"Salut, Merritt!" he said; "I t'ink it's long time since you were here, hey?"
The words as well as the look of the man told Wilbur his race and nation. Evidently of French origin, possibly with a trace of Indian in him, this burly son of generations of voyageurs looked his strength. Wilbur had gone up one winter to northern Wisconsin and Michigan where some of the big lumber camps were, and he knew the breed. He decided that Merritt's advice was extremely good; he would talk just as little as he had to.
The Supervisor wasted no time on preliminary greetings. That was not his way.
"How much lumber did you cut last winter off ground that didn't belong to you?" he queried shortly.
"Off land not mine?"
"You heard my question!"
"I cut him off my own land," said the millman with an injured expression.
"Some of it."
"You scale all the logs I cut. You mark him. I sell him. All right."
"You tell it well," commented the Supervisor tersely. "But it don't go, Jo. How much was there?"