With her mind running indignantly against
compulsion, nevertheless her muscles involuntarily moved to obey. It
irritated her further that she should feel in the least constrained to
obey the calmly expressed wish of this quiet-spoken woodsman. Certain
possible phases of a lengthy sojourn in Jack Fyfe's camp shot across her
mind. He seemed of uncanny perception, for he answered this thought
before it was clearly formed.
"Oh, you'll be properly chaperoned, and you won't have to mix with the
crew," he drawled. "I've got all kinds of room. My boss logger's wife is
up from town for a while. She's a fine, motherly old party, and she
keeps us all in order."
"I haven't had any lunch," she temporized. "Have you?"
He shook his head.
"I rowed over here before twelve. Thought I'd get you back to camp in
time for dinner. You know," he said with a twinkle in his blue eyes, "a
logger never eats anything but a meal. A lunch to us is a snack that you
put in your pocket. I guess we lack tone out here. We haven't got past
the breakfast-dinner-supper stage yet; too busy making the country fit
to live in."
"You have a tremendous job in hand," she observed.
"Oh, maybe," he laughed. "All in the way you look at it. Suits some of
us. Well, if we get to my camp before three, the cook might feed us.
Come on. You'll get to hating yourself if you stay here alone till
Charlie's through."
Why not? Thus she parleyed with herself, one half of her minded to stand
upon her dignity, the other part of her urging acquiescence in his wish
that was almost a command.
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