"And you are offering me the choice of these jobs?"
"Just so. Take your time. Think it over carefully and give me your answer in the morning."
"I have already made up my mind. If it is just the same to you I will go to the woods. I need the exercise," he grinned.
"By the way, you have not told me your name."
"Bill," he answered, and watched the blue smoke curl upward from the end of his cigar.
"Bill what?" Appleton regarded him through narrowing lids.
"Bill," he repeated. "Just Bill, for the present—and no references. Sometime—if I make good, perhaps—but surely Bill ought to be name enough for a lumberjack."
"Well, Bill, you are hired! Most men would call me a fool! Maybe I am—but it's got to be proven. I came up through the woods myself and I know men. It is my business to know men. A name is nothing to me—nor references. Both are easy to get. I hire men—not names. And as for references—I don't pay for past performances. It is up to you to make good!
"I like your eyes. There is honesty in those eyes—and purpose. Your mother's eyes, I should say." The young man turned his face away and the blood surged upward, reddening the skin below the white bandages.
Thoughts of his mother crowded his brain—the beautiful, gentle girl-mother, who used to snatch him up and hold him close—way back in the curly-locks days.