Thomlemo, swinging his hatchet over his head like an Indian
tomahawk. “We shall have to halloo pretty loud, for you know he
sleeps like a top.”
And they began scouring the underbrush, traversing it in all
directions, and hallooing lustily, both singly and in chorus.
They were just about giving up the quest, when Lars’s attention
was attracted by two foxes which, undismayed by the noise, were
running about a large fir-tree, barking in a way which betrayed
anxiety, and stopping every minute to dig up the ground with their
fore-paws. When the boys approached the tree, the foxes ran only a
short distance, then stopped, ran back, and again fled, once more
to return.
“Those fellows act very queerly,” remarked Lars, eying the foxes
curiously; “I’ll wager there are young un’s under the tree here,
but”--Lars gasped for breath--“Ole--Ole--Oh, look! What is this?”
Lars had caught sight of a pair of heels, from which a little
stream of blood had been trickling, coloring the stones and
pine-needles. Ole Thomlemo, hearing his comrade’s exclamation of
fright, was on the spot in an instant, and he comprehended at once
how everything had happened.
“Look here, Lars,” he said, resolutely, “this is no time for
crying. If Thor is dead, it is we who have killed him; but if he
isn’t dead, we’ve got to save him.”
“Oh, what shall we do, Ole?” sobbed Lars, while the tears rolled
down over his cheeks, “what shall we do? I shall never dare go home
again if he is dead. We have been so very bad to him!”
“We have got to save him, I tell you,” repeated Ole, tearless and
stern: “we must pull him out; and if we can’t do that, we must cut
through the roots of this fir-tree; then it’ll plunge down the
mountain-side, without hurting him. A few roots that have burrowed
into the rocks are all that keep the tree standing. Now, act like a
man. Take hold of him by one heel and I’ll take the other.”
Lars, who looked up to his friend as a kind of superior being,
dried his tears and grasped his brother’s foot, while Ole carefully
handled the wounded ankle. But their combined efforts had no
perceptible effect, except to show how inextricably the poor lad’s
clothes were intertangled with the tree-roots, which, growing all
in one direction, made entrance easy, but exit impossible.
“That won’t do,” said Ole, after three vain trials. “We might
injure him without knowing it, driving the sharp roots into his
eyes and ears, as likely as not. We’ve got to use the hatchets. You
cut that root and I’ll manage this one.”
Ole Thomlemo was a lumberman’s son, and since he was old enough
to walk had spent his life in the forest. He could calculate
with great nicety how a tree would fall, if cut in a certain
way, and his skill in this instance proved valuable. With six
well-directed cuts he severed one big root, while Lars labored at
a smaller one. Soon with a great crash the mighty tree fell down
the mountain-side, crushing a dozen birches and smaller pines
under its weight. The moss-grown sod around about was torn up with
the remaining roots, and three pretty little foxes, blinded and
stunned by the rush of daylight, sprang out from their hole and
stared in bewilderment at the sudden change of scene. Through the
cloud of flying dust and feathers the boys discerned, too, Thor’s
insensible form, lying outstretched, torn and bleeding, his face
resting upon his hands, as if he were asleep. With great gentleness
they lifted him up, brushed the moss and earth from his face and
clothes, and placed him upon the grass by the side of the brook
which flowed through the bottom of the glen. Although his body was
warm, they could hardly determine whether he was dead or alive,
for he seemed scarcely to be breathing, and it was not until Ole
put a feather before his mouth and perceived its faint inward and
outward movement, that they felt reassured and began to take heart.
They bathed his temples with the cool mountain water and rubbed and
chafed his hands, until at last he opened his eyes wonderingly and
moved his lips, as if endeavoring to speak.
“Where am I?” he whispered at last, after several vain efforts to
make himself heard.
“Why, cheer up, old fellow,” answered Ole, encouragingly; “you have
had a little accident, that’s all, but you’ll be all right in a
minute.”
“Unbutton my vest,” whispered Thor again; “there is something
scratching me here.”
He put his hand over his heart, and the boys quickly tore his
waistcoat open, but to their unutterable astonishment a little
fox, the image of the three that had escaped, put his head out and
looked about him with his alert eyes, as if to say: “Here am I; how
do you like me?” He evidently felt so comfortable where he was,
that he had no desire to get away. No doubt the little creature,
prompted either by his curiosity or a desire to escape from the
den, had crept into Thor’s bosom while he was insensible, and,
finding his quarters quite to his taste, had concluded to remain.
Lars picked him up, tied a string about his neck, and put him in
the side pocket of his jacket. Then, as it was growing late, Ole
lifted Thor upon his back, and he and Lars took turns in carrying
him down to the valley.
Thor’s ankle gave him some trouble, as the wound was slow in
healing. With that exception, he was soon himself again; and he
and Mikkel (for that was the name he gave to the little fox) grew
to be great friends and had many a frolic together.
But the little fox was not a model of deportment, as you will see
when I tell you, in the next chapter, how Mikkel disgraced himself.
II.
HOW MIKKEL DISGRACED HIMSELF.
When Thor was twelve years old, he had to go out into the world
to make his own living; for his parents were poor, and they had
half a dozen younger children, who also had to be fed and clothed.
As it happened, Judge Nannestad, who lived on a large estate down
at the fiord, wanted an office-boy, and as Thor was a bright and
active lad, he had no difficulty in obtaining the situation. The
only question was, how to dispose of Mikkel; for, to be frank,
Mikkel (in spite of his many admirable traits) was not a general
favorite, and Thor suspected that when his protector was away
Mikkel would have a hard time of it. He well knew that Mikkel was
of a peculiar temperament, which required to be studied in order
to be appreciated, and as there was no one but himself who took
this trouble, he did not wonder that his friend was generally
misunderstood. Mikkel’s was not a nature to invite confidences; he
scrupulously kept his own counsel, and was always alert and on his
guard. There was a bland expression on his face, a kind of lurking
smile, which never varied, and which gave absolutely no clew to
his thoughts. When he had skimmed the cream off the milk-pans on
the top shelf in the kitchen, he returned, licking his chops, with
the same inscrutable smile, as if his conscience were as clean
as a new-born babe’s; and when he had slipped his collar over
his head and dispatched the kitten, burying its remains in the
backyard, he betrayed no more remorse than if he had been cracking
a nut. Sultan, the dog, strange to say, had private reasons for
being afraid of him, and always slank away in a shamefaced manner,
whenever Mikkel gave him one of his quiet sidelong glances. And
yet the same Mikkel would roll on his back, and jump and play with
the baby by the hour, seize her pudgy little hands gently with
his teeth, never inflicting a bite or a scratch. He would nestle
on Thor’s bosom inside of his coat, while Thor was learning his
lesson, or he would sit on his shoulder and look down on the book
with his superior smile. It was not to be denied that Mikkel had a
curious character--an odd mixture of good and bad qualities; but
as, in Thor’s judgment, the good were by far the more prominent, he
would not listen to his father’s advice and leave his friend behind
him, when he went down to the judge’s at the grand estate.
It was the day after New-year’s that Thor left the cottage up
under the mountain, and, putting on his skees, slid down the steep
hill-side to the fiord. Mikkel was nestling, according to his wont,
in the bosom of his master’s coat, while his pretty head, with the
clean dark snout and dark mustache, was sticking out above the
boy’s collar, just under his chin. Mikkel had never been so far
away from home before, and he concluded that the world was a bigger
affair than he had been aware of.
It was with a loudly thumping heart that Thor paused outside
the door of the judge’s office, for he greatly feared that the
judge might share the general prejudice against Mikkel, and make
difficulties about his board and lodgings. Instead of entering, he
went to the pump in the yard and washed his friend’s face carefully
and combed his hair with the fragment of a comb with which his
mother had presented him at parting. It was important that Mikkel
should appear to advantage, so as to make a good impression upon
the judge. And really he did look irresistible, Thor thought, with
his bright, black eyes, his dainty paws, and his beautiful red
skin. He felt satisfied that if the judge had not a heart of stone
he could not help being captivated at the sight of so lovely a
creature. Thor took courage and knocked at the door.
“Ah, you are our new office-boy,” said the judge, as he entered;
“but what is that you have under your coat?”
“It is Mikkel, sir, please your Honor,” stammered Thor, putting the
fox on the floor, so as to display his charms. But hardly had he
taken his hands off him, when a sudden scrambling noise was heard
in the adjoining office, and a large hound came bounding with wild
eyes and drooping tongue through the open door. With lightning
speed Mikkel leaped up on the judge’s writing-desk, scattering his
writing materials, upsetting an inkstand by an accidental whisk
of his tail, and bespattering the honorable gentleman’s face and
shirt-front with the black fluid. To perform a similar service on
the next desk, where a clerk was writing, to jump from there to
the shoulder of a marble bust, which fell from its pedestal down
on the hound’s head and broke into a dozen pieces, and to reach a
place of safety on the top of a tall bookcase were all a moment’s
work. The hound lay howling, with a wounded nose, on the floor. The
judge stood scowling at his desk, rubbing the ink all over his face
with his handkerchief, and Mikkel sat smiling on the top of the
bookcase, surveying calmly the ruin which he had wrought. But the
most miserable creature in the room was neither the judge, with his
black face, nor the hound, with the bleeding nose; it was Thor, who
stood trembling at the door, expecting that something still more
terrible would happen. And knowing that, after having caused such a
commotion, his place was forfeited, he held out his arms to Mikkel,
who accepted the invitation, and with all speed at their disposal
they rushed out through the door and away over the snowy fields,
scarcely knowing whither their feet bore them.
After half an hour’s run, when he had no more breath left, Thor
seated himself on a tree-stump and tried to collect his thoughts.
What should he now do? Where should he turn? Go home he could not;
and if he did, it would be the end of Mikkel. The only thing he
could think of was to go around in the parish, from farm to farm,
until he found somebody who would give him something to do.
“I hope you will appreciate, my dear Mikkel,” he said to his fox,
“that it is on your account I have all this trouble. It was very
naughty of you to behave so badly, and if you do it again I shall
have to whip you! Do you understand that, Mikkel?”
Mikkel looked sheepish, which plainly showed that he understood.
“Now, Mikkel,” Thor continued, “we will go to the parson; perhaps
he may have some use for us. What do you think of trying the
parson?”
Mikkel apparently thought well of the parson, for he licked his
master behind his ear and rubbed his snout against his cheek.
Accordingly, by noon they reached the parsonage, and after a
long parley with the pastor’s wife, he was engaged as a sort of
errand-boy, whose duty it should be to do odd jobs about the house.
Mikkel was to have a kennel provided for him in the stable, but
was under no circumstances to enter the house. Thor had to vouch
for his good behavior, and the moment he made himself in any way
obnoxious it was decided that he should be killed. Poor Thor had
nominally to accept these hard conditions, but in his own mind he
determined to run away with Mikkel the moment he was caught in any
kind of mischief. It seemed very hard for Mikkel, too, who had been
accustomed to sleep in Thor’s arms in his warm bed, to be chained,
and to spend the long, dark nights in the stable in a miserable
kennel. Nevertheless, there was no help for it; so Thor went to
work that same afternoon and made Mikkel as comfortable a kennel as
he could, taking care to make the hole which served for entrance no
bigger than it had to be, so that no dog or other enemy should be
able to enter.
For about four months all went well at the parsonage. So long as
Mikkel was confined in the stable he behaved himself with perfect
propriety, and, occasionally, when he was (by special permission)
taken into the house to play with the children, he won golden
opinions for himself by his cunning tricks, and became, in fact,
a great favorite in the nursery. When the spring came and the sun
grew warm, his kennel was, at Thor’s request, moved out into the
yard, where he could have the benefit of the fine spring weather.
There he could be seen daily, lying in the sun, with half-closed
eyes, resting his head on his paws, seeming too drowsy and
comfortable to take notice of anything. The geese and hens, which
were at first a trifle suspicious, gradually grew accustomed to
his presence, and often strayed within range of Mikkel’s chain,
and even within reach of his paws; but it always happened that on
such occasions either the pastor or his wife was near, and Mikkel
knew enough to be aware that goose was forbidden fruit. But one day
(it was just after dinner, when the pastor was taking his nap),
it happened that a great fat gander, prompted by a pardonable
curiosity, stretched his neck a little too far toward the sleeping
Mikkel; when, quick as a wink and wide-awake, Mr. Mikkel jumped
up, and before he knew it, the gander found himself minus his
head. Very cautiously the culprit peered about, and seeing no one
near, he rapidly dug a hole under his kennel and concealed his
victim there, covering it well with earth, until a more favorable
opportunity should present itself for making a meal of it. Then he
lay down, and stretched himself in the sun as before, and seemed
too sleepy even to open his eyes; and when, on the following
day, the gander was missed, the innocent demeanor of Mikkel so
completely imposed upon everyone, that he was not even suspected.
Not even when the second and the third goose disappeared could any
reasonable charge be brought against Mikkel.
When the summer vacation came, however, the even tenor of Mikkel’s
existence was rudely interrupted by the arrival of the parson’s
oldest son, Finn, who was a student in Christiania, and his dog
Achilles. Achilles was a handsome brown pointer, that, having been
brought up in the city, had never been accustomed to look upon the
fox as a domestic animal. He, therefore, spent much of his time in
harassing Mikkel, making sudden rushes for him when he thought him
asleep; but always returning from these exploits shamefaced and
discomfited, for Mikkel was always a great deal too clever to be
taken by surprise. He would lie perfectly still until Achilles was
within a foot of him, and then, with remarkable alertness, he would
slip into the kennel, through his door, where the dog’s size would
not permit him to follow; and the moment his enemy turned his tail
to him, Mikkel’s face would appear bland and smiling, at the door,
as if to say:
“Good-by! Call again whenever you feel like it. Now, don’t you wish
you were as clever as I am?”
And yet in spite of his daily defeats, Achilles could never
convince himself that his assaults upon Mikkel brought him no
glory. Perhaps his master, who did not like Mikkel any too well,
encouraged him in his enmity, for it is certain that the assaults
grew fiercer daily. And at last, one day when the young student
was standing in the yard, holding his dog by the collar, while
exciting him against the half-sleeping fox, Achilles ran with such
force against the kennel that he upset it. Alas! For then the
evidence of Mikkel’s misdemeanors came to light. From the door-hole
of the rolling kennel a heap of goose-feathers flew out, and were
scattered in the air; and, what was worse, a little “dug-out”
became visible, filled with bones and bills and other indigestible
articles, unmistakably belonging to the goose’s anatomy. Mikkel,
who was too wise to leave the kennel so long as it was in motion,
now peeped cautiously out, and he took in the situation at a
glance. Mr. Finn, the student, who thought that Mikkel’s skin would
look charming as a rug before his fire-place in the city, was
overjoyed to find out what a rascal this innocent-looking creature
had been; for he knew well enough that his father would now no
longer oppose his desire for the crafty little creature’s skin. So
he went into the house, loaded his rifle, and prepared himself as
executioner.
But at that very moment, Thor chanced to be coming home from an
errand; and he had hardly entered the yard, when he sniffed danger
in the air. He knew, without asking, that Mikkel’s doom was
sealed. For the parson was a great poultry-fancier and was said
to be more interested in his ganders than he was in his children.
Therefore, without waiting for further developments, Thor unhooked
Mikkel’s chain, lifted the culprit in his arms, and slipped him
into the bosom of his waistcoat. Then he stole up to his garret,
gathered his clothes in a bundle, and watched his chance to escape
from the house unnoticed. And while Master Finn and his dog were
hunting high and low for Mikkel in the barns and stables, Thor
was hurrying away over the fields, every now and then glancing
anxiously behind him, and nearly smothering Mikkel in his efforts
to keep him concealed, lest Achilles should catch his scent.
But Mikkel had his own views on that subject, and was not to be
suppressed; and just as his master was congratulating himself on
their happy escape, they heard the deep baying of a dog, and saw
Achilles, followed by the student with his gun, tracking them in
fierce pursuit. Thor, whose only hope was to reach the fiord,
redoubled his speed, skipped across fences, hedges, and stiles,
and ran so fast that earth and stones seemed to be flying in the
other direction. Yet Achilles’ baying was coming nearer and nearer,
and was hardly twenty feet distant by the time the boy had flung
himself into a boat, and with four vigorous oar-strokes had shot
out into the water. The dog leaped after him, but was soon beyond
his depth, and the high breakers flung him back upon the beach.
“Come back at once,” cried Finn, imperiously. “It is not your
boat. If you don’t obey, I’ll have you arrested.”
Thor did not answer, but rowed with all his might.
“If you take another stroke,” shouted the student furiously,
levelling his gun, “I’ll shoot both you and your thievish fox.”
It was meant only for intimidation; but where Mikkel’s life was at
stake, Thor was not easily frightened.
“Shoot away!” he cried, thinking that he was now at a safe
distance, and that the student’s marksmanship was none of the
best. But before he realized what he had said, whiz! went a bullet
over his head. A stiff gale was blowing, and the little boat was
tossed like a foot-ball on the incoming and the outgoing waves;
but the plucky lad struggled on bravely, until he hove alongside a
fishing schooner, which was to sail the next morning for Drontheim.
Fortunately the skipper needed a deck hand, and Thor was promptly
engaged. The boat which had helped him to escape was found later
and towed back to shore by a fisherman.
III.
HOW MIKKEL MAKES HIS FORTUNE.
In Drontheim, which is a large commercial city on the western
coast of Norway, Thor soon found occupation as office-boy in a
bank, which did business under the name of C. P. Lyng & Co. He
was a boy of an open, fearless countenance, and with a frank and
winning manner. Mr. Lyng, at the time when Thor entered his employ,
had just separated from his partner, Mr. Tulstrup, because the
latter had defrauded the firm and several of its customers. Mr.
Lyng had papers in his safe which proved Mr. Tulstrup’s guilt,
but he had contented himself with dismissing him from the firm,
and had allowed him to take the share of the firm’s property
to which he was legally entitled. The settlement, however, had
not satisfied Mr. Tulstrup, and he had, in order to revenge
himself, gone about to the various customers, whom he had himself
defrauded, and persuaded them to commence suit against Mr. Lyng,
whom he represented as being the guilty party. He did not, at
that time, know that Mr. Lyng had gained possession of the papers
which revealed the real author of the fraud. On the contrary, he
flattered himself that he had destroyed every trace of his own
dishonest transactions.
The fact that Mr. Lyng belonged to a family which had always been
distinguished, in business and social circles, for its integrity
and honor only whetted Tulstrup’s desire to destroy his good name,
and having laid his plans carefully, he anticipated an easy triumph
over honest Mr. Lyng. His dismay, therefore, was very great when,
after the suit had been commenced in the courts, he learned that it
was his own name and liberty which were in danger, and not those
of his former partner. Mr. Tulstrup, in spite of the position he
had occupied, was a desperate man, and was capable, under such
circumstances, of resorting to desperate remedies. But, like
most Norwegians, he had a streak of superstition in his nature,
and cherished an absurd belief in signs and omens, in lucky and
unlucky days, and in spectres and apparitions, foreboding death or
disaster. Mr. Tulstrup’s father had believed in such things, and it
had been currently reported among the peasantry that he had been
followed by a spectral fox, which some asserted to be his wraith,
or double. This fox, it was said, had frequently been seen during
the old man’s lifetime, and when he once saw it himself, he was
frightened nearly out of his wits. Superstitious stories of this
kind are so common in Norway that one can hardly spend a month in
any country district without hearing dozens of them. The belief
in a _fylgia_, or wraith in the shape of an animal, dates far
back into antiquity, and figures largely in the sagas, or ancient
legends of the Northland.
It has already been told that Thor had obtained a position as
office-boy in Mr. Lyng’s bank; and it was more owing to the boy’s
winning appearance than to any fondness for foxes, on Mr. Lyng’s
part, that Mikkel also was engaged. It was arranged that a cushion
whereupon Mikkel might sleep should be put behind the stove in
the back office. At first Mikkel endured his captivity here with
great fortitude; but he did not like it, and it was plain that he
was pining for the parsonage and his kennel in the free air, and
the pleasant companionship of the geese and the stupid Achilles.
Thor then obtained permission to have him walk about unchained,
and the clerks, who admired his graceful form and dainty ways,
soon grew very fond of him, and stroked him caressingly, as he
promenaded along the counter or seated himself on their shoulders,
inspecting their accounts with critical eyes. Thor was very happy
to see his friend petted, though he had an occasional twinge of
jealousy when Mikkel made himself too agreeable to old Mr. Barth,
the cashier, or kissed young Mr. Dreyer, the assistant book-keeper.
Such faithlessness on Mikkel’s part was an ill return for all the
sacrifices Thor had made for him; and yet, hard as it was, it had
to be borne. For an office-boy cannot afford to have emotions, or,
if he has them, cannot afford the luxury of giving way to them.