book: IC 100,002. Then he climbed up on the lumber pile.

As he glanced over the pieces of yellow timber on top of the pile, a little smile turned down the corners of his lips. The very appearance of the stock, before careful piece-by-piece inspection, boded trouble. He turned, and carefully measured with his eyes the jumping distance from high ramps to car and ground. Then, for some odd reason, he chose to tighten his belt.

A bearded giant of nicotine aroma emerged from the little box of a railway. station, put his fingers to his hairy lips, and whistled. Two hulking mill hands, raw-boned, powerful-looking, came out of a little store across the track and ambled toward the pile of timbers. Four somnolent negroes materialized from a shack down the railroad and shuffled through the hot dust to the railway siding.

When the men assembled for work there was no exchange of greetings, no friendly comments about the weather. Inspectors, to the mill men, were necessary evils, who always tried to cheat somebody by low-grading stock. Inspectors are the mill men's natural enemies.

Norman knew every day the joyless job of inspecting lumber. He knew that the average mill man knows next to nothing about association grading rules and refuses to learn them; he also knew that when a man owned a stick of timber, no matter if he knew the grading rules by heart, he would disagree with an inspector as to its disqualification "for the purpose intended" by some defect. In every inspection some new and different problem arises; the grading rules cannot cover all points. Much of the inspection must be left to the individual judgment of the inspector himself. Consequently, lumber inspectors, as a class, are as popular as baseball umpires.

"Git up here and git busy!" ordered the giant with the beard. "Fix your skids! Put in your stakes!"

Two negroes lazily inserted stakes in the car in order to hold lumber piled higher up than the car-side reached; two

others deliberately set about fixing sturdy pieces of oak to reach from the top edge of the ramps to the car. Over these smooth oak timbers the long sticks of yellow pine were to be skidded into the car as fast as accepted and tallied by the inspector. Rejected timbers were usually thrown off the ramps, out of the way, at the inspector's nod, or motion of his hand.

Norman stood up straight in the sunshine, his tally-book held in his left hand, recording pencil in his right. His clean soft shirt, belted khaki trousers, light canvas leggings, and tan shoes contrasted sharply with the soiled, sweaty clothes, nail-hitched suspenders, unpressed jeans, and heavy boots of the sawmill men. The negroes all wore trousers that were more or less patched and abbreviated; two of them had on shirts; all four were barefooted.

Mosquitos from the near-by swamp sang irritatingly about the white men and now and then jabbed them cruelly. However, owing to a wise provision of nature for natives of more or less tropical climates, the full-blooded Ethiopian is never bitten by mosquitos.

The younger Jenkins men reminded Norman of dank, noisome weeds. It was hard for him to believe such types could exist only fifteen miles from a thriving little city. Their homes, however, were back in the piny woods, off the line of the railroad. They were taller than Norman, gangling and lanky; but their muscles were easily discernible underneath the thin clothing they wore. Their eyes were craftily narrow, their noses large and coarse; their visible skin was the color of their ragged teeth, and their teeth were colored by tobacco.

The negroes were gripping a big stick of timber with their loading-hooks, moving it toward the skids. Norman's quick glance told him it was an 8′′ x 8′′-16′ piece; but his pencil was not pressed down opposite that size and length as noted in his tally-book. His right hand made the umpire's quick gesture of "out." The harsh voice of old Alf Jenkins grated in concert with the protests of his sons.

"Off the ramps!" Norman ordered.

"Don't you throw that stick off!" Gabe Jenkins loudly commanded the negroes. "Anybody c'n tell it ain't scant enough to hurt."

"It is half an inch scant one way, for two feet in the middle of the piece, where your carriage wobbled in sawing or the saw snaked.”

"I say it ain't scant," Gabe vociferated. "It ain't scant a-tall," affirmed Caleb Jenkins.

"Course it ain't," growled old Alf.

"Measure it!" invited Norman, calmly. He had faith in his own eyes; he had no need to measure it himself. "Put your rule on it."

"I ain't got no rule," answered Alf. "I don't need none."

Caleb spoke up: "See here, Mister, "See here, Mister, we want to know right now if you come out here to take up lumber or to reject it." Gabe said ominously:

"I ain't standin' no durn monkey-business f'm no ign'unt cuss what thinks he 's a lumber inspector."

"Sit down," advised Norman, unruffled. He took a folded carpenter's rule from his pocket and tossed it straight into old. Alf's whiskers. Alf swore, fumbled at the rule, but caught it, and passed it to Gabe. Slowly, surlily, Gabe went to the stick held on the skids, stooped down, and placed the rule on it. The rule showed it was full eight inches.

Satisfied chuckles came from Alf and Caleb. Gabe looked craftily over his shoulder and moved aside so the inspector could see. Norman smiled again.

"Correct," he said. "Now put the rule on the bottom or top of the stick."

Gabe made a clumsy effort to conceal a portion of the rule, so as to make the stick appear eight inches square; Norman laughed at him. The stick was exactly half an inch scant on two opposite sides

for a fraction more than two feet along its center.

"A little scant place like that don't hurt nothin'," Caleb said, with a threatening step forward. "Load it-shoot it down the skids!"

Grinning, the negroes started to load it on the car. Norman's tallying hand fell to his side.

"All right," he said. "I thank you for it in the name of the Pine-Tree Lumber Company. It is probably worth its freight to town. Since I'm not tallying it, you won't be paid for it, you know."

Three separate and distinctly different. oaths, uttered by the Jenkinses, blackened the atmosphere. The negroes understood that the bluff had been called. They rolled the stick off to the ground and grappled another timber with crowbar and hooks. Old Alf was almost foaming at the whiskers.

"If you reject any more good lumber," he shouted, though there was no need of raising his voice, "I'll cut your heart out an' spit in the hole!"

Norman seemed smilingly unconcerned. He was watching Gabe Jenkins. Instead of returning the rule, Gabe was squatting down on top of the lumber, applying the rule to first one stick, then another. He handled it with awkward carelessness, working backward to the lower end of the sloping ramps. Norman guessed Gabe's intention he meant to lose or break the rule, and claim it was done accidentally. It is an old trick of ignorant sawmill men. A rule is the court of last resort when dispute arises over measurements.

The next dozen or so pieces were tallied without comment or rejection. or rejection. They were classed by Norman as "line" sticks, barely good enough to get by.

The sun was sizzling hot. Perspiration rolled from Norman's face; now and then a drop spattered on his tally-book. The swamp mosquitos, twice as large as the city variety, were noisily and viciously hungry. He stood at his post; it would not do to cease for a moment his vigilant gaze at the stick after stick of timber going over the skids. Each piece had to be decided upon

as to grade, dimension, and length; each had to be accurately recorded. Sweat streamed from the grunting negroes; such clothes as they wore were wringing wet. They worked, as usual, with a half-grunting chant, or syllable-rhythm, timed to their concerted movements of exertion.

An exclamation of pretended disgust came from Gabe Jenkins. He had dropped the rule down under the lower end of the ramps. The only way to recover it would be to tear down a portion of the structure. "Done lost your rule," he said to Norman, with more defiance than apology in his tone.

"Never mind," Norman said. "I'll buy a new one when I get to town and have the company deduct the price of it from your check for this car of lumber."

Gabe slunk back to his father and brother, muttering profanity. The negroes chuckled audibly. Gabe had lost a good many rules for a good many inspectors, but this was the first time he was charged with the price of a new rule.

A stick of timber much larger than those loaded, a 10" x 10"-20', got stuck on the skids; it was too heavy, and the skids were not smooth enough to allow its easy passage into the car. Norman knew it would not do to stop and work with each heavy piece loaded; it would take longer than a day to load the stock, and car demurrage was too expensive. He knew the remedy, but glanced about to see if any railroad men were in sight.

"Dope the skids," he ordered.

A negro slipped down and robbed a box. at the wheels of the gondola of some black, oil-soaked waste. He climbed back along the skids, and greased them thoroughly with the shiny, greasy mixture. The heavy timbers would slip easily over the greased skids into the car. The local railroad agent must have been watching. He came out of the little station and approached with heat-slackened energy.

"Hey, there!" he called. "Where 'd you git the dope on them there skids?"

Norman instantly checked the loading. leaped to the ground, and smilingly faced the irate agent.

"Hello!" he said. "Have a cigar."
The agent took the cigar.

"That stuff costs money," he said, little mollified. "Robbin' our cars gives us hotboxes-"

"Have a cigar," Norman said, holding out another.

The agent blinked; he accepted the cigar and started again:

"As I was tellin' you, you smart-Alec inspectors got to stop robbin' our cars of dope-"

Norman interrupted.

"Have a cigar." He held it out.

The agent's grim look relaxed. He took the third cigar, stuck it into his pocket with the other two, and gazed meditatively at the blazing sky.

"Hot day, ain't it?" he observed. He slapped at a mosquito buzzing around his ears. "Hope it 'll rain soon." Turning slowly, he ambled back to the station.

Norman clambered back to his post. He gestured rejection of a heavy stick. "What for?" demanded Alf Jenkins. "Unsound."

The old man pulled his whiskers nervously and muttered angrily to his surly sons. A short piece came over.

"Scant in length," Norman said, with the rejection gesture.

The negroes paused, doubtfully. The inspector should be obeyed, they knew; but the Jenkins firm paid them for their work.

"That there stick is ten foot long, eggzactly," said Caleb Jenkins, fiercely. Gabe had done away with the inspector's rule; the mill men thought they had the advantage.

"Nine feet ten inches only," Norman answered.

Gabe chuckled.

"Put a rule on it," he advised.

Being a good inspector, Norman was prepared. He calmly took the three-foot tape-line from his pocket, measured the short timber slowly and carefully, so that they could all see its exact length. Then he deliberately threw the piece off the ramps and returned to his place for further inspection.