truth. Anecdotes disbelieved, the class of men from it would have
given it a reputation. The latter was varied enough, in truth.
Some people thought Camp One must be a sort of hell-hole of roaring,
fighting devils. Others sighed and made rapid calculations of the
number of logs they could put in, if only they could get hold of
help like that.

Thorpe himself, of course, made his headquarters at Camp One.
Thence he visited at least once a week all the other camps,
inspecting the minutest details, not only of the work, but of
the everyday life. For this purpose he maintained a light box
sleigh and pair of bays, though often, when the snow became deep,
he was forced to snowshoes.

During the five years he had never crossed the Straits of Mackinaw.
The rupture with his sister had made repugnant to him all the
southern country. He preferred to remain in the woods. All winter
long he was more than busy at his logging. Summers he spent at the
mill. Occasionally he visited Marquette, but always on business.
He became used to seeing only the rough faces of men. The vision of
softer graces and beauties lost its distinctness before this strong,
hardy northland, whose gentler moods were like velvet over iron, or
like its own summer leaves veiling the eternal darkness of the pines.

He was happy because he was too busy to be anything else. The
insistent need of success which he had created for himself, absorbed
all other sentiments. He demanded it of others rigorously. He
could do no less than demand it of himself. It had practically
become one of his tenets of belief. The chief end of any man, as
he saw it, was to do well and successfully what his life found ready.