FRECKLES

by Gene Stratton-Porter
To

all good Irishmen
in general

and one
CHARLES DARWIN PORTER

in particular
Characters

FRECKLES, a plucky waif who guards the Limberlost timber leases
and dreams of Angels.

THE SWAMP ANGEL, in whom Freckles' sweetest dream materializes.
MCLEAN, a member of a Grand Rapids lumber company, who befriends Freckles.

MRS. DUNCAN, who gives mother-love and a home to Freckles.
DUNCAN, head teamster of McLean's timber gang.

THE BIRD WOMAN, who is collecting camera studies of birds for a book.
LORD AND LADY O'MORE, who come from Ireland in quest of a lost relative.

THE MAN OF AFFAIRS, brusque of manner, but big of heart.
WESSNER, a Dutch timber-thief who wants rascality made easy.

BLACK JACK, a villain to whom thought of repentance comes too late.
SEARS, camp cook.

Contents
I Wherein Great Risks Are Taken and the Limberlost Guard Is Hired

II Wherein Freckles Proves His Mettle and Finds Friends
III Wherein a Feather Falls and a Soul Is Born

IV Wherein Freckles Faces Trouble Bravely and Opens the Way for
New Experiences

V Wherein an Angel Materializes and a Man Worships
VI Wherein a Fight Occurs and Women Shoot Straight

VII Wherein Freckles Wins Honor and Finds a Footprint on the Trail
VIII Wherein Freckles Meets a Man of Affairs and Loses Nothing by

the Encounter
IX Wherein the Limberlost Falls upon Mrs. Duncan and Freckles

Comes to the Rescue
X Wherein Freckles Strives Mightily and the Swamp Angel Rewards Him

XI Wherein the Butterflies Go on a Spree and Freckles Informs the
Bird Woman

XII Wherein Black Jack Captures Freckles and the Angel Captures Jack
XIII Wherein the Angel Releases Freckles, and the Curse of Black

Jack Falls upon Her
XIV Wherein Freckles Nurses a Heartache and Black Jack Drops Out

XV Wherein Freckles and the Angel Try Taking a Picture, and Little
Chicken Furnishes the Subject

XVI Wherein the Angel Locates a Rare Tree and Dines with the Gang
XVII Wherein Freckles Offers His Life for His Love and Gets a Broken Body

XVIII Wherein Freckles Refuses Love Without Knowledge of Honorable
Birth, and the Angel Goes in Quest of it

XIX Wherein Freckles Finds His Birthright and the Angel Loses Her Heart
XX Wherein Freckles Returns to the Limberlost, and Lord O'More

Sails for Ireland Without Him
CHAPTER I

Wherein Great Risks Are Taken and the Limberlost Guard Is Hired
Freckles came down the corduroy that crosses the lower end of

the Limberlost. At a glance he might have been mistaken for a
tramp, but he was truly seeking work. He was intensely" target="_blank" title="ad.激烈地；热切地">intensely eager

to belong somewhere and to be attached to almost any enterprise
that would furnish him food and clothing.

Long before he came in sight of the camp of the Grand Rapids Lumber
Company, he could hear the cheery voices of the men, the neighing

of the horses, and could scent the tempting odors of cooking food.
A feeling of homeless friendlessness swept over him in a sickening wave.

Without stopping to think, he turned into the newly made road and
followed it to the camp, where the gang was making ready for supper

and bed.
The scene was intensely" target="_blank" title="ad.激烈地；热切地">intenselyattractive. The thickness of the swamp

made a dark, massivebackground below, while above towered
gigantic trees. The men were calling jovially back and forth as

they unharnessed tired horses that fell into attitudes of rest and
crunched, in deep content, the grain given them. Duncan, the brawny

Scotch head-teamster, lovingly wiped the flanks of his big bays
with handfuls of pawpaw leaves, as he softly whistled, "O wha will

be my dearie, O!" and a cricket beneath the leaves at his feet
accompanied him. The green wood fire hissed and crackled merrily.

Wreathing tongues of flame wrapped around the big black kettles,
and when the cook lifted the lids to plunge in his testing-fork,

gusts of savory odors escaped.
Freckles approached him.

"I want to speak with the Boss," he said.
The cook glanced at him and answered carelessly: "He can't use you."

The color flooded Freckles' face, but he said simply: "If you will
be having the goodness to point him out, we will give him a chance

to do his own talking."
With a shrug of astonishment, the cook led the way to a rough board

table where a broad, square-shouldered man was bending over some
account-books.

"Mr. McLean, here's another man wanting to be taken on the gang,
I suppose," he said.

"All right," came the cheery answer. "I never needed a good man
more than I do just now."

The manager turned a page and carefully began a new line.
"No use of your bothering with this fellow," volunteered the cook.

"He hasn't but one hand."
The flush on Freckles' face burned deeper. His lips thinned to a

mere line. He lifted his shoulders, took a step forward, and thrust
out his right arm, from which the sleeve dangled empty at the wrist.

"That will do, Sears," came the voice of the Boss sharply. "I will
interview my man when I finish this report."

He turned to his work, while the cook hurried to the fires.
Freckles stood one instant as he had braced himself to meet the

eyes of the manager; then his arm dropped and a wave of whiteness
swept him. The Boss had not even turned his head. He had used

the possessive. When he said "my man," the hungry heart of
Freckles went reaching toward him.

The boy drew a quivering breath. Then he whipped off his old hat
and beat the dust from it carefully. With his left hand he caught

the right sleeve, wiped his sweaty face, and tried to straighten
his hair with his fingers. He broke a spray of ironwort beside

him and used the purple bloom to beat the dust from his shoulders
and limbs. The Boss, busy over his report, was, nevertheless, vaguely

alive to the toilet being made behind him, and scored one for the man.
McLean was a Scotchman. It was his habit to work slowly

and methodically. The men of his camps never had known him to be
in a hurry or to lose his temper. Discipline was inflexible, but

the Boss was always kind. His habits were simple. He shared camp
life with his gangs. The only visible signs of wealth consisted

of a big, shimmering diamond stone of ice and fire that glittered
and burned on one of his fingers, and the dainty, beautiful

thoroughbred mare he rode between camps and across the country
on business.

No man of McLean's gangs could honestly say that he ever had been
overdriven or underpaid. The Boss never had exacted any deference

from his men, yet so intense was his personality that no man of
them ever had attempted a familiarity. They all knew him to be a

thorough gentleman, and that in the great timber city several
millions stood to his credit.

He was the only son of that McLean who had sent out the finest
ships ever built in Scotland. That his son should carry on this

business after the father's death had been his ambition. He had
sent the boy through the universities of Oxford and Edinburgh, and