He opened another letter, but did not read it. He was too profoundly shaken by the first. He felt the pure friendship, the fine faith, and the guardianship of the writer, and he acknowledged the good sense of all she said, and yet—and yet—
When he looked up Swenson was staring down at him with a face of such bitterness that it broke through even the absorbed and selfish meditation into which he had been thrown.
“What’s the matter, Swenson? You look as if you had lost a friend.”
“I have,” answered the guard, shortly, “and so have you. The chief is out.”
“They’ve got him!” he exclaimed. “He’s out.”
Cavanagh sprang up. “I don’t believe it! For what reason? Why?”
“Don’t that letter tell you? The whole town is chuckling. Every criminal and plug-ugly in the country is spitting in our faces this morning. Yes, sir, the President has fired the chief—the man that built up this Forestry Service. The whole works is goin’ to hell, that’s what it is. We’ll have all the coal thieves, water-power thieves, poachers, and free-grass pirates piling in on us in mobs. They’ll eat up the forest. I see the finish of the whole business. They’ll put some Western man in, somebody they can work. Then where will we be?”
Cavanagh’s young heart burned with indignation, but he tried to check the other man’s torrent of protest.
“I can’t believe it. There’s some mistake. Maybe they’ve made him the secretary of the department or something.”