Blazed Trail Stories

I first met him one Fourth of July afternoon in the middle eighties. The sawdust streets andhigh board sidewalks of the lumber town were filled to the brim with people. Thepermanent population, dressed in the stiffness of its Sunday best, escorted gingham wivesor sweethearts; a dozen outsiders like myself tried not to be too conspicuous in a citysmartness; but the great multitude was composed of the men of the woods. I sat, chairtilted by the hotel, watching them pass. Their heavy woollen shirts crossed by the broadsuspenders, the red of their sashes or leather shine of their belts, their short kerseytrousers "stagged" off to leave a gap between the knee and the heavily spiked "corkboots"-all these were distinctive enough of their class, but most interesting to me werethe eyes that peered from beneath their little round hats tilted rakishly askew. They wereall subtly alike, those eyes. Some were black, some were brown, or gray, or blue, but allwere steady and unabashed, all looked straight at you with a strange humorous blending ofaggression and respect for your own business, and all without exception wrinkled at thecorners with a suggestion of dry humor. In my half-conscious scrutiny I probably staredharder than I knew, for all at once a laughing pair of the blue eyes suddenly met mine full, and an ironical voice drawled