WESTWARD HO!
Mr. Gwynne accompanied Mr. Sleighter to the door. “Will you walk down to
the store?” said Mr. Sleighter.
“Very well,” said Mr. Gwynne, setting off with him.
Mr. Sleighter evidently had something on his mind. The usual fountain
of his speech seemed to be dried up. As they drew near to the store, he
seized Mr. Gwynne by the arm, arrested him, and said:
“Say, Mr. Gwynne, you ain't got any right to be in business. You ain't
got the parts, and that Machine Company and the rest of 'em put it all
over you.”
“We needn't go into that now, I suppose,” said Mr. Gwynne.
“No, I guess I am buttin' in--a thing I don't often do--but I am off my
stride to-night anyway, and I am doin' what I never did in all my life
before. I guess it was them kids of yours and your missis. I know it
ain't my business, but what are you goin' to do with yourself?”
“I don't know yet,” replied Mr. Gwynne, declining to be confidential.
“Not goin' into business, I hope. You ain't got the parts. Some people
ain't got 'em, and you ain't. Goin' to farm?”
“No, I think not. The fact is I'm about selling my farm.”
“Selling it?”
“Yes, I had an offer to-day which I am thinking of accepting.”
“An offer, eh, from a feller named Martin, I suppose?”
“How did you know?”
“I don't know. I just figgered. Offered you about a hundred dollars,
eh?”
“No; I wish he had. It's worth a hundred with the house and
buildings--they are good buildings.”
“Say, I don't like to butt in on any man's business, but is the price a
secret?”
“Oh, no; he offers four thousand, half cash.”
“And how much for the buildings?”
“Four thousand for everything, it's not enough but there are not many
buyers in this neighbourhood.”
“Say, there's nothing rash about that feller. When do you close?”
“Must close to-morrow night. He has a chance of another place.”
“Oh, he has, eh? Big rush on, eh? Well, don't you close until I see you
some time to-morrow, partner.”
Mr. Sleighter scented another salvage deal, his keen eyes gleamed a bit,
the firm lips were pressed a little more closely together.
“And say,” he said, turning back, “I don't wonder you can't do business.
I couldn't do anything myself with a missis like yours. I couldn't
get any smooth work over with her lookin' at me like that, durned if I
could. Well, good-night; see you to-morrow.”
Mr. Sleighter spent the early hours of the following day among the
farmers with whom his salvage deal had brought him into contact. The
wrecker's instinct was strong in him, and besides he regarded with
abhorrence the tactics of Mr. Martin and welcomed an opportunity to beat
that gentleman at his own game. He could easily outbid the Martin offer
and still buy the farm at a low price. As a result of his inquiries he
had made up his mind that the land was worth at the very least eighty
dollars an acre and the buildings at least two thousand more. Five
thousand would be a ridiculously low figure and six thousand not
extravagantly high for both buildings and farm. The farm with the store
and machine business attached might offer a fair opening to his son,
who was already weary of school and anxious to engage in business for
himself.
“Guess I'll take a whirl out of the old boy,” he said to himself. “He's
a durn fool anyway and if I don't get his money some one else will.”
In the afternoon he made his way to the store. “Boss ain't in?” he
inquired of the clerk.
“No, he's at the house, I guess.”
“Back soon?”
“Don't know. Guess he's busy over there.”
“Seen Mr. Martin around?”
“Yes, he was here a while ago. Said he would be in again later.”
Mr. Sleighter greatly disliked the idea of doing business with Mr.
Gwynne at his own house. “Can't do no business with his missis and
kids around,” he said to himself. “Can't get no action with that woman
lookin' on seemingly. But that there old Martin geyser is on the job and
he might close things up. I guess I will wander over.”
To his great relief he found Mr. Gwynne alone and without preliminaries,
and with the design of getting “quick action” before the disturbing
element of Mrs. Gwynne's presence should be introduced, he made his
offer. He explained his purpose in purchasing, and with something of
a flourish offered five thousand for “the hull plant, lock, stock and
barrel,” cash down if specially desired, but he would prefer to pay half
in six months. He must have his answer immediately; was not anxious to
buy, but if Mr. Gwynne wanted to close up, he only had to say so. He was
not going to monkey with the thing.
“You have made me a much better offer than the one I received from Mr.
Martin, and I am inclined to accept it, but inasmuch as I have promised
to give him an answer to-day, I feel that it's due to him that I should
meet him with the bargain still unclosed.”
“Why?” enquired Mr. Sleighter in surprise.
“Well, you see I asked him to hold the offer open until this afternoon.
I feel I ought to go to him with the matter still open.”
“Want to screw him up, eh?” said Mr. Sleighter, his lips drawing close
together.
“No, sir.” Mr. Gwynne's voice had a little ring in it. “I consider it
fairer to Mr. Martin.”
“Don't see as how he has much claim on you,” replied Mr. Sleighter. “But
that's your own business. Say, there he comes now. Look here, my offer
is open until six o'clock. After that it's a new deal. Take it or leave
it. I will be at your store.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Gwynne stiffly.
Mr. Sleighter was distinctly annoyed and disappointed. A few minutes'
longer pressure, he was convinced, would have practically closed a deal
which would have netted him a considerable profit. “Durn old fool,” he
muttered to himself as he passed out of the room.
In the hallway Mrs. Gwynne's kindly welcome halted him. She greeted him
as she would a friend. Would he not sit down for a few moments. No,
he was busy. Mr. Sleighter was quite determined to get away from her
presence.
“The children were delighted with your description of your western
home,” she said. “The free life, the beautiful hills, the mountains in
the distance--it must indeed be a lovely country.”
Mr. Sleighter was taken off his guard. “Yes, ma'am, that's lovely
country all right. They'd like it fine out there, and healthy too. It
would make a man of that little kid of yours. He looks a little on the
weak side to me. A few months in the open and you wouldn't know him. The
girls too--”
“Come in here and sit down, won't you, Mr. Sleighter?” said Mrs. Gwynne.
Mr. Sleighter reluctantly passed into the room and sat down. He knew he
was taking a risk. However, his offer was already made and the deal he
believed would be closed in the store by six o'clock.
“I suppose the land is all taken up out there?” said Mrs. Gwynne.
“Oh, yes, mostly, unless away back. Folks are comin' in all the time,
but there's still lots of cheap land around.”
“Cheap land, is there?” inquired Mrs. Gwynne with a certain eagerness in
her voice. “Indeed I should have thought that that beautiful land would
be very dear.”
“Why, bless your heart, no. I know good land going for
six--seven--eight--ten dollars an acre. Ten dollars is high for good
farm lands; for cattle runs four dollars is good. No, there's lots of
good land lying around out of doors there. If these people around here
could get their heads up long enough from grubbing in the muck they
wouldn't stay here over night. They'd be hittin' the trail for the west,
you bet.”
Mrs. Gwynne turned her honest eyes upon him. “Mr. Sleighter, I want to
ask your advice. I feel I can rely upon you [“Durn it all, she's gettin'
her work in all right,” thought Mr. Sleighter to himself], and I am
getting quite anxious in the matter. You see, my husband is determined
to leave this place. He wishes to try something else. Indeed, he must
try something else. We must make a living, Mr. Sleighter.” Mrs. Gwynne's
voice became hurried and anxious. “We were delighted last night by your
description of that wonderful country in the West, and the children
especially. I have been wondering if we might venture to try a small
farm in that country--quite a small farm. We have a little money
to invest. I thought I might be bold enough to ask you. I know your
judgment would be good and I felt somehow that we could trust you. I
hope I am not taking a liberty, but somehow I feel that you are not a
stranger.”
“No, ma'am, certainly not,” said Mr. Sleighter in a loud voice, his hope
of securing “quick action on that deal” growing dim.
“Do you happen to know any farm--a small farm--which we might be able
to buy? We hope to receive four thousand dollars for this place. I feel
that it is worth a good deal more, but there are not many buyers about
here. Then, of course, perhaps we value our place too highly. Then by
your kind help we have got something out of the business--twelve hundred
and fifty dollars I think Mr. Gwynne said. We are most grateful to you
for that, Mr. Sleighter.” Her eyes beamed on him in a most disconcerting
way. “And so after our obligations here are met we might have about
forty-five hundred dollars clear. Could we do anything with that?”
“I donno, I donno,” said Mr. Sleighter quickly and rising from his
chair, “I will think it over. I have got to go now.”
At this moment Mr. Gwynne came into the room. “Oh, I am glad you are not
gone, Mr. Sleighter. I have just told Mr. Martin that I cannot accept
his offer.”
“Cannot accept, Michael!” said Mrs. Gwynne, dismay in her voice and in
her eyes.
“I believe you said your offer was good until six, Mr. Sleighter?”
“Oh, I say, Gwynne, let's get out, let's get over to the store. It's
kind of hot here, and I've got to go. Come on over and we'll clean up.”
Without a farewell word to either of them Mr. Sleighter passed rapidly
from the room.
“I do hope there's nothing wrong, Michael,” said his wife. “I fear I
have made a mistake. I spoke to Mr. Sleighter about the possibility of
getting a small farm in the West. You were so eager about it, Michael
dear, and I spoke to Mr. Sleighter about it. I hope there is nothing
wrong.”
“Don't worry, mother. I have his offer for five thousand dollars. Of
course he is rather peculiar, I confess, but I believe--” The door
opened abruptly upon them, admitting Mr. Sleighter.
“See here, Mr. Gwynne, I can't do no business with you.”
“Sir, you made me an offer for my farm,” said Mr. Gwynne indignantly,
“and I have just refused an offer from Mr. Martin on account of yours.”
“Oh, we'll cut that all out,” said Mr. Sleighter, whose voice and manner
indicated strong excitement. “Now don't talk. Listen to me, my son. You
ain't got any right to be playing around with business men anyhow. Now I
am going to do a little business for you, if you will allow me, ma'am.
I take it you want to get away from here.” Mr. Gwynne nodded, gazing
at him in astonishment. “You want to go West.” Again Mr. Gwynne nodded.
“Well, there's only one spot in the West--Alberta. You want a farm.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Gwynne.
“Yes, certainly,” said Mrs. Gwynne.
“There's just one farm that will suit you, an' that's Lakeside Farm,
Wolf Willow, Alberta, owned by H. P. Sleighter, Esq., who's going to
stump you to a trade. Five hundred acres, one hundred broke an' a timber
lot; a granary; stables and corral, no good; house, fair to middlin'.
Two hundred an' fifty acres worth ten dollars at least, best out of
doors; cattle run, two hundred acres worth five; swamp and sleugh, fifty
acres, only good to look at but mighty pretty in the mornin' at sun-up.
Not much money in scenery though. Building worth between two and three
thousand. Your plant here is worth about six thousand. I know I offered
you five thousand, but I was buyin' then and now I am buyin' and
sellin'. Anyway, I guess it's about even, an' we'll save you a lot of
trouble an' time an' money. An' so, if you really want a western farm,
you might just as well have mine. I did not think to sell. Of course
I knew I must sell in the long run, but couldn't just see my place in
anybody else's hands. Somehow it seems different though to see you folks
on it. You seem to fit. Anyway, there's the offer. What do you say?”
“Sit down, Mr. Sleighter,” said Mr. Gwynne. “This is a rather surprising
proposition.”
Mrs. Gwynne's eyes grew soft. “Michael, I think it is wonderful.”
But Mr. Gwynne would not look at his wife. “Let me see, Mr. Sleighter,
your farm, you say, with buildings, is worth about six thousand to
sixty-five hundred. Mine is worth from fifty-five hundred to six
thousand. I will take your offer and pay the difference.”
“Oh, come off your perch,” said Mr. Sleighter. “You're doin' the
highfalutin' Vere de Vere act now. Listen to me. The deal is as level as
I can figger it. Your farm and store with the machine business suit me
all right. I feel I can place my boy right here for a while anyway. My
farm, I believe, would suit you better than anythin' else you can get.
There's my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“I think we will take it, Mr. Sleighter,” said Mrs. Gwynne. “Michael
dear, I feel Mr. Sleighter is right, and besides I know he is doing us a
great kindness.”
“Kindness, ma'am, not at all. Business is business, and that's all there
is to it. Well, I'll be goin'. Think it over, get the papers fixed up by
to-morrow. No, don't thank me. Good-bye.”
Mrs. Gwynne followed him to the door, her face flushed, her eyes aglow,
a smile hovering uncertainly about her lips. “Mr. Sleighter,” she said,
“the Lord sent you to us because He knew we were in need of guiding.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Mr. Sleighter. “Like that Samaritan chap in the
reading, eh? I guess you had got among thieves all right, more of 'em
perhaps than you recognised too.”
“He sent you to us,” repeated Mrs. Gwynne, offering him her hand.
“Well, I donno but that He steered me to you. But all the same I guess
the advantage is to me all right.” Mr. Sleighter looked hard down the
street, then turned and faced her squarely. “I want to say that it's
done me a pile of good to have seen you, ma'am. It's made things look
different.”
“You are a good man, Mr. Sleighter,” she said, looking at him with misty
eyes.
“A good man!” Mr. Sleighter was seized with a cough. “A good man! Good
Lord, ma'am! nobody never found it out but you--durn that cough anyway.”
And still troubled by his cough, Mr. Sleighter hurried down the path to
the gate and out on to the road.
Once resolved to break up their home in Eastern Canada, the Gwynnes
lost no time in completing their arrangements for the transportation of
themselves and their household gods and such of their household goods as
Mr. Sleighter advised, to the new western country.
Mr. Sleighter appeared to regard the migration of the Gwynne family to
the western country as an enterprise in which he had made an investment
from which he was bound to secure the greatest possible return. The
principle of exchange which had been the basis of the deal as far as
the farms were concerned was made to apply as far as possible to farm
implements and equipment, household goods and chattels.
“What's the use of your packin' a hull bunch of stuff West an' my
packin' a hull bunch of stuff East. We'll just tote up the stock an'
stuff we have got and make a deal on it. I know all my stuff an' yours
is here. We'll make a trade.”
To this Mr. Gwynne gladly agreed. The arrangement would save trouble
and useless expenditure. Hence the car was packed with such goods as Mr.
Sleighter considered especially useful in the new home, and with such
household furniture as the new home lacked and such articles as were
precious from family or personal associations.
“What about the pictures and curtains?” inquired Mr. Gwynne. “We don't
need them.”
“Take 'em all,” said Mr. Sleighter. “Pictures are like folks. They got
faces an' looks. And curtains--my missis got hers all packed. Curtains
are like clothes--they only fit them that owns them.”
“And the piano?”
“Sure thing. Say, a piano in that country is like the village pump--the
hull country gets about it. Take things to eat an' things to wear an'
things to make the shack look pretty an' interestin' and comfortable.
They don't take much room and they take the bareness off. That's what
kills the women folk in the West, the bareness inside and outside.
Nothin' but chairs, table an' stove inside; nothin' but grass an' sand
outside. That's what makes 'em go crazy.”
So the car was filled with things to eat and to wear, and things “to
take the bareness off.” Somewhere in the car was found a place for
Rosie, the cow, a remarkable milker and “worth her weight in butter,” as
Mr. Sleighter said, and for Rover, Larry's collie dog, who stood to him
as comrade almost as a brother. A place in the car too was found for
Joe Gagneau who from the first moment of the announced departure had
expressed his determination to accompany Larry no matter at what cost or
against whose opposition.
“A'm goin' be in dat car' me, by gar!” was his ultimatum, and the
various authorities interested recognised the inevitable and accepted
it, to the great delight of both boys. Joe had a mouth organ and so had
Larry, and they were both in the same key. Joe too had an old fiddle of
his father's on which he could scrape with joy to himself, and with more
or less agony to others, the dance tunes of local celebrity, the “Red
River Jig,” picked up from his father, “Money Musk” and “The Deil Amang
the Tailors,” the two latter from Dan Monroe at the country dances.
In due time the car, packed with the Gwynne household goods and
treasures and in charge of the two superlatively happy boys, with Rosie
and Rover to aid in providing them with sustenance and protection, set
forth, Westward Ho! Mr. Gwynne rode in the caboose of the train to
which his car was attached. Mrs. Gwynne and the girls were to follow
by passenger train and would doubtless be found awaiting them on their
arrival at Winnipeg.
The journey westward was to the boys full of interest and adventure.
At Toronto they picked up a stowaway, who, taking advantage of their
absence, boarded the car and made himself a bed behind some bales of
hay. Upon discovery by Rover, he made so piteous an appeal for refuge
from some pursuing terror which he declined to specify, that the boys
agreed to conceal him a night and a day till they were well on their
way along the north shore of Lake Superior. When Larry's conscience made
further concealment a burden greater than could be borne, Mr. Gwynne
was taken into the boys' confidence and, after protest, agreed to make
arrangement with the railroad authorities whereby Sam--for that was the
stowaway's name--might retain his place in the car.
He was a poor, wretched creature, reminding Larry of the scarecrow which
he had put up in their garden the summer before. He was thin beyond
anything the boys had ever seen. His face was worn and old and came to
a peak at the nose, which gave him the appearance of a monster rat, a
resemblance emphasised by the little blinking, red-rimmed eyes. His hair
was closely cropped and of brilliant carrotty colour.
But he had seen life in a great city and had gathered a store of
worldly wisdom, not all of which was for his good, and a repertoire
of accomplishments that won him admiration and wonder from the simple
country boys. He had all the new ragtime songs and dances, which he
rendered to his own accompaniment on an old battered banjo. He was a
contortionist of quite unusual cleverness, while his fund of stories
never ran dry throughout the seven days' journey to Winnipeg. He set
himself with the greatest assiduity to impart his accomplishments to the
boys, and by the time the party had reached the end of the first stage
in their westward journey, Sam had the satisfaction of observing that
his pupils had made very satisfactory progress, both with the clog
dancing and with the ragtime songs. Besides this, he had made for
himself an assured place in their affection, and even Mr. Gwynne had
come to feel such an interest in the bit of human driftwood flung up
against him, that he decided to offer the waif a chance to try his
fortune in the West.