"No, he's in English Centre."
"Is the camp boss here?" [That was a rash plunge on my part, but it was successful.]
"Yes, that's him," and Achilles' head nodded slightly in the direction of the largest cabin. From the door nearest us there stepped an elderly man of massive frame, bent slightly forward, and with arms so long that the hands seemed to reach to his knees. He was dressed in an old suit of dark material—a long-tailed coat that fitted very loosely, and baggy trousers—and a soiled linen shirt and collar, and a black ribbon necktie. His face was very set and stern, not with an expression of unkindness, simply the face of a man to whom life is a serious matter, and who means business all the time.
He was evidently absorbed, and, carrying an iron bar, he was about to enter the forge with no least notice of any of us, when I interrupted him.
"I beg your pardon, sir, I understand that you are the boss."
He stood still, and looked down upon me out of keen black eyes from under shaggy brows that bristled with coarse hairs; and in the deepening silence, I wondered what I should say next.
"I'm looking for a job, and I heard in English Centre that men were wanted here."
"Have you ever worked in the woods?"