“Well,” said Brent, “I suppose we’d better kill the fatted calf and dust
the cabin and tidy up a bit. Keep the home fires burning. He might drop
off the freight at Tuxedo. Do you think I ought to put on a white
collar?”
They were lingering in the cabin as they usually did after lunch. “And
the dishes not washed, either,” Brent added.
This kind of talk always nettled yet amused Tom.
“It may be days and days, if he comes at all,” he said. “Well, we’re
having a good time of it, aren’t we?”
“Watchful waiting,” mused Brent. “What do you say we go fishing this
afternoon, Tommy? I’m getting tired of bacon.”
“Suits me,” said Tom.
“Here comes the kid again,” said Brent.
Someone was approaching the cabin with quick steps. Presently there was
a brisk knock on the door.
“Come in, Spiffy,” said Brent.
The door opened and a stranger entered. He was evidently the person
whose back Tom had seen on a previous occasion. He showed neither
hesitancy nor embarrassment; indeed, his entrance and briskly cordial
bearing bespoke one who had nothing to explain or conceal.
He was a young man of athletic build, certainly not more than thirty
years of age. He had replaced his lost hat with another one, and under
the edge of this the campers could see a profusion of bushy gray hair.
Clearly he was gray long before his time. He wore a lumberjack sweater
of bizarre design, khaki trousers, and gaiters laced up to his knees.
His general appearance of an out-of-doors man was somewhat modified by
the rimless nose glasses which he wore. Since Tom knew that he was not a
Scout official, he was led (not a little by the glasses perhaps) to
suspect that he might be a young army officer. Though, to be sure, there
was no better reason for hitting upon this supposition than that
combination of a rather studious and intellectual appearance and
semi-military costume with his self-possessed outdoor manner. He had not
exactly an air of authority. Yet he did have a certain breezy assurance
about him which somehow (to Tom at least) suggested the officer class of
the army. At all events, for the first moment or two our campers seemed
at a disadvantage.
“Excuse me,” said the stranger briskly; “you camping here?”
“Looks that way,” said Brent.
“You haven’t seen anybody around in here examining trees?”
Tom shook his head. “I think I saw you before, didn’t I?” he added.
“Yes?” the stranger asked curiously.
“Down in--near our car?”
“Oh, did you? Yes, I looked in there one day; in fact, I bunked there
overnight. All right, I suppose?”
“Sure enough,” said Tom, somewhat relieved by this frank declaration; “I
thought you saw me that day.”
“No. I’m in the conservation service; checking up on trees around here;
I sleep anywhere I happen to be,” the visitor said briskly. “I was on
the watch for a telephone gang; you’ve got to get them red-handed, you
know; they work at night. They need an extra pole or so, and findings is
keepings. You’ve got some pretty rotten looking trees around here.”
“They don’t belong to us,” said Brent.
“You expecting them to chop some trees around here?” Tom asked, with
increasing interest.
“Well, I did; but I guess they know I’m around.”
“Sit down and make yourself at home,” said Tom. “You for the state or
federal government?”
“Oh, state,” the visitor answered, so briskly that Tom felt chided for
his ignorance. “You know they’re building a dam over here by Brundige
Mountain----”
“Oh, yes, I know,” said Tom.
“They’ve got the old road turned into a quagmire,” said the government
man, contemplating his boots ruefully through his rimless glasses.
“We’re going to bring some of the cement in through here and fill some
of the trees; cut down the waste.”
“You mean the trees?” Brent asked.
“Oh, no,” the visitor laughed. “Just put cement in where the trees are
starting to decay; _filling_ we call it; tree dentistry.”
“It’s a mighty good thing, too,” said Tom; “a stitch in time. They’re
doing a lot of that work up in the Catskills.”
“Well, they’re not going far into the woods--they can’t,” the visitor
said, in his brisk, sociable way. “You fellows smoke?”
“I’ll take a cigarette,” said Brent.
“You see it’s only when a dam or something like that is built away back
that we can ring in a little of this work. We graft on the engineering
enterprise and get some cement. Wherever you find construction work
going on in the woods or mountains, you’ll find some tree doctoring
going on; sort of by-product.”
“It gives you a good chance,” said Tom. “I suppose you go ahead of the
men and mark the trees?”
“Yes, and half the time they don’t get around to the trees I mark.”
“You come from Buffalo?” Brent asked.
“Buffalo and all over. I chalked, I guess, five hundred trees up in that
region. Ever been in the Great Lakes section?”
“No,” said Tom. “I saw a Buffalo imprint in your hat that you left----”
“Yes, I don’t wear one half the time; just let my hair grow long. A
hat’s a blame nuisance climbing trees. I was wondering if you fellows
could put me up here for a few days?”
“We sure could,” said Tom. “The place don’t belong to us; we’re just
camping here.”
“Gulch, they call it--or Gully or something or other?”
“Rattlesnake Gulch,” said Tom. “Some name, huh?”
“Don’t look much like Broadway,” laughed the visitor.
“There aren’t many dances,” said Brent.
The visitor laughed heartily--a friendly, appreciative laugh. “Well, I’m
not likely to bother you much,” he said. “I’m going to chalk up some
trees around Brundige Mountain, then maybe I’ll drop in here to-morrow,
and, if you don’t mind, I’ll make a headquarters here for a few
days--just bunk in a corner.”
“You can have the bridal suite in the lean-to,” said Brent. “Nothing is
too good for Uncle Sam.”
“Father Knickerbocker you mean,” said Tom.
“Guess that old guy means New York City, doesn’t he?” the conservation
man asked, rising, “or maybe he stands for the state at that,” he added,
giving his khaki trousers a perfunctory brushing.
“Well, the state conservation bunch can bunk in here any time,” Tom said
heartily.
“Do you do cross-word puzzles?” Brent asked.
“’Fraid not,” the visitor laughed. “Well, I’ll see you later.”
“How’s the work going on over there?” Tom asked.
“The dam? Oh, there’s going to be quite a lake over there. Only there’s
a lot of trees down on the lower reaches of the mountain that have got
to be filled.” He lingered in the doorway as if quite willing to
explain. “You see, if they rot, why then there’s nothing left to hold
the earth together on those slopes. What’s the result? It slides down
into the lake and fills it up with mud. In the end they have to dredge
it. That’s what they call erosion--earth falling away from where it
belongs because there are no roots to hold it together. You see trees
are important.”
“Well, I guess,” said Tom.
“The federal government is doing a lot of that out west,” said the
visitor. He seemed quite willing to explain this interesting work,
pausing still in the doorway, and smiling as if to encourage further
questions.
“Well, I’m mighty glad you dropped in on us,” said Tom. “My name is
Slade and my chum’s name is Gaylong.”
“Glad to know both of you,” said the visitor, with a little nod of
acknowledgment. “My name’s Lawton.”
“Don’t you go to camping anywhere else now,” Tom said.
“Thanks,” said Lawton briskly; “you’ll see me.” And he hurried away.