That exultant sense of physical power was quite new and rather puzzling
to him. He could not understand why he enjoyed chopping logs and moving
them about, and yet was prone to grow moody, to be full of disquieting
perplexities when he sat down to think.
He had been at work for perhaps two hours. He was resting. To be
explicit, he was standing on a fallen tree. Between his feet there was a
notch cut half-way through the wood. In this white gash the blade of his
axe was driven solidly, and he rested his hands on the rigid haft while
he stood drawing gulps of forest-scented air into his lungs.
Mr. Thompson was not gifted with eyes in the back of his head. His
hearing was keen enough, but the soft, turfy earth absorbed footfalls,
especially when that foot was shod with a buckskin moccasin. So he did
not see Sophie Carr, nor hear her until a thought that was running in
his mind slipped off the end of his tongue.
"This is going to make a terrible amount of labor."
He said this aloud, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"And a terrible waste of labor," Sophie answered him.
He looked quickly over one shoulder, saw her standing there, got down
off his log--blushing a little at his comparative nakedness.
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