fisherman drew up a two-pound trout, wondering a little at her own
subtle changes of mood. Her surrounding played upon her like a virtuoso
on his violin. And this was something that she did not recall as a trait
in her own character. She had never inclined to the volatile--perhaps
because until the motor accident snuffed out her father's life she had
never dealt in anything but superficial emotions.

After a time she retraced her steps. Nearing the halfway slip, she saw
that a wagon from which goods were being unloaded blocked the way. A
dozen men were stringing in from the road, bearing bundles and bags and
rolls of blankets. They were big, burly men, carrying themselves with a
reckless swing, with trousers cut off midway between knee and ankle so
that they reached just below the upper of their high-topped, heavy,
laced boots. Two or three were singing. All appeared unduly happy,
talking loudly, with deep laughter. One threw down his burden and
executed a brief clog. Splinters flew where the sharp calks bit into the
wharf planking, and his companions applauded.

It dawned upon Stella Benton that these might be Jack Fyfe's drunken
loggers, and she withdrew until the way should be clear, vitally
interested because her brother was a logging man, and wondering if these
were the human tools he used in his business, if these were the sort of
men with whom he associated. They were a rough lot--and some were very
drunk. With the manifestations of liquor she had but the most shadowy
acquaintance. But she would have been little less than a fool not to
comprehend this.

Then they began filing down the gangway to the boat's deck. One slipped,
and came near falling into the water, whereat his fellows howled
gleefully. Precariously they negotiated the slanting passage. All but