The thickness of the swamp made a dark, massive background below, while above towered gigantic trees.
The men were calling jovially back and forth as they unharnessed tired horses that fell into attitudes of rest and crunched, in deep content, the grain given them.

Duncan, the brawny Scotch head-teamster, lovingly wiped the flanks of his big bays with handfuls of pawpaw leaves, as he softly whistled, "O wha will be my dearie, O!" and a cricket beneath the leaves at his feet accompanied him.

The green wood fire hissed and crackled merrily.

Wreathing tongues of flame wrapped around the big black kettles, and when the cook lifted the lids to plunge in his testing-fork, gusts of savory odors escaped.
Freckles approached him.
"I want to speak with the Boss," he said.
The cook glanced at him and answered carelessly: "He can't use you." The color flooded Freckles' face, but he said simply: "If you will be having the goodness to point him out, we will give him a chance to do his own talking." With a shrug of astonishment, the cook led the way to a rough board table where a broad, square-shouldered man was bending over some account-books.
"Mr.McLean, here's another man wanting to be taken on the gang, I suppose," he said.
"All right," came the cheery answer.

"I never needed a good man more than I do just now." The manager turned a page and carefully began a new line.
"No use of your bothering with this fellow," volunteered the cook.