He knew something of the Forest Service, and had been told that many of the rangers were college men. He resolved to make their acquaintance. “If I’m to stay here they will help me endure the exile,” he said.

After breakfast he went forth to find the post-office, expecting a letter of instructions from Meeker. He found nothing of the sort, and this quite disconcerted him.

“The stage is gone,” the postmistress told him, “and you can’t get up till day after to-morrow. You might reach Meeker by using the government ’phone, however.”

“Where will I find the government ’phone?”

“Down in the Supervisor’s office. They’re very accommodating; they’ll let you use it, if you tell them who you want to reach.”

It was impossible to miss the forestry building for the reason that a handsome flag fluttered above it. The door being open, Norcross perceived from the threshold a young clerk at work on a typewriter, while in a corner close by the window another and older man was working intently on a map.

“Is this the office of the Forest Supervisor?” asked the youth.

The man at the machine looked up, and pleasantly answered: “It is, but the Supervisor is not in yet. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“It may be you can. I am on my way to Meeker’s Mill for a little outing. Perhaps you could tell me where Meeker’s Mill is, and how I can best get there.”

The man at the map meditated. “It’s not far, some eighteen or twenty miles; but it’s over a pretty rough trail.”

“What kind of a place is it?”

“Very charming. You’ll like it. Real mountain country.”

This officer was a plain-featured man of about thirty-five, with keen and clear eyes. His voice, though strongly nasal, possessed a note of manly sincerity. As he studied his visitor, he smiled.

“You look brand-new—haven’t had time to season-check, have you?”

“No; I’m a stranger in a strange land.”

“Out for your health?”

“Yes. My name is Norcross. I’m just getting over a severe illness, and I’m up here to lay around and fish and recuperate—if I can.”

“You can—you will. You can’t help it,” the other assured him. “Join one of our surveying crews for a week and I’ll mellow that suit of yours and make a real mountaineer of you. I see you wear a Sigma Chi pin. What was your school?”

“I am a ‘Son of Eli.’ Last year’s class.”

The other man displayed his fob. “I’m ten classes ahead of you. My name is Nash. I’m what they call an ‘expert.’ I’m up here doing some estimating and surveying for a big ditch they’re putting in. I was rather in hopes you had come to join our ranks. We sons of Eli are holding the conservation fort these days, and we need help.”

“My knowledge of your work is rather vague,” admitted Norcross. “My father is in the lumber business; but his point of view isn’t exactly yours.”

“He slays ’em, does he?”

“He did. He helped devastate Michigan.”

“After me the deluge! I know the kind. Why not make yourself a sort of vicarious atonement?”

Norcross smiled. “I had not thought of that.