He was a tall man, with a
fine face and kind eyes and hair just touched with gray.
"Kenneth Ward," he went on, pleasantly, "I hope that letter of introduction
I dictated for you some time ago has been of some service."
"I haven't had a chance to use it yet," I blurted out, and I dived into my
pocket to bring forth the letter. It was wrinkled, soiled, and had been
soaked with water. I began to apologize for its disreputable appearance
when he interrupted me.
"I've heard about the ducking you got and all the rest of it," he said,
smiling. Then his manner changed to one of business and hurry.
"You are studying forestry?"
"Yes, sir. I'm going to college this fall."
"My friend in Harrisburg wrote me of your ambition and, I may say, aptness
for the forest service. I'm very much pleased. We need a host of bright
young fellows. Here, look at this map."
He drew my attention to a map lying on the table, and made crosses and
tracings with a pencil while he talked.
"This is Penetier. Here are the Arizona Peaks. The heavy shading represents
timbered land. All these are canyons. Here's Oak Creek Canyon, the one the
fire bordered. Now I want you to tell me how you worked that back-fire,
and, if you can, mark the line you fired."
This appeared to me an easy task, and certainly one I was enthusiastic
over.
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