eight o'clock
Once in a while Houston rode the sleds , merely for the thrill of it ; for the singing and crunching of the logs against the snow , the grinding of bark against bark , the quick surge as the horses struck a sharp decline and galloped down it , the driver shouting , the logs kicking up the snow behind the sled in a swirling , feathery wake . At times he stayed at the bunk house with the lumberjacks , silent as they were silent , or talking of trivial things which were mighty to them , -- the quality of the food , the depth of the snow , the fact that the little gray squirrels were more plentiful in one part of the woods than another , or that they chattered more in the morning than in the afternoon . Hours he spent in watching Old Bill , a lumberjack who , in his few moments of leisure between the supper table and bed , whittled laboriously upon a wooden chain , which with dogged persistence he had lugged with him for months . Or perhaps staring over the shoulder of Jade Hains , striving to copy the picture of a motion-picture star from a worn , dirty , months-old magazine ; as excited as they over the tiny things in life , as eager to seek a bunk when eight o'clock came , as grudging to hear the clatter of alarm clocks in the black coldness before dawn and to creak forth to the watering and harnessing of the horses for the work of the day . Some way , it all seemed to be natural to Barry Houston , natural that he should accept this sort of dogged , humdrum , eventless life and strive to think of nothing more . The other existence , for him , had ended in a blackened waste ; even the one person in whom he had trusted , the woman he would have been glad to marry , if that could have repaid her in any way for what he thought she had done for him , had proved traitorous . His letters , written to her at general delivery , St. Louis , had been returned , uncalled for .