At first sight Howard Byng impressed me as being a cross between a Wild Man of Borneo and a pirate.

He came bounding through the otherwise silent turpentine forest dragged along by a little gray mule, hitched to a sledlike affair, shouting Georgia Cracker profanity easily heard a mile away. Hatless, long-haired, and virgin fuzz-covered face; hickory shirt, flapping patched pants belted with hempen rope threatening to drop at each kangaroo leap of his ample bare feet, describes the picture. The sound was not unlike a hurricane, the careening mule charging toward our camp with his head down, the sled drawn by chain traces often sailing higher than his humped and angry back.

In Georgia nothing equals a scared runaway mule as an excitement-producer. So at least it impressed my surveying gang just about to breakfast under a big mess tent pitched across a faded cart track along the bank of a winding creek. Needless to say we were all amazed at the sulphurous anathemas heaped upon the offending beast. I must confess that some of my men, highly accomplished in the use of verbal explosives, listened with envy.

From amused interest, however, we soon changed to grave concern. The mule seemed to think that he had the right of way over the old cart track and headed directly for our tent. In three seconds the damage was done. He plunged directly into the outfit, knocked down the center pole and landed on his back. There he lay with feet in the air, kicking and struggling until the wreck of our breakfast, cooking outfit, beds and clothing of eight men, was complete.

Of course, when Howard Byng came flying into us the sentiment was all against him and his gray mule, notwithstanding the new brand of profanity he introduced, for my men were recruited in the North. We had just completed a survey of the Dismal Swamp and had arrived in Georgia full of quinine, malaria and peevishness. But it was our job to give the Forestry Division accurate knowledge of the longleaf pine left in Georgia.

Things looked squally as I scrambled away from the kicking mule and I eyed his master somewhat ruefully. It was then that I noticed a sign of mental bigness in the youngster. I also noted that he was much larger physically, and more husky than I had first thought him to be. Even after his long run he wasn't winded, his ample chest accounting for that. He wasn't mad, either, but very much excited. Experience had taught me that a man with his kind of nose seldom gets mad—just fierce. With a litheness and strength surprising he threw up the edge of the tent, dived into the wreck and literally dragged "Jeff Davis" out, continuing meanwhile his complimentary remarks about the perverseness of all mules and "Jeff" in particular.

On four feet again the maddened mule, still feeling himself to be the injured party, kicked viciously with both hind feet at his owner, then started straight across our wrecked home at break-neck speed down the faded cart track.

"Did you-all ever see such a damn mule?" This question was addressed particularly to me. Even in the excitement the youngster shrewdly discerned that I was in charge. "Let him go; he'll stop. A mule won't go far after you doan want him," he added. Then, for the first time, he noticed how unpopular he was with my husky, malarious eight.

The fellow interested me not a little. I smiled encouragingly, but my main thought was to get the tent in place and a new breakfast cooked so we could get to work.

"I ain't 'sponsible for that there mule, suh, but I reckon I'm goin' to help you-all put the tent back," he said to me in kindly tone of voice. But getting the side remarks of the disgusted men, and especially our big "axe-man," and the cook, who saw more than double work ahead, Byng's eyes opened wide.

"You kaint help a mule running away. It's bawn in 'em. Anyhow, it won't take long to git the tent up again." He eyed me expectantly and my sympathy went out to him. "I'll do it myself," he added affably.

"Of course it isn't your fault," I replied. "A mule is a mule; that is why he is called by that name."

For a moment I thought the matter would get by amicably, but another flood of profanity from big Jake and aimed directly at the Georgia Cracker brought the tension to the breaking point.

In the code of the turpentine woods it is perfectly proper to swear at a mule no matter who owns it, and a mule expects to be "cussed." But to include the owner, or driver, is an insult that calls for trouble.

Instantly the young stranger stopped his work and stepped back a few paces. There he listened carefully to all that was said, and as long as he could stand it, his steel gray eyes taking on a fire that I well understood. But my men from the North did not grasp the situation. In a voice not so very loud, but plain enough to be heard by all, the Cracker, in a wonderful Southern drawl, began to say something.

"I reckon I kain't fight you-all all at once, but I'll take you-all one at a time and whup the whole bunch of yer." He then glanced over toward me as though expecting a square deal. I gave him a kindly twinkle of encouragement, but his challenge had the effect of quieting matters for a brief period. Then big Jake, who seemed to be in a particularly bad humor, began to snort and swear again.

Jake had long since elected himself boss bruiser of the party, and without contest. We had been in the Dismal Swamp so long and eaten so much quinine that if he had said he was the devil himself, or any other bandit, all hands would have assented. Now they looked to Jake to prove his claims as a bad man.

Jake, thoroughly confident, quit work and swaggered over toward the Cracker. He still gave vent to most insulting tirades. I felt somehow that Jake was recklessly going against an unknown quantity, but I said nothing. If he was well licked once it might make him a better camp fellow.

Jake rushed at Byng bellowing like the king bull of a herd, but the Cracker boy stood his ground with chin slightly elevated, his jaws set until a knob showed on the lower angle.

"Yer crazy mule breaks up our camp and spoils our breakfast and now yer want to fight—is dat it?" Jake sneered, his words in purest "hobo."

The Cracker boy glanced at me and seemingly understood how I felt. Nevertheless, he watched Jake with eyes strangely fierce.

"Why don't you say something, yer damn Cracker. They ain't no fight in ye," sneered Jake insultingly. Then reaching out he tore open Byng's hickory shirt, and spat tobacco juice upon his bare skin.

The youngster hadn't raised his hand as yet; he seemed to be waiting for something. His restraint seemed ominous to me.

Jake emboldened, grabbed him by the shoulder, partly turned and gave him a hunch with his knee which had the effect of unleashing the boy's tremendous energy. As quick as a flash his great brown fist flew out, landing on Jake's jaw. It was a wallop with an echo that rebounded from the opposite bank of the creek, and Jake hit the ground with a thud.

"Now git up and I'll do it agin," the Cracker boy said confidently.

Jake gained his feet unsteadily, and started forward like a maddened bull. It seemed as though he would surely carry everything before him. But the youngster waited calmly. Perhaps six seconds elapsed before his long reach shot out again. This put the axeman on his hands and knees, with face as white as chalk. As he partly raised, Byng grabbed him by the waist, and, as if lifting a dead dog, tossed him into the creek.

For the first time in months my fever-and-ague crew laughed outright. To see Jake get his quietus from so unexpected a quarter was a tonic in itself. The big bully had been put out by a kid, so to speak, and every one of his mates laughed when the victim waded out of the creek spitting out teeth.

"Now is they any more of you-all ut wants to fight?" challenged the victor, addressing himself to all present, but they only grinned and looked at Jake sprawling on the grass. I walked over to the Cracker boy.

"What is your name?" I asked, reassuringly.

"My name, suh, is Howard Byng."

"That's a good name. You ought to be called 'Fighting' Byng. Better go and find that mule or you may lose him. We will soon be straightened out here," I added, smiling, also taking closer inventory of the boy. Without further words he started down the old road to recover Jeff Davis and put him back to work.

Jake, having been thoroughly disabled, quit his job and left me short-handed. The next morning I saw Howard Byng in the adjoining wood, with the gray mule drawing the sled. There was a barrel on it. He had been gathering turpentine sap, and sledding it to a "still." He was glad to see me, and at once offered me a chew of dog-leg natural-leaf tobacco.

"How do you like this kind of work?" I asked, casually.

"Waal—only tolerable, suh," he drawled, taking a liberal chew of the leaf. "But I'm doggoned tired of dis heah country."

"This country is all right—isn't it?"

"Yes, suh," he replied slowly, leaning back against the sap barrel, "I reckon de country's all right, but here lately it seems just lak God made it de las' thing he done and used up what poor stuff he had left."

"I thought Georgia was a pretty good state," I suggested.

"Oh, yes, suh, Georgia is a good enough state, an' I reckon Atlanter, Augusta, an' Savannah are big cities with mighty fine, rich people, but dis heah pa't ain't no good 'tall—do you-all know just what dis yellah land an' swamp heah is good fur?" he asked solemnly, ruefully contemplating his great toe wrapped in a cotton rag.

"What do you think it is best for?" I asked, standing a few paces away, amused.

"Well, suh, I'll tell yer what it's good for, an' the only thing it is good for, and that is to hold the earth together, that's all," he said with finality. I laughed and asked how he would like to leave, and go to work in the surveying party.

"I'd lak it mighty well, but I reckon you-all ain't got no place for me," he replied, rising eagerly and coming up to where I stood.

"Yes—maybe I can arrange it. That fellow you smashed yesterday has got to leave. The doctor says his jaw is fractured and he must eat soft food. He is not fit to work—he wants to go." Byng's eyes grew large.

"Well, suh, I'm pow'ful sorry. I'm glad I hit him only a little tap, or it might'a killed him. I held back all I could—jest a little tap. An' now you say I can have his job?" he asked, coming closer, his eyes glittering.

"Yes, if you want it."

"An' you say that fellah has his jaw broke, and the saw-bones says he mus' live on spoon vittles?" he asked, moving away, his head hanging.

"Yes, that's about it—but you were not——"

"So help me Gawd, Mistah——" He paused and then continued, "Waal, you-all know I didn't lif' my han' till he sput on me, and—I am not to blame for de mule. I'm downright sorry I put him on spoon vittles, and I needn't t've doused him in the crick." Byng evidently did not realize how strong he was.

"But what I want to know is how soon you can come to work?" said I, bringing him back to my offer. I needed him, and wasn't half sorry that he possessed a terrific punch.

"If you mean, Mistah 'er——" He hesitated a moment. "Did you say yer name was Wood? If you mean it, I can go to work jus' as soon as I taik dis heah mule ovah to the still an' tell de boss."

That was how young Byng came to go with me, and promptly the boys nick-named him "Fighting Byng."