As his eyes caught the flutter of the flag on its staff above the Forest Service building, his heart went out to the men who unselfishly wrought beneath that symbol of federal unity for the good of the future. “That is civilized,” he said; “that is prophetic,” and alighted at the door in a glow of confidence.
Nash, who was alone in the office, looked up from his work. “Come in,” he called, heartily. “Come in and report.”
“Thank you. I’d like to do so; and may I use your desk? I have a letter to write.”
“Make yourself at home. Take any desk you like. The men are all out on duty.”
“You’re very kind,” replied Wayland, gratefully. There was something reassuring in this greeting, and in the many signs of skill and scientific reading which the place displayed. It was like a bit of Washington in the midst of a careless, slovenly, lawless mountain town, and Norcross took his seat and wrote his letter with a sense of proprietorship.
“I’m getting up an enthusiasm for the Service just from hearing Alec Belden rave against it,” he said a few minutes later, as he looked up from his letter.
Nash grinned. “How did you like Meeker?”
“He’s a good man, but he has his peculiarities. Belden is your real enemy. He is blue with malignity—so are most of the cowmen I met up there. I wish I could do something for the Service. I’m a thoroughly up-to-date analytical chemist and a passable mining engineer, and my doctor says that for a year at least I must work in the open air. Is there anything in this Forest Service for a weakling like me?”
Nash considered. “The Supervisor might put you on as a temporary guard. I’ll speak to him if you like?”
“I wish you would. Tell him to forget the pay. I’m not in need of money, but I do require some incentive—something to do—something to give me direction. It bores me stiff to fish, and I’m sick of loafing. If McFarlane can employ me I shall be happy. The country is glorious, but I can’t live on scenery.”