"Flies is healthy," opined the greasy proprietor, noting the look of disgust with which the boy eyed the filthy layout.
"I should think they would be. You don't believe in starving them," answered the boy, and a roar of laughter went up from the loggers who proceeded to "kid" the proprietor unmercifully as he relapsed into surly mutterings about the dire future in store for "fresh brats."
During the afternoon the poplar and birch woods and the flaming patches of scarlet oak and sumac, gave place to the dark green of pines. The farms became fewer and farther between, and the distance increased between the little towns, where, instead of grain elevators, appeared dilapidated sawmills, whose saws had long lain idle. Mere ghosts of towns, these, whose day had passed with the passing of the timber that had been the sole excuse for their existence. But, towns whose few remaining inhabitants doggedly clung to their homes and assured each other with pathetic persistence, as they grubbed in the sandy soil of their stump-studded gardens, that with the coming of the farmers the town would step into its own as the centre of a wonderfully prosperous agricultural community. Thus did the residents of each dead little town believe implicitly in the future of their own town, and prophesy with jealous vehemence the absolute decadence of all neighbouring towns.
Toward the middle of the afternoon a boy, whom Connie had noticed talking and laughing with the three lumberjacks Hurley suspected of being I. W. W.'s, walked along the tops of the swaying cars and seated himself beside him. Producing paper and tobacco he turned his back to the wind and rolled a cigarette, which he lighted, and blew a cloud of smoke into Connie's face. He was not a prepossessing boy, with his out-bulging forehead and stooping shoulders. Apparently he was about two years Connie's senior.
"Want the makin's?" he snarled, by way of introduction.
"No thanks. I don't smoke."
The other favoured him with a sidewise glance. "Oh, you don't, hey? My name's Steve Motley, an' I'm a bear-cat—me! I'm cookee of this here camp—be'n in the woods goin' on two years. Ever work in the woods?"
Connie shook his head. "No," he answered, "I never worked in the woods."
"Whatcha done, then? You don't look like no city kid."
"Why, I've never done much of anything to speak of—just knocked around a little."