that the air was pregnant with disaster. Danny Murphy nudged him when
the master closed his eyes for prayer and whispered that "Somebody was
goin' to get an awful hidin', likely the MacDonalds." Prayers were
extremely lengthy, always a bad sign, and Scotty felt his hair rise as
at their close the master banged his desk lid, and glared fiercely
about him. Perhaps McAllister was going to thrash him for pretending
he was a MacDonald, he reflected fearfully.
The master lost no time in going straight to the point, he knew his
period of weakness was coming over him with overwhelming rapidity; one
more visit to that which lay in his desk would, he knew, destroy his
judgment; and struggling desperately to do what he deemed right, he put
his fists firmly upon the desk lid as if to crush down the tempter and
proceeded to business.
"So, ye've been fighting again!" he cried, fixing the row of bigger
boys with his eye. "Ye uncivilised MacDonald pack, an' ye savage
Murphy crew! Tearin' at each other like wolves! Aye! Roarin' an'
rantin' an' ragin' like a pack o' blood-hounds! Ah, ye're nothing but
a pack o' savages! Jist uncivilised savages! But Ah'll have no wild
beasts in my school. Ah'll teach ye! Ah'll take some o' the fight out
o' ye!" He glared meaningly at Peter Lauchie, one of the most
bellicose Highlanders, but that young man dodged cleverly behind Pat
Murphy's broad shoulders. "Ye'll think Ah'll not find ye out?" the
master shouted triumphantly. "But Ah'll soon do that! Aye, it was at
the Birch Crick ye were fightin' like a pack o' wild beasts; ye thought
ye were far enough away to be safe. But Ah'll find out who started
it!" His eye ranged quickly round the room and fell upon Scotty,
sitting open-mouthed straight in front of him. McAllister was not
above extorting information from the younger pupils, and Scotty went by
the Scotch Line and could be made to tell. "You, Ralph Stanwell!" he
cried, fixing the boy with an admonitory finger. "Yon's your road.
Now, jist tell me all about this fight!"
Now, Scotty, in his eagerness to get home, had taken the short road
across the swamp and knew nothing of the affray. But he scarcely heard
the master's question; he had caught only that hateful name, the name
that made him an alien from the MacDonalds and classed him with that
baby, "Hash" Tucker, who was even now weeping behind his slate lest his
big brother should be thrashed. Scotty's face flushed crimson, his
hands clenched.
"Are ye deef?" roared the master. "Answer me my question, Ralph
Stanwell!"
The boy leaped as if he had been struck. "That will not be my name!"
he cried defiantly.
McAllister glared at him with wild bloodshot eyes; under other
circumstances he would have been ashamed of the part he was playing;
but now his nerves were raw and his temper was rendered wild by his
craving.
"Are ye ashamed o' yer name, ye young English upstart?" he roared.
That opprobrious epithet "English" swept all fear and discretion from
Scotty's mind. "I'll not be English!" he shouted back, "I'll be
Scotch, an' my name will jist be MacDonald, whatever!"
A low growl of approval came from the region of the MacDonalds at the
back of the school, and Peter Lauchie MacDonald, who was Scotty's next
of kin, came out from behind Pat Murphy and snorted triumphantly. The
master reached out his powerful arm and swept the boy up onto his desk,
holding him there in a terrible grip. "Ah'll MacDonald ye!" he
shouted, shaking him to and fro. "Another MacDonald to be a wild beast
in the school! Ah'll knock the MacDonald out o' ye! Ye young English
wasp, ye!"
Scotty's face was white; but he remembered Callum and held his lips
firmly to keep from crying out. Peter Lauchie half rose, "He'll be no
more English than you!" he shouted. The master turned; he was facing
rebellion. "Peter MacDonald," he said in a low, thrilling tone, "you
will go out and cut me a stick, an' when Ah've taught this ill piece
with it Ah'll break it over your back!"
Peter Lauchie's defiance melted in the white glare of the master's
wrath. He arose and stumbled sullenly out of doors on his unpleasant
errand. Scotty had been placed in his especial care both by the boy's
grandmother and his own mother, and his soul writhed under the master's
command. Outside the door he paused, weighing the chances of returning
without the weapon; the master's tawse had been removed the night
before, and he might put off the day of judgment until the judge
collapsed. As he stood, miserably irresolute, a low hiss sounded from
beneath the door. Roarin' Sandy's Archie had crept to it on all fours.
"Don't be hurryin' back," he whispered eagerly, "I'll tell ye when to
come!"
Peter Lauchie stepped behind a hemlock and peeped through the window.
The first glance convinced him of the wisdom of his friend's advice;
delay was the watchword, for trouble had arisen in a new quarter.
At one of the side desks near the platform sat Nancy Caldwell. Nancy
was the biggest girl in the school and the only person in the township
of Oro whom old McAllister feared. She was a handsome girl, belonging
to one of the leading Protestant families of the Flats; she was bold
and fearless and had withal such a feminine ingenuity for inventing
schemes to circumvent the schoolmaster that he regarded her with
something akin to superstitious awe.
Nancy had a big, Irish heart, and it swelled with indignation when
Scotty was put up for execution. She shrewdly guessed that McAllister
was nearing the limit of his strength, and thought she might try a tilt
with him. So as he tramped angrily up and down the platform, she
reached out, when his back was turned, and whisked the boy under her
desk.
"Lie still!" she whispered. "Sure, I'll murder him if he touches ye!"
McAllister marched over to her, his arm raised threateningly; the girl
sat and stared coolly back. For a moment the baffled man stood glaring
at her. He would rather have met all the big boys in concerted
rebellion than Nancy Caldwell, and felt that he must be fortified
within before he could successfully combat her. He stepped up to his
desk and clutching a half-empty bottle from it, drained the contents.
The tension of the school was immediately relaxed; the pupils nudged
each other and giggled and Nancy Caldwell laughed aloud and pulled
Scotty out from his hiding place.
As everyone expected, McAllister sank into his chair and glared
sheepishly about him, making a desperate attempt to retain his dignity.
Peter Lauchie stepped out from his post of observation, with a light
heart; and strolled off leisurely in search of a weapon. Since the
master was now on his way to a better frame of mind, Peter was not the
one to retard his happy progress; so he sauntered about, knowing that
Roarin' Sandy's Archie would summon him when the time was ripe.
His commander did not fail him. With the keen eye of an old
campaigner, Roarin' Sandy's Archie saw the moment to strike. The
master had worked up a little energy and was again making for Nancy;
now was the time to divert his attention; he beckoned to his henchman.
As Peter Lauchie entered he showed himself a worthy follower of a
worthy leader, for he strode solemnly up the aisle, dragging in his
wake a respectably-sized hemlock tree, the branches of which swept up
the floor and whipped the boys and girls in the faces, evoking shrieks
of laughter. He paused before the master's desk and solemnly handed
him the sapling.
"Here's the switch to hide Scotty _MacDonald_, sir," he said with great
seriousness, and a fine emphasis on the name.
The master turned like an animal at bay, and the school broke into a
torrent of laughter. He grasped the tree and raised it above his head.
"Ah'll batter the cursed impidence out o' ye, ye curse o' a MacDonald!"
he roared, making a drive at the boy.
But Peter Lauchie knew that the master need not now be taken seriously;
he darted down the aisle, McAllister after him, bearing his clumsy
weapon, and mowing down all within three yards of his path. The boy
leaped over the wood box, dodged round the stove, upset the water pail
over the girls and came careering back.
Number Nine rose to the occasion; their year of Jubilee, so long
delayed, had come at last. The boys joined in the chase, and soon the
master became the pursued as well as the pursuer. The girls shrieked
and fled to the wall, all except such amazons as Nancy Caldwell and
Roarin' Sandy's Teenie, who joined in the race, materially assisting
Peter by getting in the master's way or catching hold of his flying
coat-tails.
The chase did not last long; the prey, exhausted, fled out of doors and
the master subsided into a chair. He brought the school to some
semblance of order and made a feeble attempt at teaching. But by the
afternoon he was uproariously genial. He spent an hour conducting a
competition in which the boy who could stand longest on the hot stove
received the highest marks, and finally went to sleep with his feet on
the desk and his red handkerchief spread over his face.
But the affair was not without material benefit to Scotty. In his
gallant refutation of the charge against him, and in the miraculous way
he had averted the master's vengeance, he had won a place in the heart
of every MacDonald. Thereafter, no one outside the clan dared give him
his English name, and at last the fact that he possessed one almost
faded from his friends', as well as his own, mind.
IV
"CAPE CANADA"
The ocean bursts in very wrath,
The waters rush and whirl
As the hardy diver cleaves a path
Down to the treasured pearl.
--GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE.
The days sped swiftly, and Scotty learned many things both in and out
of school. In the latter department his chief instructor was his
nearest neighbour. Peter Lauchie was fourteen, and a wonderful man of
the world in Scotty's eyes; but in spite of the great disparity of
years the two were much together. From his companion Scotty learned
many great lessons. The first and cardinal principle laid down was
that all who hailed from the Oa must wage internecine war upon the
Flats and must despise and ignore all English and Lowlanders. Another
was that one might as well make up one's mind to attend to business
during McAllister's glacial period, but that, when a more genial
atmosphere pervaded the school, the farther one went in inventing new
forms of mischief the more likely was one to become a hero.
Peter Lauchie further explained that all Pat Murphy's crew were nothing
but Fenians. He pronounced the evil word in a whisper, and added in a
more sepulchral tone that the Caldwell boys and a lot more Irish from
the Flats, yes, and "Hoak" Tucker's people, too, were Orangemen. These
terrible disclosures filled Scotty with vague alarm; for, though he
strove to keep his companionship a secret, there could be no doubt that
most of his time at school was spent in the very pleasant company of
Danny Murphy and "Hash" Tucker; and furthermore that, since the day she
had saved him from old McAllister's clutches, Nancy Caldwell had been
the bright, particular star of his existence. He had no doubt that
Nancy returned his devotion, either; for she brought him big lumps of
maple sugar and the rosiest apples, and was always anxious that he
should share her cake. Of course, she was apt to exact payment for
these favours, and would chase him all over the school and kiss him in
spite of his fiercest struggles. But, nevertheless, Nancy held his
heart. Surely she could not be anything very wicked. Fenians he knew
something about; the Fenian Raids had been talked of in his home ever
since he could remember. Orangemen might not be quite so bad. He made
up his mind he would ask Hamish all about it.
There was quite a little circle of friends about the fire that evening;
Long Lauchie MacDonald and three of his grown-up sons had come over for
a chat, and of course Weaver Jimmie was there, having been turned out
of Kirsty John's house at the point of the potato masher.
Like most of the Highlanders, Long Lauchie was aptly described by his
name. He was a tall, thin, attenuated man. Everything about him
seemed to run to a point and vanish; his long, thin hands, his flimsy
pointed beard, even his long nose and ears helped out his character.
He rarely indulged in conversation, coming out of an habitual reverie
only occasionally to make a remark. Nevertheless he was of a sociable
turn and was often seen at Big Malcolm's fireside.
The company sat round in a comfortable, hump-backed circle, emitting
clouds of smoke and discussing the affairs of the Empire; for these
men's affections were still set on the old land, and that which touched
Britain was vital to them.
Then Old Farquhar started upon a tale, so long and rambling that Rory
took his fiddle and strummed impatiently in the background. Scotty
understood enough of Gaelic to gather that it was the story of a
beautiful maiden who had died that night when her father and brother
and lover lay slain in the bloody massacre of Glencoe.
Impatient of the high-flown Gaelic phrases, Scotty flew to Hamish, and
his indulgent chum put aside the book and told him the story, and why
the MacDonalds hated the name of Orange. Scotty went back to the fire,
his cheeks aflame with excitement. Hereafter he would fight everything
and anything remotely connected with the name of Orange. See if he
wouldn't!
The conversation had turned to quite a different subject. Weaver
Jimmie had the floor now, and had almost forgotten his embarrassing
appendages in the thrill of relating his one great story; the story of
how his brother fought the Fenians at Ridgeway.
"Eh, eh," sighed Long Lauchie, "it would maybe be what the prophets
would be telling, indeed, about wars and rumours of wars!"
For Long Lauchie not only saw sermons in stones, and books in the
running brooks, but discerned in the everyday occurrences about him
fulfilment of dire prophecy.
"Hooch!" cried Big Malcolm, "I would rather be having a Fenian raid any
day than an Orangeman living in the same township."
Long Lauchie sadly shook his head and went off into a series of sighs
and ejaculations, as was his way, receding farther and farther until
his voice died away and he sat gazing into space.
"Aye, indeed, and mebby you'll be gettin' one," cried Weaver Jimmie,
wagging his head. "Pete Nash himself told me that Dan Murphy and that
Connor crew an' all them low Irish would be saying at the corner the
other night that they would jist be gettin' up a Fenian Raid o' their
own some o' these fine days, an' be takin' the Glen, whatever."
"Horo!" Callum Fiach arose and came forward, the joy of a conflict
dancing in his eyes. "Hech, but I wish they would!"
"Whisht ye, Callum!" cried his father sternly. "Let the evil one
alone. I'll have no son o' mine mixin' with such goin's on!"
The young man eyed his father laughingly. "You'd stay at home if there
was a Fenian Raid, wouldn't you?" he asked teasingly.
Big Malcolm glanced uneasily towards his wife. His was a hard position
to fill amid the fighting MacDonalds; his whole life was a struggle
between his inherited tendencies and his religious convictions. He
preached peace on earth and good will towards all men; and believed
implicitly that the meek should inherit the earth; but his warlike
spirit was always clamouring to be up in arms, and sometimes, in spite
even of the strong influence of his wife, it broke all bounds. He
shook his head at his son's raillery and made no reply. Not for a long
time had he yielded to temptation, but he felt it was not safe to boast.
"Well, if the Fenians ever come to take Canady again, I hope I'll be
there!" cried Rory gaily, breaking into an old warlike Jacobite air.
Weaver Jimmie threw one leg over the other, with great nonchalance.
"They may take Canady, whatever; but they'll not be taking Oro!" he
remarked firmly.
"Kirsty 'll be lookin' after Oro!" cried Callum. "Losh, but she'd bang
the senses out of the wildest Fenian that ever grew, if she got after
him!"
"They didn't take much when they did come," said Long Lauchie's Hugh.
"Only a few bullets. Say, though, don't you wish you'd been there?"
Scotty listened, his heart torn with conflicting emotions. He wanted
to fight the Fenians now, but with Danny a Fenian, and Nancy and Hash
Orangemen, what would become of him? He guessed that Callum had some
scheme afoot and he kept close to him all evening and heard him
conferring with Long Lauchie's boys in low tones. There was something
about the Murphys, and getting them stirred up, and finally a compact
to all be at the glen the following afternoon.
The next day Scotty used all his powers to effect a journey to the
glen, too. He had some difficulty, however, for it was Saturday and
Granny wanted him with her; but by dint of assistance from Hamish he
accomplished his aim, and in the afternoon he drove away on the front
seat of the big sleigh between Grandaddy and Callum, full of exuberant
joy.
The Glen was a small community at a bend in the River Oro, just a mile
east of the schoolhouse. Though it was near his home, Scotty had not
been in it since he was a baby. He was wildly eager to see the place.
To him it was a great metropolis, for it contained a tavern and a
store, yes, and a real mill where they made flour. And Hamish had
promised to show him the great water wheel that made the mill go, and
they were to spend an hour at Thompson's store, and most of all he was
anxious to learn the outcome of the boys' mysterious plans of the night
before.
The day was delightful, with all the world a gleam of blue and silver,
the glittering landscape softened here and there by the restful grey
tints of the forest. The blue skies with their dazzling white clouds,
and the shimmering white earth with its bright blue shadows, were so
bewilderingly alike that one might well wonder whether he was in heaven
or on earth. The air was electric, setting the blood tingling, and, as
the sleigh slipped along down the winding road that led to the river,
Scotty churned up and down on the seat and could with difficulty
restrain himself from leaping out and turning somersaults in the snow.
The highway suddenly emerged from a belt of pine forest and descended
into a little round valley made by the bend in the river. Here lay
"the Glen," the central point of the surrounding communities. Scotty
grew quieter and his eyes bigger as they followed the winding steep
road that led into its depths. There was the mill by the river, giving
out a strange rumbling sound; and beside it the house of old Sandy
Hamilton, the miller; and there, on the northern slope of the river
bank, was Weaver Jimmie's little shanty, with the loom clattering away
inside; and right at the corner stood Thompson's store and opposite it
Peter Nash's tavern.
So many houses all in one clearing! Scotty could scarcely believe his
eyes. And yet the poor little place had, after all, a greater
importance than the child could imagine. The Glen was to the grown
part of the community what the school was to the younger portion. It
lay within the boundaries of the four different settlements, and as
clearings began to widen and social intercourse became easier, it had
gradually become a place where men met for mutual help or hindrance, as
the case might be. Here the several nationalities mingled, and though
they did not realise the fact, here they were laying the foundations of
a great nation. Such a vast work as this could scarcely be carried on
without some commotion; the chemist must look for explosions when he
produces a strange new compound from diverse elements; and it was,
therefore, no wonder that the crucible in the valley of the Oro was
often the scene of much boiling and seething. Then the tavern came,
with its brain-destroying fire, and sometimes after harvest, when the
Fighting MacDonalds and the belligerent Murphys met before it, the
noise of the fray might be heard in the farthest-off clearing of the Oa.
Scotty's eyes rested fearfully on the tavern. It was a common log
building, wider than the ordinary ones and with a porch in front and a
lean-to behind. To the boy its appearance was a great surprise and
some disappointment. Grandaddy always spoke of it as "a den of
iniquity"; and Scotty's fancy had pictured such a den as Daniel had
been cast into, which he had seen many times in Granny's big Bible.
He was rather sorry they did not stop there, the inside might be more
romantic; but he soon forgot it in the excitement of other scenes; for
they went to the mill and Sandy Hamilton, all floury and smiling, took
him down to where the water came thundering over the big wheel; and
then, while the boys went off with the team, Big Malcolm took his
grandson to the most wonderful place yet, the store.
This was the most important place in the Glen, and the man who kept it,
James Thompson, or Store Thompson, as the neighbours called him, was
the most important and influential member of the community. He was a
fine, upright, intelligent man and was known far and wide for his
learning. He possessed a vocabulary of polysyllables that never failed
to confound an opponent in argument, and all the township could tell
how he once vanquished a great university graduate, who was visiting
Captain Herbert at Lake Oro. He was often identified by this
illustrious deed, and was pointed out to strangers as, "Store Thompson,
him that downed the Captain's college man."
Big Malcolm and Store Thompson, though the latter was a Lowlander, had
been fast friends ever since they had come to Canada. They were
slightly above the average pioneer in intelligence and had many
interests in common; so for this reason, as well as a matter of
principle, Big Malcolm avoided the tavern and spent his leisure moments
with his friend.
As they entered, Store Thompson was busy weighing out sugar for a
customer, and glanced up. He was a tall man, with a kind, intelligent
face and a high, bland forehead. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles, but,
when not reading, had them pushed up to the scant line of hair on the
top of his head, and his pale blue eyes blinked kindly at all around.
He stopped in the midst of his calculations to welcome his friends.
"Eh, eh, Malcolm, an' is yon yersel'?" he cried heartily. "It's jist a
lang, lang time since Ah seen ye, man; aye, an' it's the wee man ye
hae. It's a lang time since ye've been to the Glen; jist an
unconscionably lang time; aye, jist that, jist unconscionably like!"
He lingered over the word as he shook hands, and then, after inquiring
for the wife and family, he turned his attention to Scotty, remarked
upon his wonderful growth, and his sturdy limbs, asked him how he was
getting on at school and if he could spell "phthisis."
Scotty hung shyly behind his grandfather, and as soon as the host's
attention was turned from him he escaped. He seated himself carefully
upon a box of red herring, and his eyes wandered wonderingly around the
shop. It was a marvellous place for a boy with sharp eyes and an
inquiring mind. Down one side ran a counter made of smoothed pine
boards and behind it rose a row of shelves reaching to the raftered
ceiling and containing everything the farmers could need, from the
glass jar of peppermint drops on the top shelf to the web of factory
cotton near the floor. The remaining space was crammed with
merchandise. There were boxes of boots, bales of cloth, barrels of
sugar and salt and kerosene, kegs of nails, chests of tea and boxes of
patent medicines; and the combination of odours was not the least
wonderful thing in this wonderful museum. Nothing escaped Scotty's
eyes, from the festoons of dried apples suspended from the dark
raftered ceiling to the pile of axe-handles on the floor in the corner.
He sat utterly absorbed, while his grandfather and Store Thompson
talked. There was much to tell on one side, at least, for Store
Thompson and the schoolmaster took a weekly newspaper between them, and
it all had to be gone over, especially the news from Scotland.
Store Thompson's wife, a bright, little red-checked woman came hustling
in to greet Big Malcolm, and ask him in for a cup of tea. "Ah've had
the Captain an' his sister an' the wee leddy to denner," she whispered
proudly, "an' they'll jist be goin' in a minit, an' ye'll come an' have
a cup o' tea with them, jist."