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  Neither yard worker showed any enthusiasm for getting back on the pile. Finally Larochelle shouted: "Damn it, Henri, you get on that pile or I'll put you on the soda tank!"

  So Michod got, albeit sullenly. Larochelle referred to the tank of preserving solution in which freshly sawn pine planks were dunked. In pulling boards out of this tank, one had to move quickly to keep the next board from hitting one, and the solution made one's hands crack after a day. Larochelle's favorite method of settling arguments was to threaten to put a man on the disagreeable tank job out of his regular turn.

  They loaded the truck, pushed it down to Pile No. 1040, and unloaded it. When this had been done twice, Larochelle put another man on the job, to stand on the edge of the pile and pass boards up. No. 1027 groaned and creaked a good deal, but the guying kept it from doing its hula.

  The new man, Edward Gallivan, picked up a board and handed it to Michod, who passed it up to Camaret. Gallivan had picked up another board, when the first board twisted itself out of Camaret's hands. It flew back down, landing on Gallivan's board. Thus Camaret found himself boardless, while Gallivan had two boards.

  Now Edward Gallivan liked mill-yard work well enough, but not to the point of collecting hard-maple planks for the fun of it. He cried:

  "Hey, Frenchy, watch what you're doin'! You damn near took the head off me with that thing."

  Camaret muttered something apologetic and looked puzzled. Michod passed the errant board up again. Again it twisted itself away from Camaret and returned to the pile with a clatter.

  Camaret looked down with an expression of perplexity, suspicion, reproach, and growing alarm. That is, he would have looked that way if the human face were capable of expressing so many emotions at once. "Henri," he said, "did you grab that board away from me?"

  "Why would I go grabbing boards away from you? I got enough boards already."

  "I don't ask that. Did you snatch her?"

  "No, by damn, I didn't. I ain't no board-snatcher." "Now, boys," said Gallivan, "we ain't getting nowheres arguin' like this. You do it over and I'll watch."

  So Michod passed the board up a third time. When Camaret took it, it swung wildly and twisted like a live thing. Camaret released it to keep from being pulled off the tramway, and it floated gently back to the place from which Gallivan had picked it. "Saints preserve us!" cried Gallivan. "I don't like that."

  Michod folded his arms triumphantly. "You satisfied, Jean? I didn't have nothing to do with that."

  Camaret replied hollowly: "Me, I am satisfied. I am satisfied too much. I get the sick to the stomach when I think of that. You tell Joe I go. I go home, get drunk, beat my wife, forget all about these damn boards."

  Joe Larochelle blew up when the state of affairs was explained to him. Ned Gallivan smiled paternally, and Henri Michod shrugged. Larochelle had recently turned in a certain credit slip for eight hundred feet of No. 1 Common Birch, of which the local customer had not returned all the allegedly unused lumber. Maybe it was a bona fide mistake; maybe Larochelle had not split the proceeds of the discrepancy with the customer. But Gallivan and Michod knew about the slip and were pretty sure of their own positions in consequence.

  Finally Larochelle yelled: "All right, all right! I'll show you how to handle these jumping boards. You wait here—" When he returned he carried a double-bitted ax. "Now," he said, "Henri, you hand a board to Ned."

  When Gallivan took the board, it apparently tried to pull him off the trestle. Larochelle, standing beside him, smacked the board with the flat of the ax. It quivered a bit and subsided.

  "Ouch!" said Gallivan. "You're making my hands sting."

  "Never mind that, it's the way to handle 'em. I'm the guy who has to figure everything out—" Larochelle's expedient seemed to have cowed the boards, temporarily at least. They went up without protest.

  Michod thought, that was just like the stupid, pretending that nothing was wrong. Anybody could see that here was something of the most extraordinary. That was the way of the world. The stupids like Larochelle had the authority, while the intelligents like himself—

  This reverie was interrupted by another singular occurrence. Michod carelessly shot a board up to Gallivan when the latter was busy fishing his eating-tobacco out of his pants pocket. Gallivan made a one-handed grab and missed. It did not much matter, for the board kept right on going. It described a graceful arc and settled cozily into its appointed place on the truck.

  "Hey!" yelled Larochelle. "Don't go throwing those boards; you're liable to hit somebody."

  Michod kept silent, not wanting to disillusion the others about his strength and adroitness. Gallivan caught the next board; it hoisted him a foot into the air before he stopped it.

  "What the hell are you trying to do, Henri?" cried the surprised Gallivan.

  It was all very well to get credit for the mill-yard equivalent of tossing the caber, but to be blamed for all the vagaries of these athletic boards was something else. So Michod spoke up:

  "I'm not trying to do nothing, by damn. I—" He was interrupted by finding his hands unexpectedly full of board. But the board did not stay there. It ripped his mittens in its eagerness to get up into Gallivan's hands, and thence on the truck.

  Larochelle shrieked: "Stop it! Stop them!" As well try to stop a nestful of hornets by reading Jean Jacques Rousseau to them. All over the pile, boards were bouncing into Michod's uneager grasp, then flinging themselves up to Gallivan and on the truck. The load grew by leaps and even a bound or two. When they stopped, the truck was piled dangerously high. The last board took time out to thwack Joe Larochelle in passing. The foreman toppled from the tramway. As he did so he grabbed Gallivan for support. Both landed on the unfortunate Michod with a great clatter.

  They picked themselves up to see the truck moving down the track of its own accord. Larochelle, who among his very modest list of virtues certainly counted energy, scrambled back onto the tramway in pursuit. The truck stopped in front of No. 1040, and its load cascaded crashingly off.

  "Hey, look down!" said Michod.

  The three men got down on their knees and peered over the edge of the trestle. A board had fallen off the truck during its trip and gone down between the tramway and the piles. It was now crawling after the fashion of an inchworm through the weeds. Arriving at No. 1040, it began to hump itself up the pile's side. Now and then it would be jerked upward without visible effort on its part. Its motions were like those of a rather obtuse puppy whose owner is trying to teach it tricks and putting it through them by force majeure when it fails to get the idea. Finally,

  it left the step-boards on the side of the pile and swooped up on the disorderly tangle on top of No. 1040.

  Joe Larochelle did not acknowledge defeat easily. No matter how red-handed one caught him in a bit of grafting, he was as firm as an early Christian martyr and as plausible as a street map in his denials. But now he said:

  "It's too much for me. You boys can go home; I gotta see the boss."

  Joe Larochelle repaired to Pringle's office, which was downstairs in his home. He told his story.

  Dan Pringle was a small, plump man with a large watch chain decorated with an incisor tooth of Cervus canadensis —the wapiti. He asked: "You been drinking lately, Joe?"

  "No, Mr. Pringle. I ain't touched a thing."

  Pringle got up and sniffed. "Well, I guess maybe not. Do you suppose a union organizer was back of this?"

  "No, there ain't been any around. I been watching for them."

  "Did you look between the piles and under the tramways?"

  "Sure, I looked everywhere."

  "Well, maybe. They're apt to sneak in no matter how careful you are, you know. Suppose you come back after supper and we'll take a look at these fancy boards. And bring a flashlight. We'll look around for union organizers, just in case."

  Pringle and Larochelle arrived at the lumber yard as the sun was sliding down behind Gahato Mountain. Pringle insisted on creeping around the piles with his flashli
ght as if he were playing gangsters and G-men. He was, he explained, hoping to surprise a lurking union organizer. At Pile No. 1040 Larochelle said:

  "That's her. See them boards lying in a heap on top?"

  Pringle saw the boards. He also saw a young woman sitting on the edge of the pile, swinging her sandaled feet. Her green dress had obviously seen better days. About her hair, the kindest comment would be that it looked "nonchalant" or "carefree." It had apparently been red, but it had been singed off. It had grown out again but was still black at the ends and presented a distressing aspect.

  "Good evening," said the young woman."You are Mr. Pringle, the owner of the sawmill, are you not?"

  "Why—uh—maybe," said Pringle suspiciously. "Who—I mean what can I do for you?"

  "Huh?" said a puzzled voice at his side. "What do you mean, Mr. Pringle?" Joe Larochelle was looking at him, ignoring the girl, whose feet were a few feet away on a level with his face.

  "Why—I was talking—"

  "You are the owner, Mr. Pringle? I have heard the men talking about you," said the girl.

  "Just thinking out loud?" said Larochelle.

  "Yes—I mean maybe," said the confused Pringle. "She just asked me—"

  "Who's 'she'?" asked Larochelle.

  "That young lady."

  "What young lady?"

  Pringle decided that his foreman was simply dithering and asked the girl: "You're not a union organizer, are you?"

  The girl and Larochelle answered simultaneously: "I don't know what that is. I don't think so." "Who, me?Aw, come on, Mr. Pringle, you oughta know I hate 'em as much as you—"

  "Not you, Joe!" cried Pringle. "Not you! I was just asking her—"

  Larochelle's patience began to wear thin. "And I been asking you who 'her' is?"

  "How should I know? I've been trying to find out myself."

  "I think we're kinda mixed up. Here you talk about some skirt and I ask who and you say you don't know. That don't make sense, does it?"

  Pringle wiped his forehead.

  The girl said: "I would like to see you, Mr. Pringle, only without this M'sieu Larochelle."

  "We'll see, miss," said Pringle.

  Larochelle spoke: "Say, Mr. Pringle, are you feeling well? Damned if you don't sound like you was talking to somebody who ain't there."

  Pringle began to feel like a rat in the hands of an experimental psychologist who is, with the best of motives, trying to drive it crazy. "Don't be ridiculous, Joe. I sound as though I were talking to somebody who is there."

  "I know; that's just the trouble."

  "What's the trouble?"

  "There ain't anybody there, of course!"

  This statement, despite its alarming implications, gave Pringle a feeling of relief. Theretofore, this maddening dispute had been like fighting blindfolded with broadswords at sixty paces. Now he had a solid point of disagreement. He said sharply: "Are you sure you're feeling well, Joe?"

  "Sure, of course, I'm well."

  "Do you, or don't you, see a girl in a green dress sitting on the edge of the pile?"

  "No. I just said there ain't anybody there."

  "Didn't ask you whether anybody was there, but whether you saw anybody there."

  "Well, if there was anybody there I'd see 'em, wouldn't I? Makes sense, don't it?"

  "We'll waive that."

  "Wave what? This green dress I'm supposed to see that ain't there?"

  Pringle danced distractedly on his short legs. "Never mind, never mind! Have you heard a woman's voice coming from that pile?"

  "No, of course not. What gives you the idea—"

  "All right, all right, that's what I wanted to know. You can run along home now. I'll do the rest of the investigating myself. No"—as Larochelle started to protest—"I mean that."

  "Oh, all right. But look out the union organizers don't get you."

  Larochelle grinned maliciously and trotted off. Pringle winced visibly at the last words but bravely faced the pile.

  "Now, young lady," he said grimly, "are you sure you're not a union organizer?"

  "Would I know if I was, Mr. Pringle?"

  "You bet you would. I guess you aren't one, maybe. More likely an hallucination."

  "Mr. Pringle! I did not ask to see you so you could call me bad names."

  "No offense meant. But something's very funny around here. Either Joe or I are seeing things."

  "If you have good eyes, you always see things. What is wrong with that?"

  "'Nothing, when the things are there. What I'm trying to find out is, are you real or am I imagining you?" "You see me, no?"

  "Sure. But that doesn't prove you're real."

  "What do I do to prove I am real?"

  "I'm not just sure myself. You could put out your hand," he said doubtfully. The girl reached down, and Pringle touched her hand. "Feels real enough. But maybe I'm imagining the feel. How come Joe didn't see you?"

  "I did not want him to."

  "Oh, just like that, eh? You don't want him to, so he looks right through you."

  "Naturally."

  "It may be natural to you. But when I look at somebody I generally see him. Let's forget that question for a while. Let's not even think about it. If I'm not nuts already, I will be soon at this rate. Just what is all this funny business?"

  "I don't think it is funny to have my home broken up."

  "Huh?"

  "You broke up my home."

  "I broke up your home. I broke up your home. Young lady—What's your name, by the way?"

  "Aceria."

  "Miss Aceria, or Aceria something?"

  "Just Aceria."

  "Oh, well, skip it. I used to consider myself a pretty intelligent man. Not any parlor-pink intellectual, you understand, but a good competent American businessman. But I'm not sure any more. Nothing seems to make sense. What in the name of the great horn spoon do you mean, I've broken up your home? Did I lead your husband astray, maybe?"

  "Oh, not like that. Like that!" She pointed to the tangle of boards behind her. "That was my home."

  "Those boards? Come on, don't try to tell me some man of mine tore your house down and sneaked the boards onto the pile."

  "Well, yes and no. Those boards were my tree." "Your what?"

  "My tree. I lived in it."

  "I suppose you'll say next you were responsible for that commotion today?"

  "I am afraid yes."

  "Well." Others had testified to the occurrence of the commotion. Or had Pringle imagined that Joe Làrochelle had told that story—No, no, no! He wasn't going to think about that any more. "What was the idea?"

  "I wanted to keep my home together. First I tried to keep the men from moving the boards. When I could not, I hurried the last ones up to get them together again."

  "What are you? Some kind of spook?"

  "I am a sphendamniad. That is a kind of wood nymph. Some people would say dryad, but that is not just right. They are oak spirits. I am a maple spirit. A man brought my tree from Austria, more than a hundred years ago. Last winter your men cut my tree down. I could not stop them, because I was hibernating, I think you call it, and by the time I woke up it was too late. That is how my hair got burned, when the men burned the branches and tops. It has grown out, but I know it looks terrible. I cannot leave my home on weekdays to go to the hairdresser, for fear the men will move the boards."

  "You mean those aren't real hard maple?" snapped Pringle with sudden alertness. He climbed the side of the pile with an agility remarkable in a man of his age and girth. He looked at the boards with his flashlight. "Yeah, the grain isn't quite the same. Let's see; if they fooled the grader ... I guess maybe they can go out with the rest on Tuesday."

  "You mean you are going to sell these boards?" "Sure. Just got a big order from Hoyt."

  "What will happen to them?"

  "Dunno. They'll be made into desks and bureau drawers and things, maybe. Depends on who buys them from Hoyt."

  "But you must not do that,
Mr. Pringle! My home, it will be scattered. I will have no place to live."

  "Can't you set up housekeeping in another tree?"

  "I can only live in Norway maples, and there are no more around here."

  "Well, do you want to buy them? I'll let you have them at eighty dollars a thousand, which is less than I could get in the open market."

  "I have no money."

  "Well then, they'll have to go out with the rest. Sorry if it inconveniences you, but the sawmill costs alone are over seven dollars a thousand, counting insurance and depreciation."

  "I do not know about such things, Mr. Pringle. I know you will break up my home so I can never get it together again. You would not do that, yes? I would like you so much if you did not."

  She looked appealingly at him, a tear trickling down one cheek. If she had done this earlier, while it was still light, it might have worked. But all Pringle could see of her face was a dim, pale oval in the darkness; so he snapped:

  "You bet I'd do that! This is business, young lady. If I let sentiment interfere with business, I'd have gone broke long ago. Anyway, I'm not convinced that you exist. So why should I give away lumber I paid good money for to somebody who's a mere hallucination, maybe?"

  "You are a bad, wicked man. I will never let you send these boards away."

  "Oh," he grinned through the dark. "It's to be a fight, huh? Nobody ever accused Dan Pringle of running away from a good, honest business fight. We'll see. Good night, Miss Aceria."

  Pringle was as good as his word. Monday morning, he called in Larochelle and told him to load the lumber in Pile No. 1040 that day, instead of Tuesday as planned.

  Michod, Camaret, Gallivan, and Bergen all looked solemn when they saw they were to work on No. 1040. But Larochelle forestalled any objections by mention of the soda tank.

  So they set up the rollers. These were objects that looked like iron ladders, except that on what would be the rungs were mounted steel sleeves rotating on ball bearings. The rollers were mounted end to end on sawhorses so that they could carry boards across the tramway and across the tops of the two low piles between the tramway and the railroad spur.