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At a high trestle bridge over a rocky gorge, in the bottom of which ran a diminutive stream, Slim paused and looked down in between the ties.

"Some shade-trees below us," he said.

"Why, man, we've hardly started!" exclaimed Hank.

"Well, that's why. I ain't limbered up."

Hank laughed, and when we were across the trestles, down we fumbled into the bottom of the gorge.

"Gee, it's good not to be working," said Slim, as he sat there leaning against his blanket-roll.

"Working! Huh, you didn't do much," replied Hank. "You shuffled out of every heavy job. I saw you."

"Guess I did," and Slim laughed. "I wouldn't have held it down as long as I did if I hadn't been able to shuffle out a bit."

The labor of getting down into that draw was equal to walking half a mile on the track, I thought, and of climbing up would be equivalent to walking a mile, but Slim liked deep gorges with shade-trees and a whimpling little brook, liked to lie on his back and look up through leaves at chinks of blue sky and blow cigarette smoke.