Francis Rolt-Wheeler

"What do you think of a man," said Mitchon to Roger, as they started for Field's office, "who can transform a festering tamarack swamp into a busy and prosperous farming country?"

"He must be a daisy," answered the boy emphatically.

"That's what Mr. Field has done in the last couple of years, and that's what you're to spend the next few weeks in doing. The Survey works for results, and if turning square mile after square mile of rankly timbered bog into a fertile region dotted with busy homesteads isn't getting results, I don't know what is."

"But how is it done?"

"By drainage, my boy, as you will learn. Hundreds of thousands of acres are being reclaimed. That's what makes a country rich; it isn't the gold stored in vaults, but the gold waving on the fields at harvest time."

"But it must take an awful lot of work."

"Of course it takes work. Don't you remember Mr. Rivers told you that there would be no chance to loaf? You'll start on that toughening process soon enough, all right, all right."

Turning a corner of a hallway, Mitchon and the boy passed into a small office, which was undergoing the throes of the annual tidying-up before being left alone all through the summer.

"Mr. Field," said the secretary, as he entered, "this is Roger Doughty, of whom I was speaking to you, who is to go out with you for a couple of weeks until Roberts comes back from the tule swamps and rejoins your party. You will have just about the same men as last year, will you not?"

The swamp surveyor extended a large loose-jointed hand to Roger.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Doughty," he said, and then, in answer to the secretary's question, continued, "I hope we do have the same men, Mr. Mitchon, it makes the work a lot lighter."

"That's what you all say; but it doesn't make so much difference to you as it does to the parties away off from civilization, does it?"

"Well," drawled the other, "Minnesota's civilization in that swamp country doesn't hurt her much yet, I reckon. When you're eleven miles away from the nearest road, and that only a 'corduroy,' in a swamp over which you can't take a horse, and through which you can't take a boat, you begin to think that other human beings live a thundering way off. Why," he said, "I've seen parts of that swamp so soft that we'd have to make a sort of platform of brush and three or four of us pull out one chap who had sunk below his waist, and that with only half a pack instead of the full load. No," he added, turning to Roger, "Minnesota's not so powerful civilized if it comes to that!"

"Why, I hadn't any idea that it was so wild! Is there much of that swamp?" asked the boy.

"Well, the little piece of land we're working on now contains about 2,500,000 acres."

"That's the Chippewa land, isn't it?" asked the secretary.

"Yes, all of it."

"What's Chippewa land?" queried Roger.

"It's land the Chippewa Indians ceded to the government to be held in trust and disposed of for their own benefit. It's worth just about nothing now, but when the land is all drained it'll be a mighty valuable section of the State."

"I saw a report on the crops from some of that reclaimed land," said Mitchon, "and it certainly was calculated to make the worked-out Eastern farms sit up. Well, I suppose I must get back, so I'll wish you good luck, Roger, if I don't see you again. You start soon, do you not, Mr. Field?"

"To-morrow morning."

"So soon? That means hustling."

"No, Mr. Mitchon, everything's ready, I reckon."

"Well," replied the other, "I hope you'll have a pleasant summer, and, Roger, you write and let me know how you like it. Good-by." But he had hardly gone three or four steps from the door when he turned back suddenly and said, "By the way, Roger, there's something I wish you would do for me."

"I'll be only too glad, Mr. Mitchon, if I can," answered the boy readily, eager to show his appreciation of his friend's kindness.

"That's a great snipe country you're going to, and I'm very fond of snipe. I wish you would send me a couple of brace. You organize a snipe-shoot while Roger's with you, won't you, Mr. Field?"

"Well, I'll try, anyway," answered the surveyor, "and we'll do the best we can to give you a feast."

Mitchon nodded and disappeared down the hall, and Field turned to the boy.

"Roger, your name is, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Mitchon seems to think you're quite a shot."

"I've done a little shooting, Mr. Field, but I wouldn't like to call myself a crack shot."

"That's all right. Much better not to brag. If Mr. Mitchon wants snipe we'll go out some night and get him so many that he won't know what to do with them."

Roger's eyes glistened at the thought of a night shoot in a country where birds were so plentiful, and he began to congratulate himself that the Survey was just as good as he had expected, and even better.

"Now, son," said his new chief, "what kind of an outfit for the field have you got?"

The boy ran rapidly over the somewhat elaborate stock he had laid in for rough work, and when he came to describe the various shotguns and rifles with which he was provided he dwelt on them in detail, as it had been that part of his outfit in which he had taken the most interest, and in the completeness and excellence of which he felt great pride. But to his annoyance, instead of seeming impressed, the older man chuckled.

"You've got shooting irons enough for a regular stage brigand," he said; "you won't need all that truck, at least as long as you're with me. Take a shotgun, yes, and you can take a revolver along if you want to very much. You've been thinking more about your guns than you have about your boots, though, and you'd better go down and get a pair of river-drivers' boots this afternoon. Ones something like these." He pulled out of a drawer a special catalogue, and opening it, passed it to Roger.

"I've got a regular pair of fisherman's boots," volunteered the boy, "the kind that come 'way up to the hips. I should think they'd be just the thing for swamp work."

The surveyor shook his head,

"No," he said, "that sort of thing won't do. Water and mud will get in those. These others lace up tightly. Of course you'll be wet higher up most of the time, but as long as your feet are tolerably dry, that doesn't matter. Now you get those and do anything else you want,"—then handing him a map—"you'd better look over this too; and meet me at the Union Station to-morrow morning at 8 o'clock, and we'll take the 8.20 for Red Lake."

The trip out to Minnesota was the most enjoyable railroad journey Roger had ever spent. His leader proved as entertaining a companion as a boy need ever meet, and his stories of the wonders of the water power of the United States were more fascinating than any story of adventure.

"I was out in the dry part of South Dakota, one time," he said, "when some people, knowing that I was on the Survey, asked me to locate an artesian well site for them. That was a dry country, I reckon. Why, the little water that was there was so ashamed of itself that it tasted bad. Well, after I had studied the lay of the land for some time, I told them where to sink the well. It was an unlikely looking spot, I'll admit, but I knew there was water there if they would go down deep enough."

"But how did you know," asked Roger. "Did you use a divining rod?"

"I'm not a seventh son of a seventh son," said the older man with a laugh. "No, indeed, that sort of thing is done to-day by science, not by magic. You see, Roger, water will always be found in large quantities in porous rocks like sandstones, and none at all will be discovered in what are called impermeable rocks like shale and limestone."

"Why not?" asked the boy, interrupting.

"Because a porous rock is like a sponge, and will hold the water, and an impermeable rock isn't. So, you see, if a thick bed of shale is underlaid by a thick bed of sandstone, you are pretty sure of getting water if you drive a well through the shale."

"But I don't see how that helps," interjected Roger; "it seems to me it would be as hard to tell that there was sandstone so far below ground as to tell that there was water there. You can't see through rock!"

"No, my boy, but if you know the general make-up of the country, and how the rocks lie in the nearest mountains and in the ravines and so forth, you can tell. For example, if a river bed has been cut through the upper shale to the sandstone and through the sandstone to some other rock beneath, you are sure to find that sandstone under that shale everywhere, until you strike a place where geology will show that there has been some other change. In this particular case, the sandstone and the limestone appear in successive layers in the foothills of the Rockies, so that the water and snow from the mountains drains into the sandstone layer, which, being between two strata of harder rocks, can't sink any further down, but must force its way through the pores of that sandstone as far as the stratum runs. Of course things come up to complicate that, but such is the general plan.

Photograph by U.S.G.S.

A Lofty Spouter.

Artesian Well at Woonsocket, South Dakota. Well throws a 3-in. stream to a height of 97 ft.

Water Enough for All.

Artesian Well at Lynch, Nebraska. Flows more than 3,000 gallons a minute.

"Well, as I was saying, the spot that I picked out looked so little like water, that the Burlington railroad people—it was the Burlington that had asked me about it—called in Spearon, who really was the expert on the work. He's an expert all right. He promptly approved the site I had chosen, and told them to go down and they would strike good water at 3,000 feet. At first they laughed at the idea of any man being able to guess at the existence of water, 3,000 feet distant through solid rock, but they knew that Survey statements usually are to be depended on and they began. Some water was struck in an upper layer, but Spearon told them to go on. A dozen times the railroad was about to give up the project as useless, but, being urged, at last they agreed to go down the 3,000 feet, but not an inch further. At 2,920 feet they struck the sandstone, and boring on to 2,980 feet they struck water, and so, within twenty feet of the exact depth advised, they got a well flowing half a million gallons daily under a pressure of 75 pounds."

"A couple of hundred years ago, they would have burned you at the stake for a wizard," commented the boy.

"They would, son, sure enough. But people never stop to think how important this very water is. Why, it is by far the most valuable mineral in the United States!"

"More so than gold?"

"A thousand times! More than coal, too, which is vastly more valuable than gold. The coal's going to give out some day—by the way, remind me to tell you what the Survey's done on the coal question some time. I'd tell you now, but there's a man who got on at the last stop that I want to see," and with a nod, Field rambled to the other end of the car.

With stories and anecdotes of the Survey the time passed quickly, and Roger felt quite sorry the next day to find that they had arrived at their journey's end. At the depot, a small frame station, the rest of the members of the party awaited them, with a big lumbering farm wagon, but a pair of the finest horses Roger had ever seen. He won the heart of the teamster immediately by noticing them, and had the satisfaction of knowing that he had made a favorable impression on his future companions for the next few weeks by evincing a ready knowledge of the good points of a horse.

The drive that afternoon through the upper Minnesota country was Roger's first experience of a corduroy road, that abomination of highways, which consists merely of logs laid down horizontally across a trail and some dirt and sand sifted on top of them. In course of time, the dirt all seeps through between the interstices of the logs, and the latter arrange themselves in positions more picturesque than comfortable; which, being ridden over in a springless wagon at a good fast clip, is a more energetic "bump the bumps" than any amusement park has thought of inflicting on a suffering public.

Roger was thoroughly tired that night, though not for the world would he have shown it before his new-made friends; still he found much ado at supper to keep his eyes open and his head from nodding, when suddenly all his senses were galvanized into activity by the word "snipe."

"Boys, I promised Mr. Mitchon," Field was saying, "that we would have a snipe-shoot just as soon as we were able. Now, if we wait until we get right into the thick of the work, no one will want to knock off. Suppose we try a shoot to-night."

"Right you are," "Sure," "Just the thing;" a chorus of approval came from the members of the party and Roger was compelled to chime in with his assent, and, what was harder, to force an enthusiasm which, owing to his fatigue, he did not feel. Only one dissenting voice was heard, that of the farmer at whose house they were to put up for the night.

"There ain't no snipe round here," he said, "leastwise not this time of year."

"Yes there are, lots," answered Field, "I saw a big flight of them as we drove by that large slough a few miles out."

Roger thought it strange that the farmer should be mistaken about the bird season on his own farm, but surely people who could discover a flowing well 3,000 feet below the ground with nothing to show where it was, wouldn't be stopped for a few snipe. In fact, if any one had told the boy that the Survey had discovered the Fountain of Perpetual Youth or was making a detailed topographical map of Mars he would have accepted the statement without question or surprise.

The farmer's muttered objections being silenced by the united voices of the party, the plan of operations was outlined by Field.

"You see, Roger," he said, "as the youngest of the party you are always the guest of honor at the first few things the camp gets up, and so, as I promised, we'll let you have the best of the fun to-night. Remember, though, we expect you to get a big bag. It's a good dark night and you ought to be able to pick out a whole lot."

"But I don't see how you can work it at night," objected Roger. "Do you go out with torches, or how?"

"We'll show you how, when we get to that slough that I told you of. Bring that best gun of yours along, and we'll post you right where the birds will come."

There was a sense of strangeness about the whole affair which was puzzling to Roger, but he attributed it as much to his fatigue as to any other cause, and obediently fetched his gun out, saw that it was clean and in good order, and prepared to accompany the party. They borrowed a light rig from the farmer and started out. It was a little after nine o'clock when they left the house and fairly cold, while, as one of the men remarked, "It was as dark as the inside of an empty tar-barrel with the bung driven in."

They drove and drove for what seemed to Roger an interminable time, though he could not help wondering at the sudden twists and turns in the road, and several times, by the scraping of the underbrush against the body of the rig, he knew they were on no road at all. The undergrowth grew thicker and thicker and the ground more and more boggy, when, after they had been driving for at least two hours and Roger had fallen into a light doze, the horses were pulled up with a jerk.

"Here we are," said Field loudly. "Tumble out, boys."

The horses had been stopped at the very edge of an immense marsh, that looked almost like a lake in the dim light, but that its margin was fringed with reeds and bulrushes, and although it was so early in the year a scum was beginning to form. The place was not at all inviting, and Roger felt well satisfied that he was not there alone.

"Now, son," said Field, lighting a large lantern which was part of the camp outfit, "you stay right here and we will drive the horses away a little distance so that the possible noise of their moving about restlessly won't disturb the birds, and then we will circle the slough in both ways and drive the birds to you. You see, they won't rise at night, but keep to the ground, and if we start in opposite directions from the other side of the slough all the birds will come together right where you are. Then, when they find their escape cut off, they'll have to hit the water or else take wing."

"But it will be pretty hard to shoot them," protested Roger; "it's almost pitch-dark."

"They won't rise until they come into the circle of light shed by the lantern," said Field, "and then, if you're quick, you can get them as they rise. Now, remember, you've got to keep silent, or else, caught between two fires, they will scatter back from the water; we will be silent, too, so as not to scare them too much. Keep still, and don't shoot until the snipe begin to come into the light."

With this Field jumped into the rig, and a minute or two later Roger heard him stop the horses and speak loudly about tying them to a tree. A few moments later, he returned with one of the men.

"Harry and Jake have gone round to the south of the slough," he said, "and we will take the other side. Now remember, not a move until the birds begin to come. Good sport to you," and they were gone.

Roger sat patiently with his gun across his knees, waiting for the birds to come. He had been sitting perhaps for a quarter of an hour, when a very faint "Coo-ee" was heard and he stiffened to attention. The men, he thought, must be beginning to drive the birds from cover. The night wind was chill on the edge of the marsh, and Roger, expecting every minute that the birds would begin to come into the circle of light, dared not move. His left foot became numb, but he did not rise to his feet until the numbness became unendurable, and then, as softly and silently as he could, he stood up. The scene was even more lonely, viewed standing up. There was not a light to be seen, not a sound to be heard, save the hoarse croaking of the frogs and the booming of a bittern in the far distance.

The minutes passed into hours, until it became agony to refrain from sleep, but Roger felt that he would be forever disgraced in the eyes of his comrades if he were found asleep at his post on the very first occasion they had given him a trial of endurance, and he promised himself that he would stay awake, no matter what it cost him.

Then a faint mist began to wreathe upwards from the lake and took all sorts of fantastic shapes before the boy's tired eyes, and while, for a little time, it afforded him occupation to watch their curling gyrations, at the last this but added to the dreariness of the place. Once his eyes had closed and he dozed for a few seconds, when he was aroused, and not only aroused but startled, by the far-off howl of a wolf. Roger was no coward, and had all the boy's contempt for the coyote of the prairies, but he was woodsman enough to know that the coyote troubles timbered lands but little, and that the call was from the throat of the dreaded timber wolf.

What would not the boy have given for one of his rifles? But there he was at the edge of a slough, not even knowing in what direction he could retreat should flight prove necessary, with no weapon but a shotgun loaded with small bird-shot, and a timber wolf prowling near. Once, indeed he thought of shooting in order to attract attention, but the morbid fear of being thought timid and old-womanish restrained his hand from the trigger.

Again came the call, clear and unmistakable this time, and drawing nearer. All the wolf stories that he had read beside the fire at home rushed across his memory now—the Siberian wolves who chased across the steppes that traveler who saved his unworthy life by sacrificing to the beasts successively the three children intrusted to his care; the wolves who picked clean the bones of all the inhabitants in the Siberian village who refused to help escaping prisoners; the were-wolf, who, half-maiden and half-brute, lives on the blood of men; until, in spite of his courage, Roger found himself feeling far from at ease and deeply wishing that some of the others in the party were there to keep him company.

Again the wolf howled, a long-drawn-out howl with a little "yap" before it. Had Roger but known, he need have had no fear, for such is not the call of an angry or a hungry wolf, but merely the cry of the solitary hunter not running with the pack. A wolf after his prey does not howl, but gives a succession of short, sharp barks. Presently the boy received a sensation as of movement among the bushes to his right. He looked intently, but could see nothing. At one time, indeed, he thought he could discern two specks of light that might have been the eyes of the intruder, but knowing how easily the eyesight is deceived when it is being strained, and also having the good sense of not making matters worse by wounding a beast he feared he could not kill, Roger contented himself by keeping a lookout with every nerve strung. There was no longer any thought of the snipe, they had paled into insignificance before what appeared to be—although it was not—a real danger.

So Roger stood, watching the brush, the long night through, the little lamp shedding its pale gleam upon the ground at his feet and glimmering upon the waters of the lake, until in the east the first gray light of the false dawn began to appear. Gradually the light increased, and Roger with a sigh of relief took his eyes from the bush he had watched anxiously so long. As the day began to break and to disperse the slight mist, objects in the distance seemed to take shape, and Roger could hardly believe his eyes when he saw, but a few hundred yards away, the very house where he had supped the night before, and from which he had been taken a long two-hours' ride.

In a moment it all flashed on him, the old farmer's incredulity at the presence of snipe at that time of year, the readiness to put the newcomer in the place of honor, the unanimity of all the members of the party in falling in with the chief's suggestion, the folly of shooting anything on a pitch-black night, and he saw that he had been hoaxed. He was wet, incredibly weary and stiff from the strain, and Roger's first impulse was that of intense anger. As he would have phrased it himself, he was "good and mad." The boy soon reflected, however, that if this was a regular performance on the tenderfoot—which appeared probable from Mitchon in Washington having been in the game—a good deal depended on the way he took it. They would expect him to be angry or sulky. Well, he would disappoint them.

Just as he was about to walk into the barn, however, where he proposed to have a nap in the straw, who should meet him but Field and another of the men! They greeted him with a shout of laughter and satirical queries as to the number of snipe he had shot. Roger schooled himself to laugh in reply.

"That was one on me, all right," he said, "but this is only my second day. It's your turn now, but mine will come some other time."

The chief laughed appreciatively.

"That's the right way to take it, Roger," he said, "and now you'll know enough not to go shooting snipe any more at night, I reckon. But, lad, it's early yet, and we won't start for a couple of hours, so you just turn in and we'll call you when we are ready to go."

"I won't deny that I'll be glad of a nap," said Roger, yawning, "and I'm mighty glad that this part of my initiation is over with."