At the moment, Ed Murray, supervisor of the Absarokee Division of the
Yellowstone National Forest, was peeved. “Read that!” he snorted,
shoving a letter from his particular higher-ups in Washington into the
hands of his stolid secretary who, by the way, comprised the entire
office force of the Absarokee Division.
The secretary obediently began reading in a slightly singsong tone:
“Under separate cover we are mailing you blank township
maps. As a measure of economy you are instructed to have
some member of your office force sketch in the necessary
data, using the inclosed legends which have been made
official for all forest-service maps. We——”
“That’s all—never mind the official trimmings,” Murray curtly
interrupted. “Point is this: You’re the office force. What’re you
going to do about it? Think you can fill in the maps?”
While the secretary calmly ruminated upon the subject of map making,
Murray watched her with a twinkle of amusement, though that did not in
the least degree soften his resentment against Washington.
“I could do anything on the typewriter if it would fit in the
machine,” Christine at length decided. “If they are big maps, I could
fold them lengthwise without carbon, but they might slip on the
roller, which is too slick. If it is figures, I do not mind so much,
but if it is those funny signs for surveying I must copy them with a
pen, and that is no joke if I am in a hurry. I think if it is much
work, Mr. Murray, I should get more wages.”
“Huh! Well, as you say, making maps on a typewriter is no joke, and I
guess you’d earn your money all right!” Her employer noted the
clearing of Christine’s placid blue eyes, gave another inarticulate
snort and returned to his own problem, knowing that Christine was
unlikely to repeat his words.
“Seems like I’ve got troubles enough in this district, fighting every
cowman, sheepman, timberman and nester in the State. I’m always
short-handed, always got a row on my hands with some one who thinks I
ought to turn the reserve over to him just because we used to punch
cows together! When I don’t, they think I’m trying to ride them on
account of some little argument over brands that might have come up
when I was stock inspector.
“Some member of the office force!” he growled, remembering the letter.
“Huh! They must think I’m runnin’ two wagons and a regular round-up
crew in this office! Far as that goes, I could take my rangers and
work the reserve quicker than these darned cow outfits—picked ’em off
the range myself, most of them. But when it comes to making
maps—— They’re like you, Christine. You could do it on the typewriter,
you think; they might tackle it with a branding iron! Some member of
my office force! My gosh! Take this letter, Christine. I’ll tell them
poker-faced politicians in Washington what——”
“Do you want that in the letter?” Christine lifted her plump white
hand to pluck the pencil from her silky blond hair.
“Lord, no! Dog-gone that June 11th Act and its maps and pamphlets and
systems and all that bunk! What I’m going to need is a crew of civil
engineers and an addition on this office. Washington must think all
forest rangers are merely desk men! Why——”
“Should that be incorporated in the body of the letter, Mr. Murray?”
Christine was patiently waiting with pencil point on her pad. “I could
make a note and beg to inform them in a polite way that you have no
office force and your secretary works until six o’clock sometimes——”
“No!” shouted Murray. “What does Washington care how long my secretary
works? Take this—verbatim. None of your business-college trimmings—I
want it typed the way I say it! I’ll tell them——”
The office door opened, admitting six feet of husky young manhood who
saluted Murray and snapped into attention while he took in the entire
office force with flicking glances of blue eyes that twinkled
habitually. It may go on record that the entire office force
instinctively patted its blond hair and modestly cast down its eyes of
blue—with sundry furtive inspections when it thought the military
visitor was not looking.
“Are you the forest supervisor, sir?” Somehow the habitual twinkle in
the stranger’s eyes seemed to match a certain rollicky Irish tone of
his voice, as if he had a joke on the tip of his tongue and needed
scant encouragement to tell it.
“I am. What can I do for you?”
“You might read these letters of Recommendation, sir, and if they suit
you, then you might give me a job.” He grinned as he handed Murray two
letters and stepped back.
* * * * *
The first letter came from the national forest service and was signed
by the chief. It stated that the bearer, Patrick R. O’Neill, had at
his own request been transferred from Arizona to Montana, and was
competent to perform all duties pertaining to the forest service. The
other was from the supervisor of the Black Mesa National Forest,
Arizona, and spoke in highest terms of the qualifications of this same
Patrick O’Neill. Murray read both with care before he so much as
glanced again at the man. When he did, he saw Patrick O’Neill still
standing at attention, still with the twinkle in his eyes.
“Huh! Seen army service, too, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Two years and a half at West Point.”
“Holy mackerel! Two years and a half—you learned how to make maps,
didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lock the door, Christine! Quick, before he gets away! Damn it, man,
you’re needed in this office! Sit down and let’s talk. Christine,
can’t you tell a joke unless it’s labeled? Unlock that door!”
“I was taught obedience to my employer by the business college. You
say I am to lock the door and I lock it. I should not read your mind
or some day I lose my job.” Christine unlocked the door which she had
obediently locked, sat down at her desk and began wiping the speckless
old typewriter before her, while she still patiently waited for the
letter her boss was going to write.
“Tell me first why you quit West Point,” Murray was saying. “I’d have
given my left arm for such a chance when I was a young man.”
“Technically speaking, I quit, Mr. Murray, but it was merely a
strategic move on my part. I’d rather walk out than be kicked out.”
“Huh?”
“Insubordination, sir. We had a major—an old woman he was, Mr. Murray.
Always putting us through our paces in civil engineering. One day he
called on me in class to explain just how I would go about raising a
hundred-and-fifty-foot flagpole. I said, ‘I would call a sergeant,
sir, and I would say to the sergeant, “Sergeant, take a detail of men
and raise that hundred-and-fifty-foot flagpole which you see lying
there.”’
“The major lost his temper, sir. He accused me of being facetious. I
replied that no one ever heard of an officer of the United States army
so violating the traditions of his rank as to perform the menial task
of raising flagpoles, and that I had clearly stated the method by
which I would go about it, just as he had requested me to do. The
major further forgot himself, sir. He called me an impudent young
puppy. I thereupon saluted and walked out of the classroom. My sojourn
at West Point ended shortly thereafter, sir.” Grin and twinkle
combined to give Patrick O’Neill a look of personified good humor.
Murray roared with laughter; a circumstance unusual in that office
where worry perched like a raven on his file case.
“How about making forest-service maps? Would you call upon the office
force and tell them to fill in the blank township maps with the proper
data—using a typewriter?”
Patrick O’Neill laughed. “No, I think I’d prefer to make the maps
myself. It would be child’s play after the map making at West Point,
and help me to familiarize myself with forest boundaries before you
assign me to a district. If I can get hold of a couple of surfaced
boards and a two-by-four, Mr. Murray, I’ll just knock together a table
and set it beside that north window and go to work, sir.”
“Huh! Christine, phone the lumber yard and tell them to let Pat
O’Neill have whatever material he wants to pick out, and send it up
here immediately. Say it’s for the forest service.”
So this is how Patrick O’Neill, some time of West Point and lately of
Black Mesa, Arizona, came into the service of the Yellowstone National
Forest.