Yates had intended to call at the Bartletts’ and escort Renmark back
to the woods; but when he got outside he forgot the existence of the
professor, and wandered somewhat aimlessly up the side road, switching
at the weeds that always grow in great profusion along the ditches of a
Canadian country thoroughfare. The day was sunny and warm, and as Yates
wandered on in the direction of the forest he thought of many things.
He had feared that he would find life deadly dull so far from New York,
without even the consolation of a morning-paper, the feverish reading of
which had become a sort of vice with him, like smoking. He had imagined
that he could not exist without his morning paper, but he now realized
that it was not nearly so important a factor in life as he had supposed;
yet he sighed when he thought of it, and wished he had one with him of
current date. He could now, for the first time in many years, read a
paper without that vague fear which always possessed him when he took up
an opposition sheet, still damp from the press. Before he could enjoy it
his habit was to scan it over rapidly to see if it contained any item of
news which he himself had missed the previous day. The impending “scoop”
hangs over the head of the newspaper man like the sword so often quoted.
Great as the joy of beating the opposition press is, it never takes
the poignancy of the sting away from a beating received. If a terrible
disaster took place, and another paper gave fuller particulars than the
_Argus_ did, Yates found himself almost wishing the accident had
not occurred, although he recognized such a wish as decidedly
unprofessional.
Richard’s idea of the correct spirit in a reporter was exemplified by
an old broken-down, out-of-work morning newspaper man, who had not long
before committed suicide at an hour in the day too late for the evening
papers to get the sensational item. He had sent in to the paper for
which he formerly worked a full account of the fatality, accurately
headed and sub-headed; and, in his note to the city editor, he told why
he had chosen the hour of 7 P.M. as the time for his departure from an
unappreciative world.
“Ah, well,” said Yates under his breath, and suddenly pulling himself
together, “I mustn’t think of New York if I intend to stay here for a
couple of weeks. I’ll be city-sick the first thing I know, and then I’ll
make a break for the metropolis. This will never do. The air here is
enchanting, it fills a man with new life. This is the spot for me, and
I’ll stick to it till I’m right again. Hang New York! But I mustn’t
think of Broadway or I’m done for.”
He came to the spot in the road where he could see the white side of
the tent under the dark trees, and climbed up on the rail fence,
sitting there for a few moments. The occasional call of a quail from a
neighboring field was the only sound that broke the intense stillness.
The warm smell of spring was in the air. The buds had but recently
broken, and the woods, intensely green, had a look of newness and
freshness that was comforting to the eye and grateful to the other
senses. The world seemed to be but lately made. The young man breathed
deeply of the vivifying air, and said: “No, there’s nothing the matter
with this place, Dick. New York’s a fool to it.” Then, with a sigh,
he added: “If I can stand it for two weeks. I wonder how the boys are
getting on without me.”
In spite of himself his thoughts kept drifting back to the great city,
although he told himself that it wouldn’t do. He gazed at the peaceful,
spreading landscape, but his eyes were vacant and he saw nothing. The
roar of the streets was in his ears. Suddenly his reverie was broken by
a voice from the forest.
“I say, Yates, where’s the bread?”
Yates looked quickly around, somewhat startled, and saw the professor
coming toward him.
“The bread? I forgot all about it. No; I didn’t either. They were
baking--that was it. I am to go for it later in the day. What loot did
you rake in, professor?”
“Vegetables mostly.”
“That’s all right. Have a good dinner?”
“Excellent.”
“So did I. Renny, when you interrupted me, I was just counting the
farmhouses in sight. What do you say to boarding round among them? You
are a schoolmaster, and ought to know all about it. Isn’t education in
this country encouraged by paying the teacher as little as possible,
and letting him take it out in eating his way from one house to another?
Ever board around, Renny?”
“Never. If the custom once existed in Canada, it is out of date now.”
“That’s a pity. I hate to face my own cooking, Renmark. We become less
brave as we grow older. By the way, how is old man Bartlett? As well as
could be expected?”
“He seemed much as usual. Mrs. Bartlett has sent out two chairs to the
tent; she fears we will get rheumatism if we sit on the ground.”
“She is a kind woman, Renny, and a thoughtful. And that reminds me: I
have a hammock somewhere among my belongings. I will swing it up. Chairs
are comfortable, but a hammock is luxury.”
Yates slid down from the fence top, and together the two men walked to
the tent. The hammock was unfurled and slung between two trees. Yates
tested it cautiously, and finally trusted himself to its restful folds
of network. He was swaying indolently several feet from the ground when
he said to Renmark:
“I call this paradise--paradise regained; but it will be paradise lost
next month. Now, professor, I am ready to do the cooking, but I have a
fancy for doing it by proxy. The general directs, and the useful prosaic
man executes. Where are your vegetables, Renny? Potatoes and carrots,
eh? Very good. Now, you may wash them, Renny; but first you must bring
some water from the spring.”
The professor was a patient man, and he obeyed. Yates continued to swing
in the hammock alternating directions with rhapsodies on the beauties
of the day and the stillness of the woods. Renmark said but little, and
attended strictly to the business in hand. The vegetables finished, he
took a book from his valise, tilted a chair back against a tree, and
began to read.
“I’m depending upon you for the bread,” he said to the drowsy man in the
hammock.
“Right you are, Renny. Your confidence is not misplaced. I shall
presently journey down into the realms of civilization, and fill
the long-felt want. I shall go to the Howards by way of the Bartlett
homestead, but I warn you that if there is a meal on, at either place,
you will not have me here to test your first efforts at cooking. So you
may have to wait until breakfast for my opinion.”
Yates extricated himself slowly and reluctantly from the hammock, and
looked regretfully at it when he stood once more on the ground.
“This mad struggle for bread, professor, is the curse of life here
below. It is what we are all after. If it were not for the necessity
of bread and clothing, what a good time a fellow might have. Well, my
blessing, Renny. Good-by.”
Yates strolled slowly through the woods, until he came to the beginning
of a lane which led to the Bartlett homestead. He saw the farmer and his
son at work in the back fields. From between the distant house and barn
there arose, straight up into the still air, a blue column of smoke,
which, reaching a certain height, spread out like a thin, hazy cloud
above the dwelling. At first Yates thought that some of the outhouses
were on fire, and he quickened his pace to a run; but a moment’s
reflection showed him that the column was plainly visible to the workers
in the fields, and that if anything were wrong they would not continue
placidly at their labor. When he had walked the long length of the lane,
and had safely rounded the corner of the barn, he saw, in the open space
between that building and the house, a huge camp fire blazing. From a
pole, upheld by two crotched supports, hung a big iron kettle over
the flames. The caldron was full nearly to the brim, and the steam
was already beginning to rise from its surface, although the fire
had evidently been but recently kindled. The smoke was not now so
voluminous, but Kitty Bartlett stood there with a big-brimmed straw hat
in her hands, fanning it away from her face, while the hat at the same
time protected her rosy countenance from the fire. She plainly was
not prepared to receive visitors, and she started when the young man
addressed her, flushing still more deeply, apparently annoyed at his
unwelcome appearance.
“Good-afternoon,” he said cordially. “Preparing for washing? I thought
Monday was washing day.”
“It is.”
“Then I have not been misinformed. And you are not preparing for
washing?”
“We are.”
Yates laughed so heartily that Kitty, in spite of herself, had to permit
a smile to brighten her own features. She always found it difficult
remain solemn for any length of time.
“This is obviously a conundrum,” said Yates, ticking off the items on
his four fingers. “First, Monday is washing day. Second, this is not
Monday. Third, neither is to-morrow. Fourth, we are preparing for
washing. I give it up, Miss Bartlett. Please tell me the answer.”
“The answer is that I am making soap; soft soap, if you know what that
is.”
“Practically, I don’t know what it is; but I have heard the term used
in a political connection. In the States we say that if a man is very
diplomatic he uses soft soap, so I suppose it has lubricating qualities.
Sam Slick used the term ‘soft sawder’ in the same way; but what sawder
is, soft or hard, I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“I thought you knew everything, Mr. Yates.”
“Me? Bless you, no. I’m a humble gleaner in the field of knowledge.
That’s why I brought a Toronto professor with me. I want to learn
something. Won’t you teach me how to make soap?”
“I’m very busy just now. When I said that we were preparing for washing,
I should perhaps have told you there was something else we are not
prepared for to-day.”
“What is that?”
“A visitor.”
“Oh, I say, Miss Bartlett, you are a little hard on me. I’m not a
visitor. I’m a friend of the family. I want to help. You will find me a
most diligent student. Won’t you give me a chance?”
“All the hard work’s done. But perhaps you knew that before you came.”
Yates looked at her reproachfully, and sighed deeply.
“That’s what it is to be a misunderstood man. So you think, among other
bad qualities, I have the habit of shirking work? Let me tell you, Miss
Bartlett, that the reason I am here is because I have worked too hard.
Now, confess that you are sorry for what you said--trampling on an
already downtrodden man.”
Kitty laughed merrily at this, and Yates laughed also, for his sense of
comradeship was strong.
“You don’t look as if you had ever worked in your life; I don’t believe
you know what work is.”
“But there are different kinds of labor. Don’t you call writing work?”
“No.”
“That’s just where you’re mistaken. It is, and hard work, too. I’ll tell
you about the newspaper business if you’ll tell me about soap making.
Fair exchange. I wish you would take me as a pupil, Miss Bartlett; you
would find me quick at picking up things.”
“Well, then, pick up that pail and draw a pailful of water.”
“I’ll do it,” cried Yates sternly; “I’ll do it, though it blast me.”
Yates picked up the wooden pail, painted blue on the outside, with a
red stripe near the top for ornament, and cream-colored inside. It was
called a “patent pail” in those days, as it was a comparatively recent
innovation, being cheaper, lighter, and stronger than the tin pail which
it was rapidly replacing. At the well was a stout pole, pinned
through the center to the upright support on which it swung, like the
walking-beam of an engine. The thick end, which rested on the ground,
was loaded with heavy stones; while from the thin end, high in the air,
there dangled over the mouth of the well a slim pole with a hook. This
hook was ingeniously furnished with a spring of hickory, which snapped
when the handle of the pail was placed on the hook, and prevented the
“patent” utensil from slipping off when it was lowered to the surface of
the water. Yates speedily recognized the usefulness of this contrivance,
for he found that the filling of a wooden pail in a deep well was not
the simple affair it looked. The bucket bobbed about on the surface of
the water. Once he forgot the necessity of keeping a stout grip on
the pole, and the next instant the pail came up to the sunlight with a
suddenness that was terrifying. Only an equally sudden backward jump on
Yates’ part saved his head. Miss Bartlett was pleased to look upon this
incident as funny. Yates was so startled by the unexpected revolt of the
pail that his native courtesy did not get a chance to prevent Kitty from
drawing up the water herself. She lowered the vessel, pulling down the
pole in a hand-over-hand manner that the young man thought decidedly
fetching, and then she gave an almost imperceptible twist to the
arrangement that resulted in instant success. The next thing Yates knew
the full pail was resting on the well curb, and the hickory spring had
given the click that released the handle.
“There,” said Kitty, suppressing her merriment, “that’s how it’s done.”
“I see the result, Miss Bartlett; but I’m not sure I can do the trick.
These things are not so simple as they seem. What is the next step?”
“Pour the water into the leach.”
“Into the what?”
“Into the leach, I said. Where else?”
“Oh, I’m up a tree again. I see I don’t even know the A B C of this
business. In the old days the leech was a physician. You don’t mean I’m
to drown a doctor?”
“This is the leach,” said Kitty, pointing to a large, yellowish, upright
wooden cylinder, which rested on some slanting boards, down the surface
of which ran a brownish liquid that dripped into a trough.
As Yates stood on a bench with the pail in his hand he saw that the
cylinder was filled nearly to the top with sodden wood ashes. He poured
in the water, and it sank quickly out of sight.
“So this is part of the soap-making equipment?” he said, stepping down;
“I thought the iron kettle over the fire was the whole factory. Tell me
about the leach.”
“That is where the hard work of soap making comes in,” said Kitty,
stirring the contents of the iron kettle with a long stick. “Keeping
the leach supplied with water at first is no fun, for then the ashes are
dry. If you put in five more pails of water, I will tell you about it.”
“Right!” cried Yates, pleased to see that the girl’s evident objection
to his presence at first was fast disappearing. “Now you’ll understand
how energetic I am. I’m a handy man about a place.”
When he had completed his task, she was still stirring the thickening
liquid in the caldron, guarding her face from the fire with her
big straw hat. Her clustering, tangled fair hair was down about her
shoulders; and Yates, as he put the pail in its place, when it had
been emptied the fifth time, thought she formed a very pretty picture
standing there by the fire, even if she were making soft soap.
“The wicked genii has finished the task set him by the fairy princess.
Now for the reward. I want all the particulars about the leach. In the
first place, where do you get this huge wooden cylinder that I have,
without apparent effect, been pouring water into? Is it manufactured or
natural?”
“Both. It is a section of the buttonwood tree.”
“Buttonwood? I don’t think I ever heard of that. I know the beech and
the maple, and some kinds of oak, but there my wood lore ends. Why the
buttonwood?”
“The buttonwood happens to be exactly suited to the purpose. It is a
tree that is very fine to look at. It seems all right, but it generally
isn’t. It is hollow or rotten within, and, even when sound, the timber
made from it is of little value, as it doesn’t last. Yet you can’t tell
until you begin to chop whether it is of any use or not.” Kitty shot a
quick glance at the young man, who was sitting on a log watching her.
“Go on, Miss Bartlett; I see what you mean. There are men like the
buttonwood tree. The woods are full of them. I’ve met lots of that
kind, fair to look upon, but hollow. Of course you don’t mean anything
personal; for you must have seen my worth by the way I stuck to the
water hauling. But go on.”
“Dear me, I never thought of such a thing; but a guilty conscience, they
say----” said Kitty, with a giggle.
“Of course they say; but it’s wrong, like most other things they say.
It’s the man with the guilty conscience who looks you straight in the
eye. Now that the buttonwood is chopped down, what’s the next thing to
be done?”
“It is sawn off at the proper length, square at one end and slanting at
the other.”
“Why slanting?”
“Don’t you see, the foundation of plank on which it rests is inclined,
so the end of the leach that is down must be slantingly cut, otherwise
it would not stand perpendicularly. It would topple over in the first
windstorm.”
“I see, I see. Then they haul it in and set it up?”
“Oh, dear no; not yet. They build a fire in it when it gets dry enough.”
“Really? I think I understand the comprehensive scheme, but I slip up
on the details, as when I tried to submerge that wooden pail. What’s the
fire for?”
“To burn out what remains of the soft inside wood, so as to leave
only the hard outside shell. Then the charring of the inner surface is
supposed to make the leach better--more water-tight, perhaps.”
“Quite so. Then it is hauled in and set up?”
“Yes; and gradually filled with ashes. When it is full, we pour the
water in it, and catch the lye as it drips out. This is put in the
caldron with grease, pigskins, and that sort of thing, and when it boils
long enough, the result is soft soap.”
“And if you boil it too long, what is the result?”
“Hard soap, I suppose. I never boil it too long.”
The conversation was here interrupted by a hissing in the fire, caused
by the tumultuous boiling over of the soap. Kitty hurriedly threw in a
basin of cold lye, and stirred the mixture vigorously.
“You see,” she said reproachfully, “the result of keeping me talking
nonsense to you. Now you will have to make up for it by bringing in some
wood and putting more water into the leach.”
“With the utmost pleasure,” cried Yates, springing to his feet. “It is a
delight to atone for a fault by obeying your commands.”
The girl laughed. “Buttonwood,” she said. Before Yates could think of
anything to say in reply Mrs. Bartlett appeared at the back door.
“How is the soap getting on, Kitty?” she asked. “Why, Mr. Yates, are you
here?”
“Am I here? I should say I was. Very much here. I’m the hired man. I’m
the hewer of wood and the hauler of water, or, to speak more correctly,
I’m the hauler of both. And, besides, I’ve been learning how to make
soap, Mrs. Bartlett.”
“Well, it won’t hurt you to know how.”
“You bet it won’t. When I get back to New York, the first thing I shall
do will be to chop down a buttonwood tree in the park, if I can find
one, and set up a leach for myself. Lye comes useful in running a
paper.”
Mrs. Bartlett’s eyes twinkled, for, although she did not quite
understand his nonsense, she knew it was nonsense, and she had a liking
for frivolous persons, her own husband being so somber-minded.
“Tea is ready,” she said. “Of course you will stay, Mr. Yates.”
“Really, Mrs. Bartlett, I cannot conscientiously do so. I haven’t earned
a meal since the last one. No; my conscience won’t let me accept, but
thank you all the same.”
“Nonsense; my conscience won’t let you go away hungry. If nobody were
to eat but those who earn their victuals, there would be more starving
people in the world than there are. Of course you’ll stay.”
“Now, that’s what I like, Mrs. Bartlett. I like to have a chance of
refusing an invitation I yearn for, and then be forced to accept. That’s
true hospitality.” Then in a whisper he added to Kitty; “If you dare to
say ‘buttonwood,’ Miss Bartlett, you and I will quarrel.”
But Kitty said nothing, now that her mother had appeared on the scene,
but industriously stirred the contents of the iron kettle.
“Kitty,” said the mother, “you call the men to supper.”
“I can’t leave this,” said Kitty, flushing; “it will boil over. You
call, mother.”
So Mrs. Bartlett held her open palms on each side of her mouth, and gave
the long wailing cry, which was faintly answered from the fields, and
Yates, who knew a thing or two, noted with secret satisfaction that
Kitty had refused doubtless because he was there.