IN WHICH, JIM ENLARGES HIS ACCOMMODATIONS AND ADOPTS A VIOLENT METHOD OF
SECURING BOARDERS.
When Jim Fenton waked from his long and refreshing sleep, after his
weary tramp and his row upon the river, the sun was shining brightly,
the blue-birds were singing, the partridges were drumming, and a red
squirrel, which even Turk would not disturb, was looking for provisions
in his cabin, or eyeing him saucily from one of the beams over his head.
He lay for a moment, stretching his huge limbs and rubbing his eyes,
thinking over what he had undertaken, and exclaiming at last: "Well,
Jim, ye've got a big contrack," he jumped up, and, striking a fire,
cooked his breakfast.
His first work was to make an addition to his accommodations for
lodgers, and he set about it in thorough earnest. Before noon he had
stripped bark enough from the trees in his vicinity to cover a building
as large as his own. The question with him was whether he should put up
an addition to his cabin, or hide a new building somewhere behind the
trees in his vicinity. In case of pursuit, his lodgers would need a
cover, and this he knew he could not give them in his cabin; for all who
were in the habit of visiting the woods were familiar with that
structure, and would certainly notice any addition to it, and be curious
about it. Twenty rods away there was a thicket of hemlock, and by
removing two or three trees in its center, he could successfully hide
from any but the most inquisitive observation the cabin he proposed to
erect. His conclusion was quickly arrived at, and before he slept that
night the trees were down, the frame was up, and the bark was gathered.
The next day sufficed to make the cabin habitable; but he lingered about
the work for several days, putting up various appointments of
convenience, building a broad bed of hemlock boughs, so deep and
fragrant and inviting, that he wondered he had never undertaken to do as
much for himself as he had thus gladly done for others, and making sure
that there was no crevice at which the storms of spring and summer could
force an entrance.
When he could do no more, he looked it over with approval and said:
"Thar! If I'd a done that for Miss Butterworth, I couldn't 'a' done
better nor that." Then he went back to his cabin muttering: "I wonder
what she'd 'a' said if she'd hearn that little speech o' mine!"
What remained for Jim to do was to make provision to feed his boarders.
His trusty rifle stood in the corner of his cabin, and Jim had but to
take it in his hand to excite the expectations of his dog, and to
receive from him, in language as plain as an eager whine and a wagging
tail could express, an offer of assistance. Before night there hung in
front of his cabin a buck, dragged with difficulty through the woods
from the place where he had shot him. A good part of the following day
was spent in cutting from the carcass every ounce of flesh, and packing
it into pails, to be stowed in a spring whose water, summer and winter
alike, was almost at the freezing point.
"He'll need a good deal o' lookin' arter, and I shan't hunt much the
fust few days," said Jim to himself; "an' as for flour, there's a sack
on't, an' as for pertaters, we shan't want many on 'em till they come
agin, an' as for salt pork, there's a whole bar'l buried, an' as for the
rest, let me alone!"
Jim had put off the removal for ten days, partly to get time for all his
preparations, and partly that the rapidly advancing spring might give
him warmer weather for the removal of a delicate patient. He found,
however, at the conclusion of his labors, that he had two or three spare
days on his hands. His mind was too busy and too much excited by his
enterprise to permit him to engage in any regular employment, and he
roamed around the woods, or sat whittling in the sun, or smoked, or
thought of Miss Butterworth. It was strange how, when the business upon
his hands was suspended, he went back again and again, to his brief
interview with that little woman. He thought of her eyes full of tears,
of her sympathy with the poor, of her smart and saucy speech when he
parted with her, and he said again and again to himself, what he said on
that occasion: "she's a genuine creetur!" and the last time he said it,
on the day before his projected expedition, he added: "an' who knows!"
Then a bright idea seized him, and taking out a huge jack-knife, he went
through the hemlocks to his new cabin, and there carved into the slabs
of bark that constituted its door, the words "Number Ten." This was the
crowning grace of that interesting structure. He looked at it close, and
then from a distance, and then he went back chuckling to his cabin, to
pass his night in dreams of fast driving before the fury of all
Sevenoaks, with Phipps and his gray trotters in advance.
Early on Friday morning preceding his proposed descent upon the
poor-house, he gave his orders to Turk.
"I'm goin' away, Turk," said he. "I'm goin' away agin. Ye was a good dog
when I went away afore, and ye berhaved a good deal more like a
Christian nor a Turk. Look out for this 'ere cabin, and look out for
yerself. I'm a goin' to bring back a sick man, an' a little feller to
play with ye. Now, ole feller, won't that be jolly? Ye must'n't make no
noise when I come--understand?"
Turk wagged his tail in assent, and Jim departed, believing that his dog
had understood every word as completely as if he were a man.
"Good-bye--here's hopin'," said Jim, waving his hand to Turk as he
pushed his boat from the bank, and disappeared down the river. The dog
watched him until he passed from sight, and then went back to the cabin
to mope away the period of his master's absence.
Jim sat in the stern of his little boat, guiding and propelling it with
his paddle. Flocks of ducks rose before him, and swashed down with a
fluttering ricochet into the water again, beyond the shot of his rifle.
A fish-hawk, perched above his last year's nest, sat on a dead limb and
watched him as he glided by. A blue heron rose among the reeds, looked
at him quietly, and then hid behind a tree. A muskrat swam shoreward
from his track, with only his nose above water. A deer, feeding among
the lily-pads, looked up, snorted, and then wheeled and plunged into the
woods. All these things he saw, but they made no more impression upon
his memory than is left upon the canvas by the projected images of a
magic-lantern. His mind was occupied by his scheme, which had never
seemed so serious a matter as when he had started upon its fulfilment.
All the possibilities of immediate detection and efficient pursuit
presented themselves to him. He had no respect for Thomas Buffum, yet
there was the thought that he was taking away from him one of the
sources of his income. He would not like to have Buffum suppose that he
could be guilty of a mean act, or capable of making an ungrateful return
for hospitality. Still he did not doubt his own motives, or his ability
to do good to Paul Benedict and his boy.
It was nearly ten miles from Jim's cabin, down the winding river, to the
point where he was to hide his boat, and take to the road which would
lead him to the house of Mike Conlin, half way to Sevenoaks. Remembering
before he started that the blind cart-road over which he must bring his
patient was obstructed at various points by fallen trees, he brought
along his axe, and found himself obliged to spend the whole day on his
walk, and in clearing the road for the passage of a wagon. It was six
o'clock before he reached Mike's house, the outermost post of the
"settlement," which embraced in its definition the presence of women and
children.
"Be gorry," said Mike, who had long been looking for him, "I was afeared
ye'd gi'en it up. The old horse is ready this two hours. I've took more
nor three quarts o' dander out iv 'is hide, and gi'en 'im four quarts
o' water and a pail iv oats, an' he'll go."
Mike nodded his head as if he were profoundly sure of it. Jim had used
horses in his life, in the old days of lumbering and logging, and was
quite at home with them. He had had many a drive with Mike, and knew the
animal he would be required to handle--a large, hardy, raw-boned
creature, that had endured much in Mike's hands, and was quite equal to
the present emergency.
As soon as Jim had eaten his supper, and Mike's wife had put up for him
food enough to last him and such accessions to his party as he expected
to secure during the night, and supplied him abundantly with wrappings,
he went to the stable, mounted the low, strong wagon before which Mike
had placed the horse, and with a hearty "good luck to ye!" from the
Irishman ringing in his ears, started on the road to Sevenoaks. This
portion of the way was easy. The road was worn somewhat, and moderately
well kept; and there was nothing to interfere with the steady jog which
measured the distance at the rate of six miles an hour. For three steady
hours he went on, the horse no more worried than if he had been standing
in the stable. At nine o'clock the lights in the farmers' cottages by
the wayside were extinguished, and the families they held were in bed.
Then the road began to grow dim, and the sky to become dark. The fickle
spring weather gave promise of rain. Jim shuddered at the thought of the
exposure to which, in a shower, his delicate friend would be subjected,
but thought that if he could but get him to the wagon, and cover him
well before its onset, he could shield him from harm.
The town clock was striking ten as he drove up to the stump where he was
to meet Benedict's boy. He stopped and whistled. A whistle came back in
reply, and a dark little object crept out from behind the stump, and
came up to the wagon.
"Harry, how's your pa?" said Jim.
"He's been very bad to-day," said Harry. "He says he's going to
Abraham's bosom on a visit, and he's been walking around in his room,
and wondering why you don't come for him."
"Who did he say that to?" inquired Jim.
"To me," replied the boy. "And he told me not to speak to Mr. Buffum
about it."
Jim breathed a sigh of relief, and saying "All right!" he leaped from
the wagon. Then taking out a heavy blanket, he said:
"Now, Harry, you jest stand by the old feller's head till I git back to
ye. He's out o' the road, an' ye needn't stir if any body comes along."
Harry went up to the old horse, patted his nose and his breast, and told
him he was good. The creature seemed to understand it, and gave him no
trouble. Jim then stalked off noiselessly into the darkness, and the boy
waited with a trembling and expectant heart.
Jim reached the poor-house, and stood still in the middle of the road
between the two establishments. The lights in both had been
extinguished, and stillness reigned in that portion occupied by Thomas
Buffum and his family. The darkness was so great that Jim could almost
feel it. No lights were visible except in the village at the foot of the
hill, and these were distant and feeble, through an open window--left
open that the asthmatic keeper of the establishment might be supplied
with breath--he heard a stertorous snore. On the other side matters were
not so silent. There were groans, and yells, and gabble from the reeking
and sleepless patients, who had been penned up for the long and terrible
night. Concluding that every thing was as safe for his operations as it
would become at any time, he slowly felt his way to the door of the ward
which held Paul Benedict, and found it fastened on the outside, as he
had anticipated. Lifting the bar from the iron arms that held it, and
pushing back the bolt, he silently opened the door. Whether the darkness
within was greater than that without, or whether the preternaturally
quickened ears of the patients detected the manipulations of the
fastenings, he did not know, but he was conscious at once that the
tumult within was hushed. It was apparent that they had been visited in
the night before, and that the accustomed intruder had come on no gentle
errand.. There was not a sound as Jim felt his way along from stall to
stall, sickened almost to retching by the insufferable stench that
reached his nostrils and poisoned every inspiration.
On the morning of his previous visit he had taken all the bearings with
reference to an expedition in the darkness, and so, feeling his way
along the hall, he had little difficulty in finding the cell in which he
had left his old friend.
Jim tried the door, but found it locked. His great fear was that the
lock would be changed, but it had not been meddled with, and had either
been furnished with a new key, or had been locked with a skeleton. He
slipped the stolen key in, and the bolt slid back. Opening the outer
door, he tried the inner, but the key did not fit the lock. Here was a
difficulty not entirely unexpected, but seeming to be insurmountable. He
quietly went back to the door of entrance, and as quietly closed it,
that no sound of violence might reach and wake the inmates of the house
across the road. Then he returned, and whispered in a low voice to the
inmate:
"Paul Benedict, give us your benediction."
"Jim," responded the man in a whisper, so light that it could reach no
ear but his own.
"Don't make no noise, not even if I sh'd make consid'able," said Jim.
Then, grasping the bars with both hands, he gave the door a sudden pull,
into which he put all the might of his huge frame. A thousand pounds
would not have measured it, and the door yielded, not at the bolt, but
at the hinges. Screws deeply imbedded were pulled out bodily. A second
lighter wrench completed the task, and the door was noiselessly set
aside, though Jim was trembling in every muscle.
Benedict stood at the door.
"Here's the robe that Abram sent ye," said Jim, throwing over the poor
man's shoulders an ample blanket; and putting one of his large arms
around him, he led him shuffling out of the hall, and shut and bolted
the door.
He had no sooner done this, than the bedlam inside broke loose. There
were yells, and howls, and curses, but Jim did not stop for these.
Dizzied with his effort, enveloped in thick darkness, and the wind which
preceded the approaching shower blowing a fierce gale, he was obliged to
stop a moment to make sure that he was walking in the right direction.
He saw the lights of the village, and, finding the road, managed to keep
on it until he reached the horse, that had become uneasy under the
premonitory tumult of the storm. Lifting Benedict into the wagon as if
he had been a child, he wrapped him warmly, and put the boy in behind
him, to kneel and see that his father did not fall out. Then he turned
the horse around, and started toward Number Nine. The horse knew the
road, and was furnished with keener vision than the man who drove him.
Jim was aware of this, and letting the reins lie loose upon his back,
the animal struck into a long, swinging trot, in prospect of home and
another "pail iv oats."
They had not gone a mile when the gathering tempest came down upon them.
It rained in torrents, the lightning illuminated the whole region again
and again, and the thunder cracked, and boomed, and rolled off among the
woods and hills, as if the day of doom had come.
The war of the elements harmonized strangely with the weird fancies of
the weak man who sat at Jim's side. He rode in perfect silence for
miles. At last the wind went down, and the rain settled to a steady
fall.
"They were pretty angry about my going," said he, feebly.
"Yes," said Jim, "they behaved purty car'less, but I'm too many for
'em."
"Does Father Abraham know I'm coming?" inquired Benedict. "Does he
expect me to-night?"
"Yes," responded Jim, "an' he'd 'a' sent afore, but he's jest wore out
with company. He's a mighty good-natered man, an' I tell 'im they take
the advantage of 'im. But I've posted 'im 'bout ye, and ye're all
right."
"Is it very far to the gulf?" inquired Benedict.
"Yes, it's a good deal of a drive, but when ye git there, ye can jest
lay right down in the boat, an' go to sleep. I'll wake ye up, ye know,
when we run in."
The miles slid behind into the darkness, and, at last, the rain
subsiding somewhat, Jim stopped, partly to rest his smoking horse, and
partly to feed his half-famished companions. Benedict ate mechanically
the food that Jim fished out of the basket with a careful hand, and the
boy ate as only boys can eat. Jim himself was hungry, and nearly
finished what they left.
At two o'clock in the morning, they descried Mike Conlin's light, and in
ten minutes the reeking horse and the drenched inmates of the wagon
drove up to the door. Mike was waiting to receive them.
"Mike, this is my particular friend, Benedict. Take 'im in, an' dry 'im.
An' this is 'is boy. Toast 'im both sides--brown."
A large, pleasant fire was blazing on Mike's humble hearth, and with
sundry cheerful remarks he placed his guests before it, relieving them
of their soaked wrappings. Then he went to the stable, and fed and
groomed his horse, and returned eagerly, to chat with Jim, who sat
steaming before the fire, as if he had just been lifted from a hot bath.
"What place is this, Jim?" said Mr. Benedict.
"This is the half-way house," responded that personage, without looking
up.
"Why, this is purgatory, isn't it?" inquired Benedict.
"Yes, Mike is a Catholic, an' all his folks; an' he's got to stay here a
good while, an' he's jest settled down an' gone to housekeepin'."
"Is it far to the gulf, now?"
"Twenty mile, and the road is rougher nor a--"
"'Ah, it's no twinty mile," responded Mike, "an' the road is jist
lovely--jist lovely; an' afore ye start I'm goin' to give ye a drap that
'll make ye think so."
They sat a whole hour before the fire, and then Mike mixed the draught
he had promised to the poor patient. It was not a heavy one, but, for
the time, it lifted the man so far out of his weakness that he could
sleep, and the moment his brain felt the stimulus, he dropped into a
slumber so profound that when the time of departure came he could not be
awakened. As there was no time to be lost, a bed was procured from a
spare chamber, with pillows; the wagon was brought to the door, and the
man was carried out as unconscious as if he were in his last slumber,
and tenderly put to bed in the wagon. Jim declined the dram that Mike
urged upon him, for he had need of all his wits, and slowly walked the
horse away on the road to his boat. If Benedict had been wide awake and
well, he could not have traveled the road safely faster than a walk; and
the sleep, and the bed which it rendered necessary, became the happiest
accidents of the journey.
For two long hours the horse plodded along the stony and uneven road,
and then the light began to redden in the east, and Jim could see the
road sufficiently to increase his speed with safety. It was not until
long after the sun had risen that Benedict awoke, and found himself too
weak to rise. Jim gave him more food, answered his anxious inquiries in
his own way, and managed to keep him upon his bed, from which he
constantly tried to rise in response to his wandering impulses. It was
nearly noon when they found themselves at the river; and the
preparations for embarkation were quickly made. The horse was tied and
fed, the wagon unfastened, and the whole establishment was left for Mike
to reclaim, according to the arrangement that Jim had made with him.
The woodsman saw that his patient would not be able to sit, and so felt
himself compelled to take along the bed. Arranging this with the pillows
in the bow of his boat, and placing Benedict upon it, with his boy at
his feet, he shoved off, and started up the stream.
After running along against the current for a mile, Benedict having
quietly rested meantime, looked up and said weakly:
"Jim, is this the gulf?"
"Yes," responded Jim, cheerfully. "This is the gulf, and a purty place
'tis too. I've seed a sight o' worser places nor this."
"It's very beautiful," responded Benedict. "We must be getting pretty
near."
"It's not very fur now," said Jim.
The poor, wandering mind was trying to realize the heavenly scenes that
it believed were about to burst upon its vision. The quiet, sunlit
water, the trees still bare but bourgeoning, the songs of birds, the
blue sky across which fleecy clouds were peacefully floating, the
breezes that kissed his fevered cheek, the fragrance of the bordering
evergreens, and the electric air that entered his lungs so long
accustomed to the poisonous fetor of his cell, were well calculated to
foster his delusion, and to fill his soul with a peace to which it had
long been a stranger. An exquisite languor stole upon him, and under the
pressure of his long fatigue, his eyelids fell, and he dropped into a
quiet slumber.
When the boy saw that his father was asleep, he crept back to Jim and
said:
"Mr. Fenton, I don't think it's right for you to tell papa such lies."
"Call me Jim. The Doctor called me 'Mr. Fenton,' and it 'most killed
me."
"Well, Jim."
"Now, that sounds like it. You jest look a here, my boy. Your pa ain't
livin' in this world now, an' what's true to him is a lie to us, an'
what's true to us is a lie to him. I jest go into his world and say
what's true whar he lives. Isn't that right?"
This vein of casuistry was new to the boy, and he was staggered.
"When your pa gits well agin, an' here's hopin,' Jim Fenton an' he will
be together in their brains, ye know, and then they won't be talkin'
like a couple of jay-birds, and I won't lie to him no more nor I would
to you."
The lad's troubled mind was satisfied, and he crept back to his father's
feet, where he lay until he discovered Turk, whining and wagging his
tail in front of the little hillock that was crowned by Jim's cabin.
The long, hard, weird journey was at an end. The boat came up broadside
to the shore, and Jim leaped out, and showered as many caresses upon his
dog as he received from the faithful brute.