The fat man heaved his bulk forward to peer at Bob.
"Consarn your hide!" he roared with the utmost good humour; "stand out
of the light so I can see your fool face. You lie like a hound!
Everybody knows my boys!"
There was no offence in the words.
Bob laughed and obligingly stepped one side the lighted doorway.
"A towerist!" wheezed the fat man. "Say, you're too early. Nothing doing
in the mountains yet. Who sent you this early, anyway?"
"No tourist; permanent inhabitant," said Bob. "I'm with Welton."
"Timber, by God!" exploded the fat man. "Well, you and I are like to
have friendly doings. Your road goes through us, and you got to toe the
mark, young fellow, let me tell you! I'm a hell of a hard man to get on
with!"
"You look it," said Bob. "You own some timber?"
The fat man exploded again.
"Hell, no!" he roared. "Why, you don't even know me, do you? I'm Plant,
Henry Plant. I'm Forest Supervisor."
"My name's Orde," said Bob. "If you're after Forest Rangers, there's
three in there."
"The rascals!" cried Plant. He raised his voice to a bellow. "Oh, you
Jim!"
The door was darkened.
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