Ridges of honeycombed snow lay in the cold, sunless hollows of the
woods, slowly melting as each succeeding noon brought milder weather.
With the April rains the myriad inch-deep streams sprang to clamoring
torrents that swelled and burst over the level of their gutted courses.
They lapped the soft loam from the tree-roots until the clear snow-water
was stained with streaks of brown, in which floated mildewing patches of
clotted leaves.
Moss-banked logs and boulders steamed as the sun found them through the
dripping trees, and a faint, almost imperceptible mist softened the
nakedness of beech and maple, while on the skyline the hills wavered in
a blue opaqueness that veiled their rich dark-green pinnacles of spruce
and pine.
On the skidways dotted along the North Branch, that swept eddying into
Lost Lake, the lumbermen toiled from the first glimmer of dawn until
dusk, running the logs to the river until its broad surface was one
moving floor of crowding timbers. Day after day the logs swept down to
the lake and rolled lazily in the slow wash of the waves, and day after
day the lumbermen dogged them with grim persistence until the timbers,
herded at the lower end of the lake, lay secure against adverse winds
behind the booms.
From Lost Farm Camp, Avery could see the smoke of the wangan below, as
he stood on the cabin porch watching the distant figures on the lake
shore; as they moved here and there, their actions, at that distance,
suggesting the unintelligible scurrying of ants.
"They ain't wastin' no time!" he exclaimed. "Cook's on the job a'ready,
and Swickey ain't here yit. Howcome they's goin' to be plenty of chances
to take pictures afore they run _thet_ drive through. Water's turrible
low fur this time of year." He shook his head. "Wal, when the railrud
gits here, thet'll settle the drive. Reckon this is the last time the
boys will run 'em through. Lumberin' ain't what it used to be." He shook
his head again as the memory of his early days with the Great Western
came to him.
Smoke, who squatted beside him, stood up and sniffed, nose high in air.
"What you smellin', Smoke? Injuns?"
The dog wagged his tail a very little, but kept his eyes fixed on the
edge of the clearing where the Tramworth road entered.
"Yes, I hear 'em, too, Smoke. Guess it's Swickey and Jim. Reckoned she'd
come purty quick now, seein' as Joe Smeaton's been to Tramworth three
times to tell her."
As the wagon drew nearer, Avery peered beneath his hand. "If thet's Jim
Cameron, he's changed some sence he was here last. It's Swickey sure
'nough, but who that feller is a-drivin'--why, it's Jim's hosses, but,
bless my buttins, if it ain't Joe Smeaton drivin' 'em. Hello, Joe! What
become of Jim?"
Smeaton pulled up the team and Swickey jumped down, and fondled Smoke.
Then she turned to greet her father.
"Sick," said Smeaton. "Took sick last Sat'day with ammonia--so Miss
Cameron says. I knowed Swickey was sot on photygrafin' the drive, so I
borried the team offen Jim and brung her."
"It was very kind of you, Joe," said Swickey, blushing.
"Thet's all right, Swickey. I ain't forgettin' what your Pa done fur
me,--and I ain't a-goin' to. Guess I'll drive back to the Knoll, fur
Jim's pow'ful oneasy 'bout this here team."
"Better stay and have dinner, Joe," said Avery, as Swickey, rollicking
with Smoke, went into the cabin.
"Guess I'll jog along, Hoss. Say," he continued, "you got the finest,
bulliest gal what ever growed up in these here woods, Hoss Avery." And
then, as though ashamed of his enthusiasm, he turned and climbed to the
wagon-seat, swung the horses with a jerk that threatened an upset, and
careened down the hill at a pace that surprised Avery by its
recklessness.
"Wal, Swickey, so you're here--and lookin' like a bunch of hollyhocks.
How's Miss Wilkins?"
"Just as nice as ever. My, Pop! but it's warm in here with the stove
going."
"Wal, 't ain't so warm when the sun goes down," he replied, glancing at
her flushed face. Her lids drooped. "What's the matter, Swickey?"
"Oh, nothing--I"--she hesitated and sat down by the window, her foot
tapping the floor.
"Thought mebby you had suthin' to say. Ain't worried 'bout anything, be
you?" He patted her head, gazing down at her with quiet tenderness.
She looked up and laughed, but there were tears in her eyes. "Oh, Pop, I
just must tell you. Don't laugh at me, but I know it sounds foolish. Joe
Smeaton asked me to marry him."
"Joe Smeaton--asked--ye--to marry him? Wal, jumpin' snakes, what's
a-coming next?"
"He was very nice about it," she replied. "He said he wanted to settle
down and go to farming--and that he knew I couldn't ever like him. Said
he hadn't any right to ask, but he just couldn't help it. That he
couldn't sleep until he heard me say 'Yes' or 'No,' and that he'd stop
chewing tobacco forever if--Oh, dear! I didn't know whether to laugh or
cry, he was so serious and so uncomfortable--and he was chewing tobacco
when he asked me. I cried a little, I guess. Anyway, he said he knew I'd
say 'No,' but that he felt better already. Then I laughed and so did he,
and that made me cry again, it sounded so mournful. Poor Joe."
"Poor soapsuds!" exclaimed Avery. "The idee of him, thet red-headed,
chiny-eyed--"
"Father!"
"Wal, I reckon Joe has feelin's the same as any human critter. He ain't
the wust feller this side of 'Fifteen'--and I can't say as I blame him."
Swickey's color flooded to her brows. "That isn't all, Pop. There was
another one--Andy Slocum."
Avery's chest swelled as he suppressed an exclamation. "I promised not
to laugh, Swickey, but I'm feared I'll bust if I don't do suthin' else.
'Nother one! Andy Slocum? Jest wait a minute while I light up and
smoke--it'll come easier."
He filled his pipe, lighted it, and puffed solemnly. "Go ahead, Swickey.
I'm bracin' up and waitin'."
"You aren't angry, are you, Pop?"
"Not the kind you mean. I ain't mad at nobody in pa'tic'ler. Jest bilin'
inside like when a feller steps on a bar'l-hoop in the grass. No sense
in gettin' mad at the hoop, and no sense in gettin' mad at hisself fur
steppin' on it--and no use gettin' mad anyhow--but thet ain't sayin' he
don't get mad."
Swickey continued hurriedly. "Andy used to come and see me at Miss
Wilkins's when he was not in the lumber-camp. I thought he just liked me
the same as the other boys--"
"Other boys--ya-a-s," said Avery, removing his pipe and spitting
deliberately on the clean floor of the room, which unusual action proved
his complete absorption in the subject.
"--Till he wrote me that letter and sent the ring--"
"Oh, he sent a ring, hey? Go ahead, Swickey, my insides is settlin'
down."
"Of course I sent it back--Miss Wilkins said I ought to,"--Swickey
sighed,--"and one Sunday he met me after church and walked home with me.
That was the time when he said he wanted to marry me--and tried to kiss
me. I was afraid of him at first, but I don't think he will ever try to
do that again."
"Did you cuff him good?" said Avery.
"No, I didn't have to do that. But I told him something he'll remember.
You know Andy thinks all the Tramworth girls are just waiting to marry
him. Besides, he drinks whiskey, and I'll never marry a man who does
that."
"I ain't howlin' temp'rance m'self," said her father, "but you're plumb
c'rrect, leetle gal." He paused for a moment and contemplated the bowl
of his pipe. "Dave Ross don't drink--thet is, so fur as I know."
Swickey ignored his reference to David. "Andy promised to quit
drinking--"
"Did he quit fust or promise fust?" Avery's tone conveyed a certain
degree of skepticism.
"I don't know." She arose and went to her father, throwing her arms
round his neck. "I don't know, Pop. I wish," she sobbed, "I wish my
mother was here to talk to."
"Thar, thar, leetle gal, I wisht she was too. Many's the time I've been
wantin' to talk to her 'bout--wal, you, fur instance, and lots of other
things. See, you're makin' Smoke feel bad, to say nothin' of your Pa. I
don't care how many fellers wants to marry you, so long as they don't.
Thar! now you've upset my pipe right on your dress."
Swickey hurriedly disengaged herself and brushed the ashes from her
skirt.
"Dave says in his letter thet thet young Bascomb, the surveyor feller,
is comin' up with him. They ought to be along purty soon now."
"What! that Mr. Bascomb that tried to buy our place--and get the
asbestos?"
"Yes, thet's the feller."
"I didn't think Dave would have anything to do with him after what
happened. What is _he_ coming for?"
"Dave writ that he and Bascomb had jined forces--said he'd explain when
he comes. I reckon it's all right, seein' as it _is_ Dave; howcome I'm
kind of tired worryin' 'bout the whole dinged business, but I gave my
word to Dave and I'm going to stick to it."
"Of course you are, Pop. Dave would be disappointed if anything went
wrong now."
"Thet's it. I ain't forgettin' what Dave Ross done fur you when he fust
come here; not sayin' thet thet makes all the diff'runce. Dave's purty
good leather at most anything he tackles."
Swickey made no comment and the old man arose and walked to the door.
"Guess I'll jog down to the dam and see what's doin'. Thet'll give you a
spell to ketch your breath ag'in."
"All right, Pop."
Swickey sat gazing out of the window. She was thinking of a summer
midnight some three years ago, when a very frightened, barefooted little
girl had tapped on a cabin window to waken the Dave whom she scarcely
knew then--and of his patience and gravity when she asked him to
purchase the book and the "specs" for Pop. "He didn't really laugh
once," she thought, and her heart warmed toward the absent David as she
pictured him traveling once more to Lost Farm, eager, as his letters had
stated, "to see her and her father again more than any one else in the
world." How well she remembered his keen, steady glance; his grave lips
that smiled so unexpectedly at times; even the set of his shoulders and
the vigorous swing of his stride.
She stepped to the glass and surveyed her face with an expression of
approval. She drew quickly back, however, as the crunch of calked boots
sounded on the porch.
"One of the men to see Pop," she thought, and went to the door. "Oh,
it's you!"
The rugged, boyish figure of Andy Slocum, clothed in riverman's garb,
confronted her.
"Why, I thought--" She hesitated, leaning against the door-frame.
"Oh, it's me all right. On the job with both feet. I come up to have a
talk with you." He breathed heavily, and stared at her in a manner too
direct to be natural, even for him.
"If it's about me"--she began--"why, Andy, I can't. I just can't. You
know that."
"'T ain't much of a reason, Nanette--'just can't.' I've been comin' to
see you for more than a year now. What makes you say you 'just can't'?
Ain't I good enough for you?"
She smiled. Then her face became suddenly grave.
"Andy, I like you--I always liked you; but, honest now, Andy, do _you_
think a man that comes straight from Jules's place to ask a girl to
marry him is going to quit drinking _after_ he's married?"
Slocum's face flamed. "Who said I was at Jules's place?"
She smiled again. "It didn't need telling, Andy. You're saying it
plainer every minute. Besides," she continued, "I saw you coming from
Jules's when I came from Tramworth with Joe Smeaton."
Slocum laughed. "Joe Smeaton? Is it him?"
She resented his tone by maintaining a silence that he interpreted as an
assent to his question.
"Ain't they no chance if I quit?"
"I want you to quit, Andy," she replied slowly, as a motherly, almost
pitying expression settled on her young face. "I like you more than most
any of the men I know, but I guess there's no chance. I can't help it."
Slocum stood before her like a self-conscious and disappointed
schoolboy. He had what his associates termed "plenty of nerve," but
Swickey's clear brown eyes seemed to read him through and through, and
he resented it by exclaiming,--
"It's that man Ross, then."
Swickey flushed despite herself.
"I knowed it," he said quickly. "So that's what he's been hanging round
Lost Farm for. Hoss Avery's partner! Makin' no show of courtin' you--and
he wins. Well, I'll say this, Ross is straight, and seein' somebody had
to get you, I'm glad it's him instead of that plug Smeaton."
Swickey's eyes twinkled. "So somebody had to get me--you're sure about
that, Andy?"
He frowned, but she stepped close to him and put her hands on his
shoulders. "Andy, I like you better than ever for saying what you did
about Mr. Ross, but he has never said a word to me about--that. I was
only fifteen when he left here."
"Then it's Joe. But how in thunder you can--"
She interrupted him gently. "It's nearly supper-time, Andy, and my
father will be along soon." She looked straight in his face and smiled
wistfully. "Andy, good-bye. You're going on with the drive, and perhaps
I won't see you again till next spring." And much to his astonishment
she bent forward and kissed him. "Good-bye, Andy."
Never a word said the young riverman as he turned and clattered down the
trail, his calked boots rasping on the pebbles. He paused as he came
opposite the wangan tents. He could hear some of the men laughing and
talking about Joe Smeaton.
"Hell!" he muttered; "he wins--I lose. No accountin' for a girl's likes.
But she kissed me and that's mine to keep--and it's all I get."
He felt a half-guilty pleasure in the knowledge that she had kissed him,
"without even askin'," he added, as he thought of it. Unfortunately he
missed the serene joy that might have assuaged his disappointment to
some extent had he been capable of understanding the quality of the love
that prompted Swickey's action.
As it was, he swung blindly past a group of men who spoke to him, and
entered the woods bordering the Tramworth road. "Huh!" exclaimed one of
the men; "Andy's gettin' swelled up on his new job."
"From where he's headed for, I reckon he's goin' to Jules--fur some
nerve."
"Jules sellin' booze ag'in?" asked the first speaker.
"Ag'in?" replied the other. "When did he quit? Huh, Pug, he's allus got
it--when you're heeled."