“Davy, I’ve got un! I’ve got un!” Andy suddenly shouted, seizing his
sleeping bag with a display of frenzied joy.
“Got what?” asked David anxiously.
“Th’ sleepin’ bags! Th’ sleepin’ bags!” said Andy excitedly. “Don’t
you see, Davy?”
“Aye, that’s a sleepin’ bag, I sees,” admitted David, quite startled
by Andy’s unusual behavior, and certain enough the lad had gone stark
mad, as sometimes happens with starving people.
“And we never thought of un!” explained Andy. “We never thought of un,
and they right before our eyes all th’ time! We can cut un into strips
and net th’ snowshoes with un!”
“Why didn’t we ever think o’ that, now!” exclaimed David, springing up
and seizing his sleeping bag, now no less excited than was Andy
himself.
It is the obvious that most of us overlook. The simple things that are
before us are the things we never see. There, to be sure, were the
sleeping bags. Cut into strips, the sealskins of which they were made
would serve very well indeed for netting the snowshoes.
“A skin or two out of one of un’ll be plenty,” said David, opening his
jackknife and proceeding at once to cut the sinew with which the bag
was sewn. “One skin out’n my bag’ll be enough, Andy, don’t cut yours.
You’re wonderful at thinkin’ up things, Andy. I never would have
thought of un!”
“I just happened t’ think of un first,” said Andy, unwilling to take
to himself all the credit.
Presently one of the sealskins was freed from the bag, and while Andy
held it, David, working carefully with his jackknife, cutting around
the edge in a spiral, soon reduced it into a single long string.
“Now we’ll have to soak un to make un soft,” said David, dropping the
lashing into a kettle of water. “’Twon’t take long.”
Weaving the web upon the frames demanded patience, but late that night
the snowshoes were finished, and though they were crude and roughly
made, they were strong and serviceable enough for the purpose for
which they were required.
“Pop always says right,” remarked Andy, when they hung the four
snowshoes on the tilt wall to dry, and stood for a moment surveying
their handiwork. “There is always a way out o’ the worst fix ever
happened, if we only finds out what ’tis.”
“Aye,” agreed David, “out of _any_ fix!”
“They’ll save our lives,” said Andy. “I--I feels almost like cryin’,
Davy.”
“Th’ Lard put un into your head t’ try th’ sealskin, Andy,” David
spoke reverently. “Th’ Lard always seems t’ be watchin’ and helpin’
us, whatever happens, and we does what we can t’ help ourselves.”
“Aye,” said Andy, “He does that.”
And all in all the boys were right. He never does much for those who
simply pray to Him, and then sit idly with folded hands and expect Him
to do the rest. He gave us eyes to see and hands to work and planted
in us the power to reason, and He filled the earth with all things
necessary for the support of life. He expects us to do our best at all
times--to use our brains, and hands and eyes and all our
faculties--and then if we have faith He helps us to success, and our
success in big things and little things alike depends upon how far we
do our best.
It was scarce daybreak when, weak from their long fast, but happy in
the assurance that their imprisonment was at an end and that safety
was promised them, the boys donned their new snowshoes, and set out to
the Narrows tilt.
The snowshoes proved over-small, and sank deeply into the new, soft
snow. This held the boys to a slow pace, with the tedious and
wearisome effort it demanded, and the sun had set before they made the
last turn in the river above the tilt. David was hauling the toboggan,
laden with their belongings, while Andy trudged in advance, both
dragging their feet with painful effort. Suddenly Andy stopped,
peering at the tilt, and shouted excitedly to David:
“Look! Look, Davy! There’s some one at the tilt!”
And David, looking, discovered smoke curling cheerfully up from the
stovepipe.
Hurrying forward they were met at the door by a welcoming:
“Good gracious! Good gracious! And here you are! Both of you safe and
sound. Dear eyes!” and a hearty handshake from Uncle Ben Rudder and
Hiram Muggs.
Tears filled the eyes of both the lads as they grasped the big strong
hands of their rescuers. The two men were a connecting link with The
Jug and home, and with their appearance a vast load of responsibility
rolled from the shoulders of David and Andy. Their lonely struggle
with the wilderness was at an end.
“Where’s Indian Jake? Good gracious, where’s Indian Jake?” Uncle Ben
exploded.
“We’re starvin’. We haven’t had anything to eat in days and days,”
said David, irrevelantly.
Uncle Ben and Hiram were solicitous at once. They hurried the boys
into the tilt, and would not permit them to talk or explain until they
had eaten a supper of boiled partridges and camp bread and tea which
Hiram had already prepared for himself and Uncle Ben.
“Don’t talk, now, but eat! Good gracious! starvin’! Eat, now, lads!
Fill up! Fill up!” Uncle Ben kept repeating, though the manner in
which the boys ate made it manifestly unnecessary for him to urge
them.
When they had eaten until they could eat no more, and altogether more
than was well for them, David recounted the events of the preceding
weeks, while Uncle Ben interjected at frequent intervals one or all of
his favorite exclamations:
“Good gracious! I told you so! D-e-a-r eyes!”
“And,” added David at the conclusion of his narrative, “’twas
wonderful fine for you t’ come here t’ help us out.”
“And so Indian Jake has gone!” said Uncle Ben. “Good gracious! I
warned Thomas Angus not t’ trust that half-breed!”
“But--but don’t you suppose now he’s gone home with th’ fur?” asked
David anxiously.
“Gone home with un? Good gracious, no! I’d never go home with un!”
declared Uncle Ben. “And you saw no tracks which way he were goin’?”
“No,” answered David dejectedly, “th’ snow had covered un before we
gets here.”
“Hum-m-m! Hum-m-m!” grunted Uncle Ben several times. “He’s well out o’
th’ country by now. Good gracious, yes! No catchin’ him now. And gone
with all th’ fur! Good gracious! Good gracious me, with all th’ fur!”
Then he explained that he and Hiram had gone directly to his home at
Tuggle Bight after his visit at The Jug in the fall, and all the way
home they had talked of how foolish and headstrong Thomas Angus was
in sending Indian Jake to the trails with David and Andy.
“And I says t’ Hiram: ‘Hiram,’ says I, ‘Thomas Angus and Doctor Joe
has got t’ have th’ fur them lads gets, t’ have th’ little lad cured,
and we got t’ see to it that Indian Jake don’t steal un!’ Good
gracious, yes! I says that t’ Hiram. Didn’t I, Hiram?”
“You did, now,” agreed Hiram.
“Then we fixes it up t’ trap along the Nascaupee th’ winter, where no
one could get out o’ th’ country without our seein’ ’em,” continued
Uncle Ben. “Dear eyes, we had un all fixed right, but our plan missed
fire! Good gracious! She missed fire! Indian Jake must ha’ seen our
tilt with his Indian eyes, and sneaked past down t’other side o’ th’
river in th’ night, and we never see him! Good gracious, never seen
hide or hair or feather of him! He must ha’ done that, Hiram?”
“He must ha’ done it,” said Hiram solemnly.
“I were expectin’ he’d try t’ steal Tom Angus’s third o’ th’ fur he
hunted, _what_ever,” declared Uncle Ben, “but I weren’t certain he’d
steal your fur, too, lads. Good gracious, no! I knew he were bad, but
I didn’t think he’d do _that_! And he’s gone with un all, lock, stock
_and_ barrel! And we’ll never see him again. The _scamp_! Good
gracious, yes, a _scamp_! Nothin’ else but a scamp, and such a scamp
as I never thought lived! D-e-a-r eyes!”
“A _wonder_ful scamp!” agreed Hiram.
Uncle Ben and Hiram had struck up their traps, and then come up the
river to Seal Lake to “keep an eye,” as Uncle Ben said, on Indian Jake
until the break-up. They had expected to return with the boys and
Indian Jake, stopping at their tilt for their own furs as they passed
down the Nascaupee, and then, still acting as guard, continue with the
boys until the furs were safely delivered to Thomas at The Jug.
“You lads need us now to cheer you a bit! Dear eyes! You _needs_
cheerin’,” Uncle Ben declared. “We’ll wait here for th’ break-up and
all go home together, and _we’ll_ cheer you. Good gracious, yes!”
But now that David and Andy were assured their precious furs were
really gone they felt anything but cheered. And that night, and for
many nights that followed, their hearts were heavy indeed.
“What, now, would become of Jamie?” was the question always on their
mind, and they could not answer it, and they even forgot Doctor Joe’s
cheerful song.
They could picture Jamie, and their father, and Margaret, and Doctor
Joe, with loving and abiding confidence and faith in them waiting at
home for their return. Jamie’s lifelong happiness depended upon the
furs that had been stolen. Doctor Joe had said that Jamie would become
blind if he did not go to the great doctor for the cure. Now Jamie
could not go, and the ordeal of their homecoming empty-handed, and the
disappointment of Jamie and the others, seemed to them more than they
could bear. And when they thought of all this they almost regretted
that they had not indeed perished in the blizzard, or starved in the
tilt.