Next morning Bob was set to work with young Jack Pollock stringing barbed wire fence.  He had never done this before.  The spools of wire weighed on him heavily.  A crowbar thrust through the core made them a sort of axle with which to carry it.  Thus they walked forward, revolving the heavy spool with the greatest care while the strand of wire unwound behind them.  Every once in a while a coil would kink, or buckle back, or strike as swiftly and as viciously as a snake.  The sharp barbs caught at their clothing, and tore Bob’s hands.  Jack Pollock seemed familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the stuff, for he suffered little damage.  Indeed, he even found leisure, as Bob soon discovered, to scrutinize his companion with a covert curiosity.  In the eyes of the countryside, Bob had been “fired,” and had been forced to take a job rangering.  When the entangling strand had been laid along the ground by the newly planted cedar posts, it became necessary to stretch and fasten it.  Here, too, young Jack proved himself a competent teacher.  He showed Bob how to get a tremendous leverage with the curve on the back of an ordinary hammer by means of which the wire was held taut until the staples could be driven home.  It was aggravating, nervous, painful work for one not accustomed to it.  Bob’s hands were soon cut and bleeding, no matter how gingerly he took hold of the treacherous wire.  To all his comments, heated and otherwise, Jack Pollock opposed the mountaineer’s determined inscrutability.  He watched Bob’s efforts always in silence until that young man had made all his mistakes.  Then he spat carefully, and, with quiet patience, did it right.

Bob’s sense of humour was tickled.  With all his education and his subsequent wide experience and training, he stood in the position of a very awkward subordinate to this mountain boy.  The joke of it was that the matter was so entirely his own choice.  In the normal relations of industry Bob would have been the boss of a hundred activities and twice that number of men; while Jack Pollock, at best, would be water-boy or fuel-purveyor to a donkey engine.  Along in the middle of the morning young Elliott passed carrying a crowbar and a spade.

“How’ll you trade jobs?” he called.

“What’s yours?” asked Bob.

“I’m going to make two cedar posts grow where none grew before,” said Elliott.

At noon they knocked off and went back to the ranger camp where they cooked their own meal.  Most of the older rangers were afield.  A half-dozen of the newcomers and probationers only were there.  Elliott, Jack Pollock, two other young mountaineers, Ware and one of the youths from the valley towns had apparently passed the examinations and filled vacancies.  All, with the exception of Elliott and this latter youth—­Curtis by name—­were old hands at taking care of themselves in the woods, so matters of their own accord fell into a rough system.  Some built the fire, one mixed bread, others busied themselves with the rest of the provisions.  Elliott rummaged about, and set the rough table with the battered service.  Only Curtis, seated with his back against a tree, appeared too utterly exhausted or ignorant to take hold at anything.  Indeed, he hardly spoke to his companions, ate hastily, and disappeared into his own quarters without offering to help wash the dishes.