they saw them into boards and city people buy them, believing they’re spruce or some other kind.”
“Bub,” cried Stanley despairingly, “is there anything about the woods you don’t know?”
“What! me? I mean—I!” exclaimed Bub in genuine amazement. “Why, my son, I know nothing about the woods. I’m simply trying to learn.”
“Then what chance do I have to master that information?” asked Stanley.
“Not a chance in the world to master it,” quickly replied Bub, now speaking earnestly. “In the first place you are not cut out for a woodsman. You must be born here to really know the timber business. You might handle the office end, but I doubt that. You’re not cut out for this sort of thing. You’ll pick up a lots—lots what I tell you. Your suggestion to Hatton about the pipe line was a dandy; I’d never had brains enough to think of it in a million years. But you’re not the simon pure article as a woodsman. But cheer up, there’s lots drawing good salaries who don’t know the game any better than you will after you’ve served your time at it.” The last was meant to soothe Stanley, who did not relish his plain speaking.
