“Hello, you son-of-a-gun!”
“How the hell are ye?”
Donald was subjected to crushing hand-clasps as he was introduced to each and every one of this crowd of husky loggers.
As Donald studied them he did not wonder at Gillis’s pride in these men. With the exception of Blackie, there was none under six feet in height, and they carried themselves with a loose swing that was almost a swagger. Many of them were well past middle age, some quite grey about the temples. They were all filled with the sparkling health of the great outdoors, their skins the colour of mahogany.
“Where’s the bunk-house?” asked Blackie.
“We don’t call them bunk-houses any more, we have dormitories,” corrected Gillis as he nudged Donald slyly.
“A what?” questioned the puzzled Blackie.
“Dormitories,” repeated Gillis.
Blackie glowered at his boss. “What are you runnin’, a ladies’ seminary?” he questioned sarcastically.
“And another thing, you don’t need your blankets. Company furnishes ’em,” informed Gillis.