappointed.