Rowe was beside him and Wilcox was leaving the car.
"There's ten thousand acres like this," Phil began, but again that arresting gesture silenced him.
At Luke's feet was a section stake. He half stumbled on it as he took a step and looked down. He lifted his face high, then, that he might see the sun. Impatiently he handed Rowe his stick and moved to the north edge of the line. He brought his heels together and looked ahead and began to pace. Ten lengthy steps he took and came to a halt, looking to his left, counting with soundless movements of his lips; to the right, and counting again, checking each enumeration with fingers that trembled. Another ten yards; more counting. Another ten, and again the checking of trees that stood to right and left.
Rowe and Wilcox stood in the fire line watching him, waiting, for Philip knew that this was no moment to interrupt. He watched his master disappear in the forest going toward the river ten yards at a time, now and then putting out a hand against a solid trunk for support because his limbs, though stronger than they had been in years, trembled with excitement.
Fifty-five yards Luke went, and he had estimated the timber on a quarter of an acre. Tolman was right; Tolman had been conservative! His heart rapped his ribs as it had not done in years. There was no distress in its measure; joy only, joy such as he had not known in years, joy, the taste of which was sweet in his mouth; joy which gave him strength.
Another ten—twenty—fifty-five—
"Pine!" he whispered; and then aloud, "Michigan Pine!"
