"After fresh meat?" asked Ross.
"Nope. Lookin' fur a man."
Avery's good eye closed suggestively and he grinned. Standing his rifle
in the crotch of a cedar, he drew a plug of tobacco from his pocket and
carefully shaved a pipeful from it. Then he smoked, squatting beside
David as he gazed across the lake.
"Purty lake, ain't it?"
"Yes, it is," replied David.
"Chuck full of trout--big fellers, too. Ever do any fishin'?"
"A little. I like it."
"Slithers of deer in thet piece across thar," pointing with his pipestem
to the foot of Timberland Mountain. "Ever do any huntin'?"
"Not much. Been after deer once or twice."
"Must have been suthin' behind thet poke you gave Fisty this mornin', I
take it?"
"About one hundred and seventy pounds," replied David, smiling. Avery
chuckled his appreciation. Evidently this young man didn't "pump"
easily.
Puff--puff--"Reckon you never done no trappin'."
"No, I don't know the first thing about it."
Avery was a trifle disconcerted at his companion's taciturnity. He
smoked for a while, covertly studying the other's face.
"Reckon you're goin' back to Tramworth--mebby goin' to quit the woods,
seein' as you and Fisty ain't calc'lated to do any hefty amount of
handshakin' fur a while?"
"Yes, I'm going back, to get work of some kind that will keep me up
here. I wanted to learn a bit about lumbering. I think I began the wrong
way."
"Don't jest feel sartain about thet, m'self. Howcome mebby Harrigan do,
and he's boss. He would have put you on swampin' at one plunk a day and
your grub. Reckon thet ain't turrible big pay fur a eddicated man.
They's 'bout six months' work and then you git your see-you-later
pay-check fur what the supply store ain't a'ready got."
"It's pretty thin picking for some of the boys, I suppose," said David.
"Huh! Some of 'em's lucky to have their britches left to come out in."
"I didn't expect to get rich at it, but I wanted the experience,"
replied David, wondering why Avery seemed so anxious to impress him with
the wage aspect of lumbering.
"Don't calc'late you ever did any spec'latin', did you?"
"Well, I have done some since I had my fuss with Harrigan this morning."
Avery tugged at his beard thoughtfully.
"I'm turnin' a penny onct in a while or frequenter. With the trappin'
winters, feedin' the crews goin' in and comin' out, makin' axe-handles
and snowshoes, and onct in a spell guidin' some city feller in the fall
up to whar he kin dinnimite a moose, I reckon six hundred dollars
wouldn't cover my earnin's. I could do more trappin' if I had a partner.
Mebby me and him could make nigh on to five hundred a year, and grub."
"That's pretty good,--five hundred clear, practically."
"Ya-a-s." Avery grunted and stood up, thrusting his pipe in his pocket.
"Said I was huntin' fur a man when you ast me. You're the man I be
huntin' fur if you want a job bad 'nough to hitch up with me, and
Swickey."
Ross arose and faced him, his surprise evident in the blank expression
of his face.
"I'm not out of cash," he replied.
"Thet ain't what I ast you fur," said Avery, a shade of disappointment
flickering across his face. "I want a man to help."
"How much would it cost to outfit?" asked David.
"Wal, I got a hundred and fifty traps, and mebby we could use fifty
more, not countin' dead-falls for b'ar and black-cat. And you sure need
a rifle and some blankets and some winter clothes. I figure fifty plunks
would fit you out."
"I didn't know but that you would want me to put up some cash toward
expenses,--provisions, I mean?"
"No," said Avery. "I reckon you ain't broke, but thet ain't makin' any
diff'runce to me."
"That's all right, Avery. It wasn't the expense of outfitting. I simply
wanted to know where I would stand if I did accept. But I have no
recommendations, no letters--"
"Hell! I guess them two hands of your'n is all the recommendations I
want. I've fit some m'self and be reckoned a purty fair jedge of hosses,
and a man what is a good jedge of hosses knows folks likewise. I ain't
in no hurry fur you to say yes or no." The old man swung his rifle to
the hollow of his arm. "Take your time to think on it, and you kin stay
to Lost Farm Camp jest as long as you are wishful. 'Tain't every day a
eddicated man what kin use his hands comes floatin' into these here
woods."
"Well," said David, "I've decided. There are reasons why I don't want to
go back. It's a fair offer and I'll take it."
"Put her thar!" the huge bony fist of the lumberman closed heavily on
David's hand, but met a grip almost as tense. "Me and you's partners.
Half-and-half share of workin', eatin', earnin's, and fightin'--if
there's any fightin' to be did. Reckon you'd better go to Tramworth and
git fixed up and mebby you calc'late to write to your folks."
They strode down the trail, Avery in the lead. As they neared the last
turn which led them out to the footboard of the dam, he paused.
"My gal Swickey is growin' up to whar she oughter git larnin'. I sot in
to learn her, but she's always a-squirmin' out of it by askin' me things
what I can't answer and then gettin' riled at her Pa. Now if you
could--'thout lettin' on as you was doin' it--larn her readin' and
writin' and sech, I'd be pow'ful glad to pay you extra-like fur it."
So the cat was out of the bag at last. Avery wanted a teacher for his
girl. The old man was willing to take a green hand as partner in
trapping and share the proceeds with him for the sake of Swickey's
education. Well, why not?
"I'll do what I can, Avery."
"Thet's the talk. Me and you'll make a lady of her."
As they approached the cabin a figure appeared in the doorway and the
melodious treble of a girl's voice rang across the river. She
disappeared as Avery's Triton bellow answered.
"She's callin' us fur dinner," he explained needlessly.
"Did you get anything?" said Swickey, as they entered the cabin.
"He bagged me," said Ross, laughing.
"Whar'd he bag you?" exclaimed Swickey, solicitously looking at David
for visible proof of her father's somewhat indifferent marksmanship.
"Over on No-Man's Lake--I think that's what he called it," replied
David.
"He's a-goin' to stay, right along now. I've been wantin' to git a
partner to help with the traps fur quite a spell."
"You ain't never said nothin' to me 'bout gettin' a partner," said
Swickey, her vanity wounded. "You always said I was as good as any two
men helpin' you."
Avery, a trifle embarrassed at his daughter's reception of the new
partner, maintained an uncomfortable silence while dinner was in
progress. He had hoped for delight from her, but she sat stolidly
munching her food with conscious indifference to his infrequent sallies.
That evening, after David had gone to bed in the small cabin back of the
camp, Avery sat on the porch with his daughter. For a long time she
cuddled the kitten, busily turning over in her mind the possibilities of
a whole dollar and a half. She had heard her father say that the new man
was going to Tramworth in the morning. Perhaps he would be able to get
her a dress. A dollar and a half was a whole lot of money. Maybe she
could buy Pop some new "specs" with what she had left after purchasing
the dress. Or if she had a book, a big one that would tell how to make
dresses and everything, maybe _that_ would be better to have. Jessie
Cameron could sew doll's clothes, but her mother had taught her. The
fact that Swickey could not read did not occur to her as relevant to the
subject. She felt, in a vague way, that the book itself would overcome
all obstacles. Yes, she would ask the new man to buy a book for her and
"specs" for her Pop. How to accomplish this, unknown to her father, was
a problem she set aside with the ease of optimistic childhood, to which
nothing is impossible.
"Pop," she said suddenly.
"Wal?"
"Mebby you kin give me thet dollar-money fur the ile."
"Ya-a-s," he drawled, secretly amused at her sudden interest in money
and anxious to reinstate himself in her favor. "Ya-a-s, but what you
goin' to do? Buy Pop thet dress-suit, mebby?"
"I reckon not," she exclaimed with an unexpected show of heat that
astonished him. "You said dress-suits made folks ack foolish, and I
reckon some folks acks foolish 'nough right in the clothes they has on
without reskin' changin' 'em." With this gentle insinuation, she
gathered Beelzebub in her arms and marched to her room.
"Gosh-A'mighty but Swickey's gettin' tetchy," he exclaimed, grinning.
"Wal, she's a-goin' to have a new dress if I have to make it myself."
When he went into the cabin, he drew a chair to the table and, sitting
down, took two silver pieces from his pocket and laid them on Swickey's
plate. He sat for a long time shading his eyes with his hand. He nodded,
recovered, nodded again. Then he said quite distinctly, but in the voice
of one walking in dreams, "I know it, Nanette. Yes, I know it. I'm doin'
the best I kin--"
He sat up with a start, saw the silver pieces on the plate and picked
them up.
"Swickey!" he called, "be you sleepin'?"
"Yes, Pop," she replied dutifully.
He grinned as he went to her room. As he bent over her she found his
head in the dark, and kissed him. "I'm sorry what I said 'bout the
clothes, Pop. I don't want no money-dollar--I jest want you."
He tucked the money in her hand. "Thar it is. Dollar and a half fur the
ile."
She sighed happily. "I say thanks to my Pop."
"Good-night, leetle gal."
She lay awake long after he had left her, turning the coins over in her
hot fingers. Presently she slipped from the bed and, drawing the blanket
about her, stole softly to the door.