LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
silence. Can you believe that even after the taking out of the door-frame that stubborn thing wouldn’t go in? The only hope left was in the removing of a projecting plate, strongly riveted with bolts,—a task for John L. Sullivan. But Tom was mad now; “his strength was as the strength of ten.” With chisel and monkey-wrench he bore down upon the offending obstacle and literally tore it out by the roots. Lidless, doorless, and backless, like a shorn Samson, the stove then went quietly enough to its fate. After the pipe was jointed and poked out through a hole in the roof (there being no chimney), it became apparent that some one must climb up there and wire it in position, a dangerous undertaking, the roofs of Oregon houses being as steep as toboggan slides, and this one just now glazed with sleet. Bert believed he could do the trick by nailing wooden cleats for each advancing step. There being no ladder on the premises, a table, surmounted by a barrel, was placed at the edge of the porch. The daring adventurer, armed with hatchet, nails, and a coil of wire, mounted this pedestal, observing that he felt quite like a performing elephant. After violent struggling and some vigorous boosting, he was safely landed on the porch roof. Crossing it gingerly, he called down, “Now send up your lumber,” which went up with the caution,—
“Nail ’em on firm, old chap; you’re in ticklish business.” It certainly was “ticklish.” That almost
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