_AT THE SAW-MILL._
"It was in a train. It was attacked by rough, cruel men, and one of
them killed my father."
Cyril's voice shook as he spoke, and for a moment he paused.
"I fell into the hands of the men, and they were leaving me to die,
when Green--I mean Ben Davidson, rescued me."
"Ah! Just so! Well, I won't ask you questions about that. But say,
what is your name? Where do you come from?"
"My name is Cyril Morton. My father was an English gentleman, with
an estate in Cornwall. We came to this country in search of my
uncle, Gerald Morton. Have you ever known him, do you think?"
Cyril asked the question with sudden eagerness. Who was so likely as
the great saw-miller to know a sojourner in those parts?
The saw-miller shook his head. "Ours is an immense country," he
said. "Unless you have some clue to his whereabouts I'm afraid you
won't be likely to find that uncle of yours, my boy."
"Then, if you please," said Cyril, "can you help me to return to my
friends in England?"
The saw-miller said nothing. He looked discouragingly at the boy.
"You see," said Cyril, "I've scarcely any money with me. But my
father had plenty. When I get back to England I shall just go to Mr.
Betts, our lawyer, and get him to send your money back, with
interest--that is, if you will be so very kind as to lend me some."
"Just so," said the saw-miller. "But how can a little chap like you
travel all those thousands of miles alone? No, no, my boy, it's not
so easily done."
"But I must return home," protested Cyril.
"Yes, of course. All in good time. But you must wait here until
someone going to Chicago comes this way."
"But----" began Cyril.
"Now, I can't argue with you, boy," said the saw-miller shortly.
"You're very welcome to stay here with us until it's convenient to
send you along to England. More than that I cannot do for you."
He touched the bell.
"Thank you," said Cyril, "but----"
"Jim, take this youngster to the cook," said Mr. Ellison to his
errand-boy, "and tell him to give the lad something to eat and drink."
"Yes, boss. Come along." The last two words were addressed to
Cyril, who followed him from the office immediately.
The boy conducted Cyril into a large room in the great house where
the master saw-miller lived with such of his men as were unmarried.
Then a man wearing a white cap placed a dish of hot meat, bread, and
coffee before him, at one end of a very long table.
Just as Cyril was sitting down to the meal Ben and his father
entered, and came quickly towards him.
"Here he is, father. Here is the boy whose brave true words spoke a
message from heaven to my soul," said Ben.
The old man laid a hard but gentle hand on Cyril's head.
"God bless you!" he said fervently; "God bless you!"
"Thank you," said Cyril in a low tone. He felt very glad to think he
had done so much good, but it was a little embarrassing too; so he
hastened to speak of other things. "Green--I mean Ben," said he,
"aren't you going to have some breakfast? Oh, yes, here comes the
cook with another plate."
The man with the white cap laid the plate before Ben, regarding him
curiously as he did so.
After he had gone the old man spoke. "Ben," he said, "my son, you've
repented; yes, but the consequences of your wrong-doing remain. Your
band has done a good deal of mischief in this neighbourhood, and at
any moment you may be recognised. You'll have to be disguised in
some way."
"I'll shave my beard and whiskers off, and you must cut my hair quite
close, father," said Ben. "Then if you'll kindly get me some clothes
like yours, you'll see I shall look very different. If any of my old
associates ever come this way, it must be quite impossible for them
ever to recognise me."
"Aye, my lad. What would that desperate Captain do if he came across
you?"
"Shoot me as soon as think of it," replied his son.
Cyril trembled. From what he had seen of the Captain he was sure it
would be so. "But these saw-millers are very powerful, Ben, aren't
they?" he asked. "They couldn't easily be overcome, could they?"
"Not likely," Ben answered, "if it came to a fair fight."
After the meal was over Ben shaved, and his father cut his hair quite
close to his head. Then he dressed in the rough garments worn by the
men at the saw-mill. His transformation was so complete that even
Cyril did not know him when he returned to the big room.
Then, and not till then, did the old man take him to the master.
A little later in the day, when Cyril had been shown over all "the
works," and had seen the different operations whereby great forest
trees were sawn into boards, smoothed, planed, and piled up in mighty
heaps ready for transportation, he learnt that Mr. Ellison had been
very kind to Ben, and had engaged his services, that he might remain
there and work with his father. The old man was most pleased and
thankful; and his son and he made very much of Cyril, and were never
tired of telling him how grateful they were to him for being the
means of their present happiness. The boy did not like to disturb
and distress them by letting them know of his own bitter
disappointment in not being assisted at once to return to England.
Mr. Ellison was very kind to him in other ways. He allowed him to
sleep in a tiny room opening into his own bedroom, and at meal times
Cyril's plate was always set near the master's.
"He's a little gentleman," said the rough saw-miller; "he shall sit
near me."
Sometimes, when "the boss" was resting, he would talk kindly to
Cyril, explaining to him all about the wonderful work which went on
in the heart of that strange, wild land.
"You would never think, lad," said he, "that houses built in London,
York, Sheffield, Liverpool, and so on, in the old country, are
floored and partly 'run up' with boards made of our forest pines.
Yet it is so; our timber goes to the wood markets of old England."
Then he related graphically how large parties of men, called
lumberers, came over to Michigan and Canada just before the long
winter and set up great camps, at which they lived a hard, rough
life, going out long before light on intensely cold winter mornings
to fell the giant pine trees, and returning early in the evenings to
eat and sleep heavily until it was again time to go to work. In the
winter months when the ground was covered with snow and ice the
forest would resound with the blows of the axe, and the trees would
lie prone on the ground until they were chained together into rough
sleighs and dragged over the frozen snow to the banks of the frozen
rivers. There they would lie waiting until the spring, when the ice
would melt, and the timber would be slipped into the river and borne
by the force of the current on, on, for many miles until it reached
its destination.
"Yes," he said, "our timber comes floating down to us on our river.
We stop it when it reaches us, and saw it up as you have seen.
Afterwards the same river bears it away towards its distant market."
"Then the river is your road, your railway, and everything," said
Cyril.
"Yes. And we make the water serve us doubly. It is our carriage or
boat, as well as our road or river." And then Mr. Ellison told him
of greater wonders still, of timber being formed into gigantic rafts,
these "shooting the rapids" and being "tugged" across lakes by
steamers.
It was all very wonderful; Cyril was deeply interested. But still he
longed to leave that marvellous country to return to his friends and
his father's friends in old England.