ARRIVING AT A DECISION.
Browning, Hodge and Diamond had heard of Forest, whose extravagant
style of living had made a sensation at Harvard, but Merriwell
was the only one who had met him before. Fred was introduced to
them all, as they were found lazily lounging about the hotel. Hans
Dunnerwust was also introduced, and endeavored to make himself
agreeable.
“You vos glat to seen me,” he said, shaking hands with Forest. “But
I don’d understood vot makes you holdt my handt so high up und
viggle id like dot. Dot peen a vunny vay to shook handts.”
“Excuse me,” laughed Fred, blushing, but not showing offense. “I
forgot I was not at Cambridge, and I was shaking as my former
friends would shake.”
Of course it was necessary to make an explanation of Forest’s
presence in that town, and the boys expressed their sincere regret
on learning of his misfortune. Not even Diamond, with all his
aristocratic Southern notions, showed that he considered Fred any
less a gentleman because he had become comparatively poor and found
it necessary to give up his former style of living. Jack’s life in
the North had wrought a great change in his views, so that he was
now willing to acknowledge that a man could be a gentleman even
though he worked at day labor. He was surprised by the intelligence
of the common laborer in the North, and he had found woodcutters
and even coal heavers who were well informed, well educated and
well read.
Of course, the Virginian held himself as above a coal heaver, but
he marveled much that men of intelligence should do such work.
The explanation that the poorest man in the North may be and
almost always is ambitious, seeks knowledge, reads the big daily
newspapers, and can see nothing degrading in almost any kind of
honest work, was not sufficient to fully satisfy the Southerner.
The fact that such men had families to support, and often had cosy,
comfortable little homes, for which they were paying with the
earnings of their labor, which spurred them on to accept almost any
kind of occupation when better employment could not be obtained,
did not seem to fully satisfy Diamond; and he continued to marvel
over the social condition in the North.
There was nothing more nauseating to Jack than sham aristocracy,
and he could easily see that some of the common laborers of the
North were the peers in many instances of wealthy men who looked
down on them with supreme contempt. That this should be so was what
amazed the observing Virginian.
Diamond was astonished when he learned that Fred Forest had given
up his luxurious ways of living, left college for good, and was
endeavoring to repair the wrecked fortunes of his dead father.
But what was more surprising was that Forest should dress in the
clothes of a common laborer and come up the Penobscot to oversee
the work of getting the cut timber down the river.
This was explained to the boys by Forest himself, who told it
without hesitation and without the least show of embarrassment or
shame. Indeed, Fred seemed glad that the old life of luxurious
extravagance was past and gone and now he was a man among men,
striving to hew a path to success.
“The closer a man looks after his own interests the better off he
is,” said Forest, when he had explained everything. “That’s why I
am here. Mike Sullivan, the boss on this drive, is a good man when
he lets liquor alone, but he will have his jamborees, and he lets
everything go to the wind when he breaks away. I had to rush men up
the river in a hurry, and it was a bad season to get drivers, so
I was forced to take Sullivan. But I decided to come up and look
after the drive myself. Now, if you gentlemen would like to go down
the river with me on the drift, I shall be glad to have you. It
will cost you nothing but your time, and you will see a feature of
life that is new to you.”
“Will there be any excitement?” asked Bart Hodge, his dark face
showing his interest.
“I should guess yes!” laughed Fred. “There will be excitement and
perils, unless it is an unusually lucky drive. The watershed of the
Penobscot River, which drains one-half of the State of Maine, it
is said, has witnessed more deeds of heroism, and been the scene
of more valorous acts than any other area of its size on the North
American continent.”
“Aren’t you putting that rather strong?” grunted Bruce Browning,
who was lazily puffing away at a fragrant cigar.
“Not a bit,” declared the young lumberman. “Of course the greater
perils are encountered far north of here, but there are rapids
below us, and many a poor fellow has gone down to his death between
here and Milford.”
“Oxcuse me!” gurgled Hans. “I pelief I vill valk der rifer down
pefore I vill let dot raft ride me down. I don’d vant to peen
drownted.”
“Oh! there will be no danger for you,” assured Fred. “It is the
river driver who lives a life of constant peril and hardship. The
story of his sufferings, his heroic acts, his marvelous deeds of
daring, has never been told.”
“That is singular,” said Merriwell. “I should think the field would
be a good one for the story writer.”
“It is a great field,” asserted Forest; “and it has scarcely been
worked at all. For half a century the reading public has been
fed with tales of mining camps and frontier desperadoes, while
brave engineers and hardy sailors, who have made the love of life
subordinate to duty, have been praised in song and story. New
England authors have crossed the continent to gain a local coloring
for their fiction. All this time the noblest sacrifices and the
greatest tragedies the world has ever known were being enacted
within three hundred miles of Boston Common.”
Forest’s face showed his earnestness, and Frank Merriwell wondered
still more at the marvelous change in the youth. At the same time,
Merriwell was greatly interested, feeling within himself a growing
desire to see and know something of the men and the life of which
Fred was speaking.
“That is stronger still,” said Diamond.
“It’s a pipe dream,” muttered Browning. “Here, Forest, have a cigar
to soothe your nerves. The weed is all right. Didn’t buy it here;
brought it with me.”
He took out a case and offered Fred a selection.
Forest drew back, lifting his hand.
“Thank you,” he said; “I do not smoke.”
“What? Why, you were said to have all sorts of habits at college.”
“I think I did have them all, but I have quit smoking, drinking
and spending money foolishly for anything. It was necessary to
economize, you know.”
“I’ll be hanged!” snorted the big fellow.
Frank Merriwell nodded his approval, and, more than ever, he felt
that Fred Forest was built of the proper material to make a success
in life.
“Fellows,” said Merriwell, “I believe we will make a mistake if we
do not accept Forest’s offer. We may never have another opportunity
to see what the life of a river driver is like.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Hodge. “Let’s drift down the river with
the drive.”
“It’s too much trouble,” grumbled Bruce.
“Yaw!” said Hans; “und I might drownt dot rifer in.”
“It will be a pleasant excursion,” declared Merriwell, quickly.
“The weather, is all anybody could ask, and we shall not suffer
anything from exposure. I am for going. What do you say, Diamond?”
“I will go.”
“I thought we had found enough excitement to last us a while,”
muttered Bruce, in an unsatisfied manner. “I feel like getting back
on board the _White Wings_.”
“Well,” said Frank, “you can take a train and go down to Bangor
that way. We’ll join you there.”
“I won’t do that,” exploded Browning. “I’ll hang by the party. If
the rest decide to go down the river on a lumber raft, count me in.”
“And you, Hans?”
“Vale, I sticks der crowt py, but I vos sure to drownt dot rifer in
me, und then I vill peen sorry you didn’t gone der odder vay.”
“Then it is settled,” said Frank. “We will wait here for the drive,
and go down the river with it.”