framed in the doorway of the shack

 
He reached for his tunic.
 
"You’ll have a chance to do credit to Blue Pete’s memory. . . . About Helen–wait till we see what size the cloud is."
 
He thrust his arms into the tunic and buttoned it tight to his chin.
 
"You leave on Saturday," he growled.
Chapter 2 Evening At Mile 130
 "Daddy!"
 
Big Jim Torrance, framed in the doorway of the shack, was deaf to everything but the scene before him.
 
"Daddy!" There was a note of impatience in the girl’s voice. "I know what you’re doing–" She appeared in the doorway between kitchen and living room, enamel pan in one hand and a dish towel in the other. "Of course! That horrid trestle–always that trestle! And you might have been helping with the pans. You know how they stain my hands."
 
But the noise of the distant camp, lounging out now from the night meal, crowded what small interstices of his attention remained from the beloved trestle.
 
Out before him, painted in the vivid mesmeric colours of evening, lay a vista dear to him–a new railway built in silent places. Across the yellow grade the bush of Northern Canada stretched on and on, not thick just here, but prophetic of the untracked forests beyond. On his left a great cleft cut the earth, an eleven hundred yard valley, in the middle of which ran a river, sweeping into sight up there round the bend from the deep green of the bush–running placidly enough until it struck the foaming rapids above the trestle–then smoothing into quiet current and swinging back through the chasm to disappear into the unknown behind the shack.

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