David was awakened by the sound of chopping. He arose and dressed
sleepily. After a brisk ablution at the river's edge he came up the
hill, where he found Avery making firewood.
"Mornin'. Skeeters bother you some?"
"Guess I was too sleepy to notice them," replied David.
He watched the old man swing the axe, admiring his robust vigor. Then he
stooped and gathered an armful of wood. As he lugged it to the kitchen,
Avery muttered, "He's a-goin' to take holt. I have noticed folks as is
a-goin' to take holt don't wait to ask how to commence."
"Where's Swickey?" said David, as he came for more wood.
"Up to the spring yonder."
David was about to speak, but thought better of it. When he had filled
the wood-box he started for the spring.
"He's a-goin' to spile thet gal, sure as eggs," said the old man,
pausing to watch David.
But he whistled cheerfully as he moved toward the cabin. Presently the
rattling of pans and a thin shaft of blue smoke from the chimney, a
sizzling and spluttering and finally an appetizing odor, announced the
preparation of breakfast.
"If they don't come purty quick," said Avery, as he came to the doorway
and looked toward the spring path, "they'll be nothin' left but the
smell and what me and Beelzebub can't eat."
As he turned to go in, David and Swickey appeared, both laughing. He was
carrying both water-pails and she was skipping ahead of him.
"Pop, we seen some fresh b'ar tracks nigh the spring."
"You did, hey?"
"Yip. Big uns. We follered 'em for a spell, goin' back into the swamp."
"Huh! Was you calc'latin' to bring him back alive, mebby?"
Swickey disdained to answer. Her prestige as a bear hunter was not to be
discounted with such levity.
After breakfast Avery tilted his chair against the wall and smoked.
David laughingly offered to help Swickey with the dishes. He rolled up
his sleeves, and went at it, much to her secret amusement and proud
satisfaction. Evidently "city-folks" were not all of them "stuck-up
donothin's," as Mrs. Cameron had once given her to understand, even,
thought Swickey, if they didn't know how to drain the rinsing-water off.
"When you get to the Knoll," said Avery, addressing David, "Jim Cameron
will hitch up and take you to Tramworth. Like as not he'll ask you
questions so long's he's got any breath left to ask 'em. Folks calls him
'Curious Jim,' and he do be as curious as a old hen tryin' to see into a
jug. But you jest say you're outfittin' fur me. That'll make him hoppin'
to find out what's a-doin' up here. I be partic'lar set on havin' Jim
come up here with the team. I got 'bout fifty axe-helves fur him. He's
been goin' to tote 'em to Tramworth and sell 'em fur me sence spring. If
he thinks he kin find out suthin' by comin' back to-night he'll make it
in one trip and not onhitch at the Knoll and fetch you up in the
mornin'. If he did thet he'd charge us fur stablin' his own team in his
own stable, and likewise fur your grub and his'n. It's Jim's reg'lar way
of doin' business. Now I figure them axe-handles will jest about cover
the cost of the trip if he makes her in one haul, and from what I know
of Jim, he'll snake you back lively, wonderin' what Hoss Avery's up to
this time."
"I'll hold him off," said David, secretly amused at his new partner's
shrewdness.
David departed shortly afterward, striking briskly down the shady
morning trail toward the Knoll, some ten miles below. It was noon when
he reached Cameron's camp, a collection of weathered buildings that had
been apparently erected at haphazard on the hillside.
Cameron was openly surprised to see him.
"Thought you went into Nine-Fifteen with Harrigan's bunch?"
"No! I was headed that way, but Harrigan and I had a misunderstanding."
Curious Jim was immediately interested.
"Goin' back--goin' to quit?"
"I have quit the Great Western. I'm going to Tramworth to get a few
things." He delivered Avery's message, adding that the old man seemed
particularly anxious to have the proposed purchases that night. "There's
some of the stuff he declares he must have to-night," said David,
"although I don't just understand why."
"Short of grub?" asked Jim.
"By Jove, that may be it! He did tell me to get a keg of molasses."
Cameron sniffed as he departed to harness the team. "Molasses! Huh!
They's somethin' deeper than molasses in Hoss Avery's mind and that city
feller he's in it. So Hoss thinks he can fool Jim Cameron. Well, I guess
not! Sendin' me a message like that."
He worked himself into a state of curiosity that resulted in a
determination to solve the imaginary riddle, even if its solution
entailed spending the night at Lost Farm.
"You ain't had no dinner, have you?" he asked as he reappeared.
"No, I haven't," replied David. "But I can wait till we get to town."
"Mebby you kin, but you ain't a-goin' to. You come in and feed up. My
missus is to Tramworth, but I'll fix up somethin'."
After dinner, as they jolted over the "tote-road" in the groaning wagon,
Cameron asked David if he intended to stay in for the winter.
"Yes, I do," he replied.
"Sort of lookin' around--goin' to buy up a piece of timber, hey?"
"No. Avery offered me a job and I took it."
"Huh!" Curious Jim carefully flicked a fly from the horse's back.
"You're from Boston?"
"Yes."
Curious Jim was silent for some time. Suddenly he turned as though about
to offer an original suggestion.
"Railroads is funny things, ain't they?"
"Sometimes they are."
Jim was a bit discouraged. The new man didn't seem to be much of a
talker.
"Hoss Avery's a mighty pecooliar man," he ventured.
"Is he?" David's tone conveyed innocent surprise.
"Not sayin' he ain't straight enough--but he's queer, mighty queer."
Ross offered no comment. Tediously the big horses plodded along the
uneven road. The jolting of the wagon was accentuated as they crossed a
corduroyed swamp.
"I think I'll walk," said David, springing from the seat.
"That settles it," thought Cameron. "He don't want to talk. He's afeared
I'll find out somethin', but he don't know Jim Cameron."
The desolate outskirts of Tramworth, encroaching on the freshness of the
summer forest, finally resolved themselves into a fairly level
wagon-road. Cameron drew up and David mounted beside him.
"Reckon you want Sikes's hardware store first." said Jim.
"No. I think I'll go to the hotel. You can put up the horses. I'll get
what I want and we'll call for it on the way back."
At the hotel Cameron accepted his dismissal silently. When he returned
from stabling the team he noticed David was standing on the walk in
front of the hotel, apparently in doubt as to where he wanted to go
first.
"Do you know where there is a dressmaker's shop," he asked.
"Dressmaker's shop?" Cameron scratched his head. "Well--now--let's see.
Dressmaker's sh--They's Miss Wilkins's place round the corner," he said,
pointing down the street.
"Thank you," said Ross, starting off in the opposite direction.
Cameron's curiosity was working at a pressure that only the sympathy of
some equally interested person could relieve, and to that end he set out
toward his brother's where Mrs. Cameron was visiting. There he had the
satisfaction of immediate and attentive sympathy from his good wife,
whose chief interest in life, beside "her Jim," and their daughter
Jessie, was the receiving and promulgating of local gossip, to which she
added a measure of speculative embellishment which was the real romance
of her isolated existence.
After purchasing blankets, a rifle, ammunition, traps, and moccasins at
the hardware store, David turned to more exacting duties. The book and
the "specs" next occupied his attention. With considerable elation he
discovered a shop-worn copy of "Robinson Crusoe," and paid a dollar for
it with a cheerful disregard of the fact that he had once purchased that
identical edition for fifty cents.
He found an appalling variety of "specs" at the drug store, and bought
six pairs of various degrees of strength, much to the amazement of the
proprietor, who was uncertain as to whether his customer was a
purchasing agent for an Old Ladies' Home, or was merely "stocking-up"
for his old age.
"Haven't crossed the Rubicon yet," muttered David, as he left the drug
store and proceeded to the dry-goods "emporium." Here he chose some
mild-patterned ginghams, with Avery's whispered injunction in mind to
get 'em plenty long enough anyhow.
With the bundle of cloth tucked under his arm, he strode valiantly to
the dressmaker's. The bell on the door jingled a disconcerting length of
time after he had entered. He felt as though his errand was being
heralded to the skies. From an inner room came a pale, dark-haired
little woman, threads and shreds of cloth clinging to her black apron.
"This is Miss--er--"
"Wilkins," she snapped.
"I understand you are the most competent dressmaker in Tramworth."
Which was unquestionably true. Tramworth supported but one establishment
of the kind.
"I certainly am."
"Well, Miss Wilkins, I want to get two dresses made. Nothing elaborate.
Just plain sensible frocks for a little girl." He gained courage as he
proceeded. An inspiration came. "You don't happen to have a--er--niece,
or daughter, or"--Miss Wilkins's expression was not reassuring--"or
aunt, say about fourteen years old. That is, she is a big girl for
fourteen--and I want them long enough. Her father says, that is--"
"Who are they for?" she asked frigidly.
"Why, Swickey, of course--"
"Of course!" replied Miss Wilkins.
David untied the bundle and disclosed the cloth.
"Here it is. I'm not--exactly experienced in this kind of thing." He
smiled gravely. "I thought perhaps you could help me--"
Miss Wilkins was a woman before she became a dressmaker. She did what
the real woman always does when appealed to, which is to help the male
animal out of difficulties when the male animal sincerely needs
assistance.
"Oh, I see! No, I haven't a niece or daughter, or even an aunt of
fourteen years, but I have some patterns for fourteen-year-old sizes."
"Thank God!" said David, so fervently that they both laughed.
"And I think I know what you want," she continued.
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a bill.
"I'll pay you now," he said, proffering a five-dollar note, "and I'll
call for them in about three hours. There's to be two of them, you know.
One from this pattern and one from this."
"Oh, but I couldn't make one in three hours! I really can't have them
done before to-morrow night."
David did some mental arithmetic rapidly.
"What is your charge for making them?" he asked.
She hesitated, looking at him as he stood, hat in hand, waiting her
reply.
"Two dollars each," she said, her eyes fixed on his hat.
The males of Tramworth were not always uncovered in her presence, when
they did accompany their wives to her shop.
"I have to leave for Lost Farm at five o'clock, Miss Wilkins. If you can
have one of the dresses done by that time, I'll gladly give you four
dollars for it."
"I've got a hat to trim for Miss Smeaton, and a dress for Miss Sikes and
she wants it to-morrow--but, I'll try."
"Thank you," replied David, depositing the cloth on the counter and
opening the door; "I'll call for it at five."
From there he went toward the hotel, where he intended to write a letter
or two. As he turned the corner some one called:--
"Ross! I say, Ross!"
Startled by the familiarity of the tone rather than by the suddenness of
the call, he looked about him in every direction but the right one.
"Hello, Davy!"
The round face and owlish, spectacled eyes of "Wallie" Bascomb, son of
_the_ Walter Bascomb, of the Bernard, White & Bascomb Construction
Company of Boston, protruded from the second-story window of the hotel
opposite.
"Come on up, Davy. I just fell out of bed."
The face withdrew, and David crossed the street, entered the hotel, and
clattered up the uncarpeted stairs.
"Hey! where are you, Wallie?"
A door opened in the corridor. Bascomb, in scanty attire, greeted him.
"Softly, my Romeo. Thy Juliet is not fully attired to receive. Shut the
door, dear saint, the air blows chill."
They shook hands, eyeing each other quizzically. A big, white English
bull-terrier uncurled himself and dropped from the foot of the bed to
the floor.
"Hello, Smoke! Haven't forgotten me, have you?"
The terrier sniffed at David and wagged his tail in grave recognition.
Then he climbed back to his couch on the tumbled blankets.
"Now," said Bascomb, searching among his scattered effects for the
toothbrush he held in his hand, "tell Uncle Walt, why, thus disguised,
you pace the pensive byways of this ignoble burg?"
"Outfitting," said David.
"Brief, and to the point, my Romeo."
"For the winter," added David.
"Quite explicit, Davy. You're the same old clam--eloquent, interestingly
communicative."
David laughed. "What are you doing up here? I supposed you were snug in
the office directing affairs in the absence of your father."
"Oh, the pater's back again. I guess the speed-limit in Baden Baden was
too slow for him. He's building the new road, you know, N. M. & Q. Your
Uncle Wallie is on the preliminary survey. Devil of a job, too."
"Oh, yes. I heard about it. It's going to be a big thing."
"Yes," said Bascomb, peering with short-sighted eyes into the dim glass
as he adjusted his tie, "it may be a big thing if I"--striking an
attitude and thumping his chest--"don't break my neck or die of
starvation. Camp cooking, Davy--whew! Say, Davy, I'm the Christopher
Columbus of this expedition, I am, and I'll get just about as much
thanks for my stake-driving and exploring as he did."
Bascomb kicked an open suit-case out of his way and a fresh, crackling
blue-print sprang open on the floor.
"That's it. Here we are," he said, spreading the blue-print on the bed,
"straight north from Tramworth, along the river. Then we cross here at
Lost Farm, as they call it. Say, there's a canny old crab lives up there
that holds the shell-back record for grouch. Last spring, when we were
working up that way and I took a hand at driving stakes, just to ease my
conscience, you know, along comes that old whiskered Cyclops with a big
Winchester on his shoulder. I smelled trouble plainer than hot asphalt.
"'Campin'?' he asked.
"'No,' I said. 'Just making a few dents in the ground. A kind of
air-line sketch of the new road--N. M. & Q.'
"'Uhuh!' he grunted. 'Suppose the new rud 's a-comin' plumb through
here, ain't it?'
"'Right-o,' said I.
"I guess he didn't just cotton to the idea. Anyway he told me I could
stop driving 'them stakes' on his land. I told him I'd like to
accommodate him, but circumstances made it necessary to peg in a few
more for the ultimate benefit of the public. Well, that old geyser
straightened up, and so did I, for that matter.
"'Drive another one of them,' he said, pointing to the stake between my
feet, 'and I reckon you'll pull it out with your teeth.'"
Bascomb lit a cigarette and puffed reflectively. "Well, I never was much
on mumble-the-peg, so I quit. The old chap looked too healthy to
contradict."
David sat on the edge of the bed rubbing the dog's ears.
Bascomb observed him thoughtfully.
"Say, Davy, I don't suppose you want to keep Smoke for a while, do you?
He's no end of bother in camp. He has it in for the cook and it keeps me
busy watching him."
"The cook? That's unnatural for a dog, isn't it?"
"Well, you see our aboriginal chef don't like dogs, and Smoke knows it.
Besides, he once gave Smoke a deer-shank stuffed with lard and
red-pepper, regular log-roller's joke, and since then his legs aren't
worth insuring--the cook's, I mean. You used to be quite chummy with
Smoke, before you dropped out of the game."
"I'll take him, if he'll come," said David. "Just what I want, this
winter. He'll be lots of company. That is, if you mean it--if you're
serious."
"As serious as a Scotch dominie eating oysters, Davy mon."
"Won't Smoke make a fuss, though?"
"Not if I tell him to go. Oh, you needn't grin. See here." Bascomb
called the dog to him, and taking the wide jaws between his hands he
spoke quietly. "Smoke," he said, "I'm going to leave you with Davy. He
is a chaste and upright young man, so far as I ken. Quite suitable as a
companion for you. You stick to him and do as he says. Look after him,
for he needs looking after. And don't you leave him till I come for you,
sir! Now, go and shake hands on it."
The dog strode to David and raised a muscular foreleg. Laughing, David
seized it and shook it vigorously.
"It's a bargain, Smoke."
The terrier walked to Bascomb, sniffed at his knees and then returned to
David, but his narrow eyes moved continually with Bascomb's nervous
tread back and forth across the room.
"What's on your mind, Wallie?"
"Oh, mud--mostly. Dirt, earth, land, real-estate; but don't mind me. I
was just concocting a letter to the pater. Say, Davy, you don't want a
job, do you? You know some law and enough about land deals, to--to cook
'em up so they won't smell too strong, don't you?"
"That depends, Walt."
"Well, the deal I have in mind depends, all right. It's hung up--high.
It's this way. That strip of timber on the other side of No-Man's Lake,
up Lost Farm way, has never seen an axe nor a cross-cut saw. There's
pine there that a friend of mine says is ready money for the chap that
corrals it. I wrote the pater and he likes the idea of buying it out and
out and holding on till the railroad makes it marketable. And the road
is going plumb through one end of it. Besides, the pater's on the N. M.
& Q. Board of Directors. When the road buys the right-of-way through
that strip, there'll be money in it for the owner. I've been after it on
the Q.T., but the irate gentleman with the one lamp, who held me up on
the survey, said that 'if it was worth sellin', by Godfrey, it was worth
keepin'.' I showed him a certified check that would seduce an angel, but
he didn't shed a whisker. My commission would have kept me in Paris for
a year." Bascomb sighed lugubriously. "Do you want to tackle it, Davy?"
"Thanks for the chance, Wallie, but I'm engaged for the winter, at
least."
"Congratulations, old man. It's much more convenient that
way,--short-term sentence, you know,--if the young lady doesn't object."
Bascomb's banter was apparently innocent of insinuation, although he
knew that his sister had recently broken her engagement with David.
If the latter was annoyed at his friend's chaff, he made no show of it
as he stood up and looked at his watch.
"That reminds me, Wallie. I'm due at the dressmaker's in about three
minutes. Had no idea it was so late."
"Dressmaker's! See here, Davy, your Jonathan is miffed. Here I've been
scouring this town for anything that looked like a real skirt and didn't
walk like a bag of onions or a pair of shears, and you've gone and found
one."
"That's right," said David, "but it was under orders, not an original
inspiration."
"Hear that, Smoke! Davy'll bear watching up here."
"Come on, Wallie. It's only a block distant."
"All right, Mephisto. Lead on. I want to see the face that launched a
thousand--what's the rest of it?" said Bascomb, as they filed down the
stairs.
As they entered the little shop round the corner, Wallie assumed a
rapturous expression as he gazed at the garishly plumed hats in the
window.
"Might have known where to look for something choice," he remarked.
"Now, that hat with the green ribbon and the pink plume is what I call
classy, eh, Davy?"
They entered the shop and presently Miss Wilkins appeared with the new
gingham on her arm.
"I just managed to do it," she said, displaying the frock from ingrained
habit rather than for criticism.
"Isn't it a bit short?" asked Bascomb, glancing from her to David.
Miss Wilkins frowned. Bascomb's countenance expressed nothing but polite
interest.
David was preternaturally solemn.
"Don't mind him, Miss Wilkins. He's only a surveyor and don't understand
these things at all."
"Only a surveyor!" muttered Bascomb. "Oh, mother, pin a rose on me."
He walked about the shop inspecting the hats with apparent interest
while the dressmaker folded and tied up the frock. When they had left
the place and were strolling up the street, Bascomb took occasion to ask
David how long he had been "a squire of suburban sirens."
"Ever since I came in," replied David cheerfully.
"Is the to-be-ginghamed the real peaches and cream or just the ordinary
red-apple sort?"
"Neither," replied his friend. "She's fourteen and she's the daughter of
your up-country friend the Cyclops, or, to be accurate, Hoss Avery."
"Oh, Heavings, Davy! But she must be a siren child to have such an
intelligent purchasing agent in her employ."
David did not reply, as he was engaged at that moment in waving the
parcel containing the dress round his head in a startling, careless
manner.
"Easy with the lingerie, Davy dear. Oh, it's Cameron you're
flagging--Curious Jim--do you know him?"
"Distantly," replied David smilingly.
"Correct, my son. So do I."
Cameron acknowledged the signal by hurrying to the rear of the hotel. In
a few minutes he appeared on the wagon, which he drove to the store, and
David's purchases were carefully stowed beneath the seat.
"Where'll I put this?" said Cameron, surreptitiously squeezing the
parcel containing the dress.
"Oh, the lingerie," volunteered Bascomb. "Put that somewhere where it
won't get broken."
"The which?" asked Curious Jim, standing astride the seat.
"Lingerie, Jim. It's precious."
"How about Smoke?" David turned toward Bascomb.
"I'll fix that," said Wallie, calling the dog to him. "Up you go, old
fellow. Now, you needn't look at me like that. Great Scott! I'm not
going to sell you--only lend you to Davy."
The dog drew back and sprang into the wagon. It was a magnificent leap
and Cameron expressed his admiration earnestly.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, "he's whalebone and steel springs, ain't he? Wisht
I owned him!"
"Well, so-long, Davy." Bascomb held out his hand. "Oh, by the way, I
suppose the reason for your advent in this community is--back in Boston
wondering where you are, isn't she?"
David laid a friendly hand on the other's shoulder.
"Wallie," he said, speaking low enough to be unheard by the teamster,
"you mean right, and I understand it, but it was a mistake from the
first. My mistake, not Bessie's. Fortunately we found it out before it
was too late."
Bascomb was silent.
"And there's one more thing I wanted to say. Avery of Lost Farm is my
partner. I should have told you that before, but you went at your story
hammer-and-tongs, before I could get a word in. I'm going to advise him,
as a business partner, to hold up his price for the tract."
Bascomb's eyes narrowed and an expression, which David had seen
frequently on the face of the elder Bascomb, tightened the lips of the
son to lines unpleasantly suggestive of the "market."
"It's honest enough, Davy, I understand that, but don't you think it's a
trifle raw, under the circumstance?"
"Perhaps it is, but I should have done the same in any event."
Bascomb bit his lips. "All right. A conscience is an incumbrance at
times. Well, good-bye. I'll be up that way in a few weeks, perhaps
sooner."
With a gesture of farewell, David climbed into the wagon.
Smoke stood with forepaws on the seat, watching his master. When he
could no longer see him, he came solemnly to David's feet and curled
down among the bundles. He, good soldier, had received his captain's
command and obeyed unhesitatingly. This man-thing, that he remembered
vaguely, was his new master now.
In the mean time Bascomb was in his room scribbling a hasty note to his
father. He was about to seal it when he hesitated, withdrew it from the
envelope, and added a postscript:--
"I don't think Davy Ross knows _why_ we want Lost Farm tract, but I'll
keep an eye on him, and close the deal at the first opportunity."
CHAPTER VII--THE BOOK AND THE "SPECS"
The wavering image of the overhanging forest was fading in the
somnolent, foam-dappled eddies circling lazily past Lost Farm Camp when
Jim Cameron's team, collars creaking and traces clinking, topped the
ridge and plodded heavily across the clearing. Smoke swayed to the pitch
and jolt of the wagon, head up and nose working with the scent of a new
habitation. As the horses stopped, David and Smoke leaped down.
Beelzebub immediately scrambled to his citadel in the eaves, where he
ruffled to fighting size, making small unfriendly noises as he walked
along the roof, peering curiously over the edge at the broad back of the
bull-terrier. Cameron unhitched the team leisurely, regretting the
necessity for having to stable them out of earshot from the cabin. "I'll
find out what a 'loungeree' is or bust," he confided to the horses, as
he whisked the rustling hay from mow to manger.
"We been keepin' supper fur you," said Avery, as David came in, laden
with bundles. "Set right down. Jim won't keep you waitin' long if he's
in his reg'lar health. But where, this side of the New Jerusalem, did
you git the dog?"
"That's Smoke. Here, Smoke, come and be introduced."
The dog allowed Swickey and her father to pat him, but made no overtures
toward friendship. Avery eyed the animal critically.
"He's a born fighter. Kin tell it by the way he don't wag his tail at
everything goin' on. Likewise he don't make up to be friends in a hurry,
like some dogs, and folks."
"I hope he won't bother Beelzebub," said David, as Smoke, mouth open and
tongue lolling, watched the kitten peek at him from the doorway.
"They'll be shakin' hands afore long," said Avery. "Thet cat's got spunk
and he ain't afraid of nothin' reason'ble, but he ain't seen no dogs
yit. He'll get sorter used to him, though."
When Cameron came in he glanced at the end of the table. None of the
bundles had been opened. He ambled out to the wash-bench and made a
perfunctory ablution. Judging by the sounds of spouting and blowing
which accompanied his efforts, he was not far from that state of
godliness which soap and water are supposed to encourage, but the
roller-towel, which he patronized generously, hung in the glare of the
lamp, its limp and gloomy folds suggesting that nothing remained for it
but kindly oblivion. In fact, David, who succeeded Cameron at the
wash-basin, gazed at the towel with pensive interrogation, illumined by
a smile as hand over hand he pulled it round and round the creaking
roller, seeking vainly for an unstaked claim.
Supper over, the men moved out to the porch and smoked. Swickey, busy
with the dishes, glanced frequently at the bundles on the table,
wondering which one contained her precious book and the "specs fur Pop."
The dishes were put away hurriedly and she came out and joined the men.
"Now, Swickey," said her father, "you jest tell Jim how you shot the
ba'r. Me and Dave's got them things to put away and you kin keep Jim
comp'ny."
Swickey, fearing that she would miss the opening of the bundles, gave
Cameron a somewhat curtailed account of her first bear hunt, and
Cameron, equally solicitous about a certain mysterious package, listened
with a vacant gaze fixed on the toe of his dusty boot.
In the cabin David and Avery were inspecting the purchases.
"Glad you got a .45," he said, handling the new rifle. "They ain't no
use diddlin' around with them small bores. When you loose a .45 at
anything and you hit it, they's suthin' goin' to happen direct. But did
you get the dresses?"
"Only one," replied David. "The other will be ready for us the next time
we go to Tramworth. But I want to talk business with you. I met a friend
to-day,--a Mr. Bascomb of the new railroad survey."
Avery hitched his chair nearer.
"You don't say?" he exclaimed a few minutes later. "Wal, it's 'bout what
I figured, but I can't make out jest why they's so mighty pa'tic'lar to
get the whole piece of land. You see, if they ain't suthin' behind it,
land up here ain't wuth thet money, mine or anybody else's."
Cameron came in and took down the drinking-dipper. Over its rim he
surveyed the table. The bundles were still unopened. With an expression
of disgust he walked to the door and threw half the contents of the
dipper on the grass. Then he sat down beside Swickey, moodily silent and
glum.
Again he arose and approached the dipper. Still the partners were
talking in guarded tones. He drank sparingly and returned the dipper to
its nail. The parcels were as he had seen them before.
"Drivin' team makes a man pow'ful thirsty, eh, Jim?"
"That's what," replied Cameron. "'Sides, they's a skunk prowlin' round
out there," he added, pointing through the doorway, "and a skunk jest
sets my stomach bilin'."
"Thought I smelled _suthin'_," said Avery, with a shrewd glance at the
teamster.
"Skunks is pecooliar things," said Cameron, endeavoring to prolong the
conversation.
"Thet's what they be," said Avery, turning toward David.
"Them 'loungerees' is pecooliar actin' things, too, ain't they?" said
Cameron.
The old man rose to the occasion superbly, albeit not altogether
familiar with the species of animal so called.
"Yes, they be," he remarked decisively. "I et one onct and it liked to
kill me. Reckon it hung too long afore it was biled."
David had immediate recourse to the drink-dipper. The cough which
followed sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh to Cameron's
sensitive ears.
"Huh!" he exclaimed, with some degree of sarcasm; "sounds as if he'd et
one hisself to-day."
He sat down, filled his pipe and smoked, feeling that if he was not
entitled to their confidence he was at least entitled to their society.
Presently his pipe fell to the floor as his head nodded in slumber.
"Guess I'll turn in, Hoss," he remarked, recovering the pipe and yawning
abysmally.
"I fixed up the leetle cabin fur you," replied Avery. "I'll go 'long out
and onlock it. Keep it locked account of skunks comin' in and makin'
themselves to home."
As the teamster and Avery went out, Swickey ran to David. "Where be
they?" she whispered. "Quick! afore Pop comes!"
He pointed to the package. She broke the string and whisked off the
paper. She opened the book, unfortunately for her first impression, at a
picture of the "Man Friday," clothed with "nothing much before and a
little less than half of that behind." A shade of disappointment crossed
her eager face. Evidently there were rudiments to master, even in
dressmaking. But it was her book. She had earned it, and her face glowed
again with the buoyant rapture of childhood as she clasped the volume to
her breast and marched to her room. She dropped it quickly on the bed,
however, and returned. "I 'most forgot the 'specs,'" she said
self-accusingly. She untied the smaller package and drew them out, "one,
two, three, four," six pair of glittering new glasses. Evidently the
potency of money was unlimited. She laid them down, one at a time, after
vainly endeavoring to see through them.
[Illustration: "WHERE BE THEY?" SHE WHISPERED]
"Your father's eyes are different," explained David.
She danced gleefully across the room and back again. Smoke followed her
with deliberate strides. He knew they were to be _the_ friends of that
establishment. She ran to the bedroom and returned with her book.
Assuming a serious demeanor, one leg crossed over the other, book on
knee and a pair of glasses perched on her nose, she cleared her throat
in imitation of her father.
"Is he comin'?" she asked.
"Yes, I hear him," replied David.
"S-s-h!" She held up a warning finger.
Avery had the kitten in his arm when he entered. "Fished him off the
eaves and brung him in to get acquainted with the dog--Sufferin'
catfish!" he exclaimed, as he gazed at Swickey. "Where'd you--?" He
glanced at David, who nodded meaningly.
Slowly the old man stepped to his daughter's chair. He took the "specs"
and the book gently from her, and laid them on the table. She felt that
her father was pleased, yet she knew that if she didn't laugh right
away, she would surely cry. He was so quiet, yet he smiled.
Presently he held out his hands. She ran to him and jumped into his
arms, her black hair mingling with his snowy beard as he carried her to
her room.
When he returned, he sat down, shading his eyes from the light of the
lamp. Presently he chuckled.
"Wal, a feller's a fool anyway till he's turned forty. And then if he is
a mind to he can look back and say so,--to hisself, quiet-like, when
nobody is a-listenin',--and even then I reckon he won't believe
hisself."
"Thinking of Cameron?" said David.
"No," replied Avery sententiously; "wimmen folks."
David pushed the parcel containing the "loungeree" toward him. Avery
untied it and spread the dress across his knees, smoothing it
reverently, as the newness of the cloth came to his nostrils. "Makes me
think of her mother." His voice deepened. "And my leetle gal's growin'
up jest like her." He sat with his head bent as though listening. Then
from the interior of the cabin came Swickey's laugh, full, high, and
girlish. Avery folded the dress carefully and went to her room.
As David arose to go to his cabin, he started and checked an
exclamation. Smoke and Beelzebub stood facing each other, the dog rigid
and the kitten's tail fluffed beyond imagination. Beelzebub advanced
cautiously, lifted a rounded paw, and playfully touched the dog's nose.
Smoke moved his head a fraction of an inch to one side. The kitten
tilted his own head quizzically, as though imitating the dog. Then he
put up his pert, black face and licked Smoke's muzzle. The dog sniffed
condescendingly at the brave little adventurer, who danced away across
the floor in mimic fright and then returned as the dog laid down,
stretching his forelegs and yawning. The kitten, now that a truce was
proclaimed, walked back and forth in front of Smoke, flaunting his
perpendicular tail with no little show of vanity.
David spoke to the dog. With an almost shamefaced expression the big
terrier got up and followed his master out, across the cool grass, and
into still another abode.
To him the man-thing was a peculiar animal. He had one place to eat in,
another to sleep in. The man-thing also protected impudent, furry,
disconcerting kittens that it wouldn't do to kill--