"Maybe you'll let me in on that, Joe. I'm interested. There are so darned many big things going on around here that a greenhorn can't show interest in them all at once—where'd you find the seed bearers you wanted?"
Joe told him at length, told of their experiences, the data they had assembled, warming to his subject, all but forgetting the mole. He no longer looked away from Taylor, but peered closely into his face and answered questions and talked—and talked—and talked.
For years he had worked in that nursery, tending his seedlings as he would so many children, talking to few but Helen and her father about his work, finding none but them and professional foresters who were interested in what he was doing. He found a pride in these accomplishments and was hungry for appreciation; he could talk to the men of the crew about logging, could tell his Bunion tales and find an interested audience. But for the matters closest to his heart there was no outlet—until now, when this city boy sat beside him on a cracker box, watching for a mole, listening, unafraid to betray ignorance by questions—
Lights went out in the shanty; sounds of men ceased. The moon came up and still the two sat, collars up, for the night was cool, whispering, watching the seed bed for the stirring that would end their vigil—
And then Joe talked of the forest, what it had been, what it was and might be; of Foraker himself and of Helen—
Men can say worlds about women with the use of a few simple words.
"She's a good girl," Joe said of Helen Foraker, without much emphasis, with only a slight nod of his head, but in
