To him there was really nothing interesting in the cutting of roads nor the clearing of streams. It was all in a day's work.
Once he took them over to see Camp One. They were immensely pleased, and were correspondingly loud in exclamations. Thorpe's comments were brief and dry. After the noon dinner he had the unfortunate idea of commending the singing of one of the men.
“Oh, I'd like to hear him,” cried Elizabeth Carpenter. “Can't you get him to sing for us, Mr. Thorpe?”
Thorpe went to the men's camp, where he singled out the unfortunate lumber-jack in question.
“Come on, Archie,” he said. “The ladies want to hear you sing.”
The man objected, refused, pleaded, and finally obeyed what amounted to a command. Thorpe reentered the office with triumph, his victim in tow.
“This is Archie Harris,” he announced heartily. “He's our best singer just now. Take a chair, Archie.”
The man perched on the edge of the chair and looked straight out before him.
“Do sing for us, won't you, Mr. Harris?” requested Mrs. Cary in her sweetest tones.
The man said nothing, nor moved a muscle, but turned a brick-red. An embarrassed silence of expectation ensued.