CRUISING 41 
lines, wandering over the page in reckless fashion, 
produced nothing but what map men call ‘‘impos- 
sible country.’’ 
‘It doesn’t look very encouraging,’’ I ventured. 
‘‘Encouraging!’’ snapped the chief, ‘‘it isn’t 
worth a damn! I don’t believe Wetherby ever 
cruised before in his life. He only ran out three 
forties to-day and took twelve hours to do it! It’s 
the limit!’ ' 
‘‘Now that I think of it,’’ I said, ‘‘he never really 
told us he’d done any actual timber work. Most of 
his stories were rather vague in that respect, if you 
remember.’’ 
‘‘But he’s got all the theories,’’ shouted Frazer, 
thoroughly exasperated, ‘‘he can tell you all about 
it. He must have read up on the work before he 
came on. It makes me sick!’’ 
‘‘What are you going to do about it?’’ I asked, 
feeling vaguely that Frazer’s confidences boded me 
no great good fortune. 
“‘Well,’? he said, staring at me speculatively, 
“‘there’s only one thing to do—you’ll have to get 
busy and cruise regularly, as soon as you can learn 
enough about it. I can’t trust Wetherby on that 
sort of work at all. I was going to put you on the 
baseline with the axe, but Wetherby gets the job. 
If he’ll shed a part of that warehouse he carries 
around he ought to be able at least to blaze trees.’’ 
So next day, after a mild ‘‘bawling out,’’ which 
Horace took with commendable meekness, he con- 
