THE START OF THE TRAIL 7 
The closing of a door woke me from my reverie, 
and there beside me stood a tall, meek-looking in- 
dividual, as yet but partly dressed. He was clothed 
above in a thick red flannel shirt, and he stood in 
an attitude of supplication, with his long arms 
outstretched toward the genial stove. 
“Jim,” he wailed, “didn’t yer get my writing 
telling yer to have hot water in my room at six 
o’clock ?” 
“Yep, I got yer letter,” the boy replied indig- 
nantly, “but yer didn’t say whether yer wanted 
it at six o’clock last night, this mornin’, or ter- 
night.” 
“Wal, can I have it now? I want to shave,” 
said the countryman. 
“Yep, yer can if it ain’t friz,” said Jim. 
At breakfast-time, day was just coming, but as 
yet no steps had been taken to outfit me for my 
journey into the woods. Life slows down in back- 
woods New England towns in the winter, and to 
get along with comfort one must accept conditions 
as one finds them.. Manners and customs cannot 
be changed for the moment. 
When I returned from the dining-room, half a 
dozen villagers were gathered round the hospitable 
office-stove, discussing’ the stranger within their 
gates. A violent argument was in progress. It 
seemed that there were three lumber-camps in 
