A HUNTING PARTY
H. D. Appleton, millionaire lumberman, sighed contentedly as he added
cream to his after-dinner coffee. He glanced toward his wife, who was
smiling at him across the table.
"Oh, you can drink yours black if you want to, little girl," he
grinned; "but, remember 'way back when we were first married and I was
bossing camps for old Jimmie Ferguson, and we lived in log shacks 'way
up in the big woods, I used to say if we ever got where we could have
cream for our coffee, I'd have nothing else to ask for?
"Well, to this day, drinking cream in my coffee is my idea of the
height of luxury. This is all right, and I enjoy it, too, I suppose."
He indicated with a wave of his black cigar the rich furnishings, the
heavy plate and cut-glass that adorned the dining-room. "But, somehow,
nothing makes me feel _successful_ like pouring real cream into my
coffee."
The gray-haired "little girl" laughed happily.
"You never have quite grown up, Hubert," she replied. "Did you have a
hard trip, dear? The three weeks you have been away have seemed like
three months to me."
"No, no! I had a good trip. It looked rather hopeless at first, trying
to establish a new camp, with no one really capable of running it; but
just at the last minute--You remember the man I told you about last
fall--the young fellow who throttled that scoundrel after the wreck in
the Chicago railroad yards, and who refused to tell me his name until
after he had made good?"
"Yes--he was drowned last spring, wasn't he? Poor boy, I have often
wondered who he was--a gentleman, you said?"
"By gad, he's more than a gentlemen--he's a _man_! And he wasn't
drowned at all. Got rescued somehow by an old squaw and her daughter.
His leg was broken, and when he got well he stayed in the woods and
looked after the camp all summer; and not only that, he recovered
fifty-two bird's-eye maple logs that had been stolen by some of my own
men.
"He found me in Creighton, and I made him boss of the new camp. He's a
winner, and the men will work for him till they drop."
"Oh, by the way, Hubert," said Mrs. Appleton. "Mr. Sheridan called up a
day or two ago and wanted to know when you would return. He said you
and he had planned a deer-hunt this fall."
"Yes; we'll go about the first of the month. It's been a good while
since Ross Sheridan and I have had a hunt together; not since the old
days on the Crow Wing. Remember the time Ross and I got lost, and
nearly scared you womenfolks to death?"
"Indeed I do. I never will forget that blizzard, and those three awful
days--we had been married only six months, and Mary Sheridan and I were
the only women in the camp.
"I remember how good all the men were to us--telling us you were in no
danger, and not to worry--and all during the storm they were searching
the woods in squads. Oh, it was awful! And yet----" Her voice trailed
into silence, and she stared a long time into the open fire that blazed
in the huge fireplace.
"And yet, what, little girl," asked Appleton, smiling fondly upon
her--"what are you thinking about? Come, tell me."
She turned her eyes toward him, and the man detected a wistful look in
them.
"I was thinking, dear, of how happy we were those three years we spent
'way up in the timber while you were getting your start. Not that we
haven't always been happy," she hastened to add, "because we have. We
couldn't have been happier unless--unless--some children had come. But,
dear, those days when we were so poor and had to work so hard, and
every dollar counted--and we had to do without things we both wanted,
and sometimes things we really needed.
"And, oh, Hubert dear, do you remember the organ? And how long it took
us to save up the sixty dollars? And how I cried half the night for
pure joy when you brought it home on the ox-sled? And how I used to
play in the evenings, and the Sheridans were there, and the men would
come and listen, and their big voices would join in the singing, and
how sometimes a man would draw a rough sleeve across his eyes when he
thought no one was looking--do you remember?"
"Yes, yes, yes--of course I remember!" The lumberman's voice was
suspiciously gruff. "Seems almost like another world." His wife
suddenly stretched her arms towards the open fire:
"Oh, Hubert, I want to go back!"
"What?"
"Yes, dear, just once more." Appleton saw the tears in her eyes. "I
want to smell the fragrance of the pine woods--and sit on the thick
pine-needles--and cook over an open fire! Bacon and trout and
coffee--yes, and no _real cream_, either!" She smiled at him through
her tears. "Canned milk, and maybe some venison steaks.
"I want to borrow your pocket-knife and dig out spruce gum and chew it,
with the little bits of bark in it," she went on, "and I won't promise
not to 'pry,' with it, either. I hope I do break the blade! Do you
remember that day, and how mad you were?
"I want to see the men crowd into the grub-shack, and hear the sound of
the axes and saws and the rattle of chains and the crashing of big
trees. I want to see the logs on the rollways; and, Hubert, you won't
think I'm awful, will you, dear, but I want to--just once more in my
life--I want to hear a big man _swear_!"
H. D. Appleton stared at his wife in blank amazement, and then,
throwing back his head, roared with laughter.
"Well, you sure will, little girl, if you try to slip any canned milk
into _my_ coffee!"
His wife regarded him gravely.
"I am not joking, Hubert. Oh, can't you see? Just once more I _must_
have a taste of the old, hard, happy days--can't I?"
"Why, Margaret, you don't really mean that you want to go into the
woods--seriously?"
"Yes, I do mean just exactly that--seriously!"
Appleton tugged at his mustache and puckered his forehead.
"We might make up a party," he mused. "I'll speak to Ross in the
morning."
The little gray-haired woman stepped lightly around the table, and,
seating herself on his lap, captured his big fingers in her own.
"How many times must I tell you not to pull your mustache, dear? Now,
listen; I have a plan. There will be Mary Sheridan and Ross and Ethel
Manton--you know she promised us a visit this fall, and I expect her
any day now. A trip into the woods will do her a world of good, poor
girl. She has had lots of responsibility thrust upon her since brother
Fred died, with young Charlie to look out for, and the care of that big
house.
"Mrs. Potter, you know she lives next door to Ethel, writes me that she
does not believe the girl is happy--that this St. Ledger, or whatever
his name is, that she is reported engaged to, is not the kind of a man
for Ethel at all--and, that she hasn't seemed herself for a year--some
unhappy love affair--the man was a scamp, or something--so this trip
will be just what she needs. Charlie will be with her, of course, and
we can invite that young Mr. Holbrooke; you have met him, that nice
young man--the VanNesses' nephew.
"We will go away up into the big woods where you men can hunt to your
heart's delight; and we women will stay around the camp and do the
cooking and smell the woods and chew spruce gum. Oh, Hubert, won't it
be just _grand_?"
Appleton caught something of his wife's enthusiasm.
"It sure will, little girl! But what's _he_ for?"
"What is who for?"
"This Holbrooke person. Where does he come in on this?"
"Why, for Ethel, of course! Goose! Don't you see that if Ethel is not
happy--if she is not really in love with this St. Ledger--and she
spends two or three weeks in the same camp with a nice young man like
Mr. Holbrooke--well, there's no place like the woods for romance, dear;
you see, I know. And he has money, too," she added.
Appleton suddenly lifted his wife to her feet and began pacing up and
down the room.
"Money!" he exclaimed. "He never earned a cent in his life."
"But he is the VanNess heir!"
"Old VanNess made his money selling corsets and ribbons."
"Why, dear, what difference does that make? I am sure the VanNesses are
among----"
"I don't care who they're among, or what they're among!" interrupted
her husband. "We don't want any niece of ours marrying ribbons. Hold on
a minute, let me think. By gad, I've got a scheme!"
He continued to pace up and down the length of the room, puffing
shortly upon his cigar and emitting emphatic grunts of satisfaction.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "If you're bound to marry Ethel off we
will give her the chance to marry a _man_. Go ahead and make up the
party, but leave ribbons out of it. We will let Ethel rest up for a few
days and then we will start--straight for the new camp. There is a
_man_ there."
"But," objected his wife, "you know nothing about him. You don't know
even his name."
"What difference does that make? I know a good man when I see one. I
know enough about him to know that he is good enough for Ethel or any
other woman. And, if he hasn't got a name now, by gad, he is making
one--up there in the big country!"
"But he has no money."
"No money! How much did we have when we were married? Why, little girl,
you just got through saying that the happiest days we ever spent were
up there in the woods when money was so scarce that we knew the date on
every dollar we owned--and every scratch and nick on them--and the
dimes and pennies too."
The little woman smiled. "That is true, Hubert, but somehow----"
"Somehow nothing! If we did it, these two can do it. They've got a
better chance than we had. I'm not going to live forever. I need a
partner. I'm getting old enough to begin to take things easier--to step
aside and let a younger man shoulder the burden."
He threw his arm lovingly about his wife's shoulders, and drew her
close. "We never had a son, sweetheart," he said gravely, "but if we
had I'd want him to be just like that boy. He is making good."
Margaret Appleton looked up into her husband's eyes.
"You haven't made many mistakes, dear," she whispered. "I hope he will
make good--for your sake and--maybe for Ethel's."