154 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
I could imagine some of those tedium destroying 
spats. 
‘‘What became of Jake?’’ I shouted. 
‘‘Hey! Oh, we’d been quar’lin putty reg’lar and 
Jake come in one night and hung up his hat on one 
of them nails over yonder, an’ while he was washin’ 
up for dinner I sez to him, says I, ‘Jake, what ye 
been a doin’ this arternoon?’ He jest grunted an’ 
set down to supper and never said a word endurin’ 
th’ meal. 
‘“‘Afterward Jake gits up an’ starts off fer th’ 
barn plumb mad, fergittin’ his hat, he’s so putt out 
over my questionin’ him thataway. ‘Whar y’ 
goin’?’ I hollers after him, not thinkin’ he’d answer, 
but he does. ‘Oh I’m jist goin’ t’ hunt th’ burros,’ 
he says, mighty sarcastic. 
‘Well, sir, that was four year ago, and I hain’t 
never laid eyes on Jake sence. An’ them two bur- 
ros he went t’ hunt, they dis’peared ’bout th’ same 
time.’’ 
The old man chuckled inaudibly, sucking his pipe 
with vast enjoyment. 
Just then there sounded a rousing knock at the 
door. Reed stiffened, shifted in his chair, took his 
pipe in his left hand while his right lay negligently 
in the vicinity of his hip pocket, and cried out, 
“Come in!’’ 
There entered at the summons a little, weazened 
man with bowed shoulders and a preternaturally 
solemn countenance, wrinkled as to forehead and 
