Canyon, and the feet of men churned the wet sunless earth into mire and
bog-hole. And when they had done this they sought new paths, till
there were many paths. And on such a path Frona came upon a man spread
carelessly in the mud. He lay on his side, legs apart and one arm
buried beneath him, pinned down by a bulky pack. His cheek was
pillowed restfully in the ooze, and on his face there was an expression
of content. He brightened when he saw her, and his eyes twinkled
cheerily.

"'Bout time you hove along," he greeted her. "Been waitin' an hour on
you as it is."

"That's it," as Frona bent over him. "Just unbuckle that strap. The
pesky thing! 'Twas just out o' my reach all the time."

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

He slipped out of his straps, shook himself, and felt the twisted arm.
"Nope. Sound as a dollar, thank you. And no kick to register,
either." He reached over and wiped his muddy hands on a low-bowed
spruce. "Just my luck; but I got a good rest, so what's the good of
makin' a beef about it? You see, I tripped on that little root there,
and slip! slump! slam! and slush!--there I was, down and out, and the
buckle just out o' reach. And there I lay for a blasted hour,
everybody hitting the lower path."

"But why didn't you call out to them?"

"And make 'em climb up the hill to me? Them all tuckered out with
their own work? Not on your life! Wasn't serious enough. If any