TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN AT HOME
For several minutes Dale could think of nothing but that he was at the
bottom of the brook and in danger of drowning. His head hurt, there
was a strange ringing in his ears, and almost before he knew it he had
gulped down a quantity of the cool water.
But "self-preservation is the first law of nature," and even though
dazed he floundered around and tried to pull himself up out of the
stream. Twice he slipped back. Then his hand fastened on a tree root
and he stuck there, gasping for breath, spluttering, and trying to
collect his senses.
"Who--who hit me?" he muttered at last.
When he felt strong enough to do so, he crawled up the bank of the
stream and sank in a heap at the foot of a big tree. On one side of his
forehead was a big lump, and on the other a small cut from which the
blood was flowing.
"Just wait till I catch the fellow who did that," he told himself.
"I'll square up with him."
His mind reverted to Baptiste Ducrot. Had the French-Canadian been the
one to attack him? It was more than likely.
It was fully five minutes later when the young lumberman made another
discovery. He was bathing the cut when, on glancing around, he noted
that the horse he had been riding had disappeared.
"Hullo, Jerry is gone," he said to himself. "Jerry! Jerry! Where are
you?" he called.
No sound came back in answer, nor did the animal put in an appearance.
Staggering to his feet, Dale walked a short distance up and down the
watercourse. It was useless; the horse could not be found.
With a sinking heart the young lumberman was retracing his steps to the
ford when he saw a form on horseback advancing along the trail. As the
person came closer he recognized Owen Webb.
"Owen!"
"Why, Dale, is that you?"
"Have you seen anything of my horse?"
"Your horse? No. Didn't you ride him back?"
"I rode him as far as here. Then somebody struck me and knocked me into
the brook, and now the horse is gone," went on Dale.
He told the particulars of the occurrence so far as they were clear to
him. Owen Webb was of a sympathetic nature, and as he listened his face
grew clouded.
"It must have been Ducrot, Dale. It's just like the cowardly sneak.
Didn't you see him at all?"
"No. I was attacked so quickly I didn't know a thing until I was trying
to pull myself out of the water. If he took the horse where do you
suppose he went to?"
"That's a conundrum. It's not likely he went on to Larson's Run, for
the folks there would recognize the horse. And he didn't go back to
Odell's, or I should have met him."
"I guess you are right, Owen. With the horse gone I don't know what to
do."
"Let us make sure that he hasn't strayed away, Dale. Then, if you wish,
you can ride behind me. That's better than walking the five miles."
Owen made a thorough search of the vicinity, while Dale again bathed
his wound. No horse came to view, and a little later the journey to
Larson's Run was resumed.
As said before, Owen Webb was a young man of twenty. He was alone
in the world, and after the death of his parents had drifted from
Portland to Bangor in search of employment. He had worked in several
lumber yards and sawmills before hiring out to Peter Odell. He was a
good workman and a clever fellow, and if he had any fault it was that
of moving from one locality to another, "just for the change," as he
expressed it. He generally spent his money as fast as he made it, but
his want of capital never bothered him. Like Dale, he was no drinker,
as are, unfortunately, so many lumbermen, and if his money went, it
went legitimately, for good board and clothing, music and newspapers,
and charity. Dale had liked him from the start, and the more the pair
saw of each other the more intimate did they become.
Owen was bound for a blacksmith shop located near the Run, and at
this place the two separated, and Dale continued his journey to John
Larson's home on foot. He felt much worried over the loss of Jerry, but
resolved to make a clean breast of the matter and did so.
John Larson was a good reader of character and saw that the young
lumberman was telling him the strict truth. "It must have been that
Ducrot who took the horse," he said. "I know him and never liked him.
Why Odell hired him is a mystery to me. I'll send out an alarm and I
guess I'll get the horse back sooner or later."
"And if you don't, Mr. Larson, I'll do what I can to pay for him," said
Dale.
His last week at the Run soon came to an end, and Monday morning found
Dale located at Odell's, and as hard at work as ever. In the meantime
Peter Odell had refused again to treat with the men who called
themselves strikers, and one by one they left the locality, taking
their belongings with them.
The going away of these men left a vacancy at the boarding place where
Owen was stopping, and this room was taken by Dale, so the two young
lumbermen saw more of each other than ever. Owen was a fair performer
on the violin and the banjo, and Dale could play a harmonica and
sing, and they often spent an evening over their music, which the
other boarders listened to with keen relish, for amusements in that
out-of-the-way spot were not numerous.
For several weeks nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Dale worked
hard, early and late, and for this Peter Odell gave him something
extra to do, with extra pay. By this means the young lumberman was
enabled to save more than usual, and one Saturday afternoon he had the
satisfaction of sending Hen McNair a letter containing Peter Odell's
check for the balance due the close-fisted riverman.
"That wipes out the last of my father's debts," said Dale to Owen.
"I can tell you it makes me feel like a different person to have
everything paid."
"I believe you, Dale. My father didn't leave any debts, but I had to
square up for the funeral, and that was no small sum."
"Now all I have left to do is to square up for the horse that was
stolen."
"What was he worth?"
"I don't know exactly. I asked Mr. Larson, but he said to wait a while,
that Jerry might turn up somewhere."
So far the only word received concerning Baptiste Ducrot was through
an old riverman, who had once seen the French-Canadian in a drinking
resort near the upper end of Moosehead Lake. What had become of Ducrot
after that nobody knew.
The summer was drawing to an end, and still the sawmill at Larson's
Run remained idle. It was impossible to get logs, and soon Peter Odell
began to complain.
"I shouldn't be surprised if we had to shut down too," said Owen one
day. "If we do, Dale, what are you going to do?"
"I'm sure I don't know. This is certainly a hard year in the lumber
trade."
"I don't believe it is as hard elsewhere as it is in Maine. My uncle,
Jack Hoover, who owns a lumber camp out in Michigan, wrote that he was
as busy as ever. He said I might come on if I couldn't find anything to
do here."
"Why don't you go?"
Owen drew down the corners of his mouth into a peculiar pucker.
"You wouldn't ask that if you knew my Uncle Jack," he said.
"Anything wrong?"
"Uncle Jack is a worker--morning, noon, and night, and between times.
He never knows when to stop, and he expects everybody around him to
work just as hard or harder. Fact is, he's a regular slave driver. And
in addition to that he's as close-fisted as Hen McNair."
"In that case, I don't wonder you don't want to engage with him," said
Dale, with a laugh.
"Uncle Jack means well, but he never knows when to let up. I've heard
my mother say that more than once. He was her step-brother. He started
as a poor man, and when he went to Michigan he had less than a thousand
dollars. Now he must be worth thirty or forty thousand, and maybe more."
"I don't believe you'll be worth that, Owen; not if you have to save it
yourself."
"I don't want to be rich if I've got to slave like Uncle Jack. Money
isn't everything in this world."
"But you ought to save something. Supposing you got sick, or something
else happened to you?"
"Well, I'm going to start to save a little, some time."
"The best time to start is now. Some time generally means no time. You
can put away as much as I put away, if you try."
"All right, I'll do it--next week."
"No, this week," and Dale smiled good-humoredly.
"Gracious, Dale! are you becoming my guardian?"
"Not at all, Owen. But I want to see you begin."
"I can't spare the money this week. I've got to have some new strings
for the banjo, and hair for the fiddle bow, and have these boots
mended, and pay my board, and buy some shirts, and----"
"Not all this week. That fiddle bow will last a week or two yet, and
so will your shirts. Now here is this cigar box I've been using for a
bank. I cleaned it out paying off Hen McNair, but I am going to start a
new account. When I put in a dollar you put in a dollar, and when you
put in a dollar I'll do the same. Then, when we want our money, we can
whack up."
"How much are you putting in to start on?"
"Two dollars."
Owen gave something like a groan.
"All right, if I must, I must," he said, bringing out his week's wages.
"But it's worse than having a tooth pulled."
"It won't be after you get in the habit of it."
"I don't believe I could get in the habit of having my teeth pulled."
"You know what I mean. After a while it will become just as easy to
save money as to spend it--that is, a fair proportion of what you earn."
"Want me to become as close as my Uncle Jack?"
"I guess there is small danger of that." Dale reached for his
harmonica, which rested on a shelf. "Now strike up on the fiddle, and
then you'll forget all about the hardships of saving."
This was a sure way of pleasing Owen, and soon he had the violin from
its peg on the wall and was tuning up. Then the pair began to play,
one familiar tune after another, and thus the evening ended pleasantly
enough.