I was sitting one night in one of those lumber camps so rare nowadays but common in northern Wisconsin, Michigan and Minnesota in the early days of logging. Pipes were all lighted. The air was getting heavy. The wind moaned and shrieked outside. A loose piece of tarpaper flapped against a window. The gang was in a thoughtful mood. As I looked about I studied their faces. There was Pierre, the crack teamster. Over in a corner sat Ole, the top loader of track ten. Near the stove was Mike O’Malley, bullcook and handy man around the camp, blasphemers as a sailor’s parrot, as a sailor’s parrot, as religious as a Saint of Dublin. Mike was the first to speak.