They stepped abruptly, without transition, into the town.  A double row of unpainted board shanties led straight to the water’s edge.  This row was punctuated by four buildings different from the rest—­a huge rambling structure with a wide porch over which was suspended a large bell; a neatly painted smaller building labelled “Office”; a trim house surrounded by what would later be a garden; and a square-fronted store.  The street between was soft and springy with sawdust and finely broken shingles.  Various side streets started out bravely enough, but soon petered out into stump land.  Along one of them were extensive stables.

Bob followed his conductor in silence.  After an interval they mounted short steps and entered the office.

Here Bob found himself at once in a small entry railed off from the main room by a breast-high line of pickets strong enough to resist a battering-ram.  A man he had seen walking across from the mill was talking rapidly through a tiny wicket, emphasizing some point on a soiled memorandum by the indication of a stubby forefinger.  He was a short, active, blue-eyed man, very tanned.  Bob looked at him with interest, for there was something about him the young man did not recognize, something he liked—­a certain independent carriage of the head, a certain self-reliance in the set of his shoulders, a certain purposeful directness of his whole personality.  When he caught sight of Fox he turned briskly, extending his hand.

“How are you, Mr. Fox?” he greeted.  “Just in?”

“Hullo, Johnny,” replied Fox, “how are things?  I see you’re busy.”

“Yes, we’re busy,” replied the man, “and we’ll keep busy.”

“Everything going all right?”

“Pretty good.  Poor lot of men this year.  A good many of the old men haven’t showed up this year—­some sort of pull-out to Oregon and California.  I’m having a little trouble with them off and on.”

“I’ll bet on you to stay on top,” replied Fox easily.  “I’ll be over to see you pretty soon.”

The man nodded to the bookkeeper with whom he had been talking, and turned to go out.  As he passed Bob, that young man was conscious of a keen, gimlet scrutiny from the blue eyes, a scrutiny instantaneous, but which seemed to penetrate his very flesh to the soul of him.  He experienced a distinct physical shock as at the encountering of an elemental force.

He came to himself to hear Fox saying: 

“That’s Johnny Mason, our mill foreman.  He has charge of all the sawing, and is a mighty good man.  You’ll see more of him.”

The speaker opened a gate in the picket railing and stepped inside.

A long shelf desk, at which were high stools, backed up against the pickets; a big round stove occupied the centre; a safe crowded one corner.  Blue print maps decorated the walls.  Coarse rope matting edged with tin strips protected the floor.  A single step down through a door led into a painted private office where could be seen a flat table desk.  In the air hung a mingled odour of fresh pine, stale tobacco, and the closeness of books.