_Donald Visits the Gossip Club._
Up to this time the absence of Andy Cameron from The Front formed only
a topic of minor discussion before the smithy’s. It was on one of the
evenings which marked the end of the outdoor sessions of the gossip
club when Laughing Donald presented himself shyly at the outskirts of
the group. Weeks had elapsed since he had appeared there before. Until
of late, each night of the weary months and years of waiting for the
return of the absent brother, he had haunted the blacksmith’s shop,
where the group of news-gatherers met to exchange notes. At first they
welcomed him as a valuable addition to their circle. William Fraser,
the carpenter, found in him an attentive listener to the “small talk”
he gathered from the country side. The remarks Donald overheard upon
his early visits at the four corners concerning his family he carried
to his invalid wife, and then to Barbara and Dan up at the Nole.
Upon this night he came slowly down the hill along the road which
partially hid the blacksmith’s shop from view. The group around the
smithy’s door was surprised at his coming. The timid nature of the man
showed itself in each hesitating step, while in his large, fawn-like
eyes was an appealing look, as if he were a pet animal wishing to be
taken by his master from the tormenting pranks of a gang of youthful
bandits. In his nervous excitement Donald always laughed—not loudly,
but in showing his perfect, white teeth, he gurgled softly the sound
which was responsible for the distinguishing feature of his name in
Glengarry, Laughing Donald.
“Well! if here ain’t Laughing Donald,” exclaimed Fraser, the carpenter,
in an insinuating whisper, and a hush fell upon the group. “I wonder
if he would like to know,” he continued, in an undertone, “that Nick
Perkins, the tax collector, says all the Camerons on The Front will be
working the ‘county farm’ in six months’ time?” At that moment a large,
curly head, crowned by the remnants of a straw hat, was protruded
through the jamb of the half-opened door of the shop.
“Well, now, you just be the first to tell that to Donald,” drawled
out Davy, the blacksmith, looking straight at the cringing little
carpenter, “and I’ll crimp your red whiskers with the hot tongs of my
forge.” Here was a friend to Donald and the missing Andy, till now
unannounced. No end of gossiping by the tattler of the neighborhood had
failed to prejudice the mind of the honest smith.
Angus Ferguson had already humped off from his seat upon the coal
puncheon, and with his awkward strides was making rapidly toward the
scared Donald, extending his hand in such an enthusiastic welcome
that the poor fellow nearly mistook the demonstration for one of
unfriendliness. “How de doo, Donald! I am a-goin’ to tell you I am
a-comin’ over to-morrow to help ye draw in that grain over yonder by
the woods. It’s been there now nigh onto two weeks in the sun.”
“Is it dry, Angus, think ye?” inquired Donald, brightening at the show
of friendship. Then an awkward silence followed.
“Got a new horse, Donald,” blurted out Angus.
“Aye,” returned Donald, the broad grin covering his face.
“Want to see him?” urged Angus. Then they both started down the road
like the two overgrown country lads that they were. This spontaneous
act of kindness by Ferguson was prompted by his heart’s sympathy,
which had been penned up for weeks, rebelling constantly against the
insinuating remarks repeated by the carpenter.
Fraser nursed his displeasure alone. Angus Ferguson, the silent, had
outwitted him. Davy Simpson had exposed his deceitfulness, and in a
short time his supposed strength as a member of the gossip club had
crumbled in a humiliating climax.
At that moment, as he was regretfully acknowledging to himself the
failure he had made in gaining the confidence and respect of his
associates, his attention was drawn to a familiar vehicle which had
approached silently in the gathering darkness, and now stood in the
roadway before the blacksmith’s shop. “Good-evening, William Fraser,”
began Nicholas Perkins (for it was the polite tax gatherer, who lived
near The Gore), and Fraser walked out with his meekest walk to the side
of the wagon. Perkins patronized the shop over at The Gore, and like
all the rest from his town, halting before Davy’s place, kept upon
neutral ground, remaining in the middle of the road.
“Fraser, I am told,” continued Perkins, as he hitched himself along to
the end of the wagon seat and leaned out over the wheel, to strike a
confidential attitude, “that there is no news from Cameron.”
“Well, that’s about true, Mr. Perkins; no news, and they say that the
mortgage time is about up, too.” A little more encouragement, and the
carpenter’s sympathies were at once enlisted with the newcomer.
“Well, it’s very bad, isn’t it, Fraser? They have been left to go to
the poorhouse. We didn’t think that of Cameron over at The Gore, but,
then, the expense will fall on your town, on The Front, of course,”
said Perkins, turning to get the full effect of his wise remark upon
Fraser.
The two deceitful maligners were unconscious of the presence of a
figure which had come stealthily upon them in the darkness, and
standing in the shadow of the vehicle, was now listening to the
conversation.
“Well, you ought to know, Mr. Perkins,” replied the carpenter in a
patronizing tone. “You will probably have the say in what will have to
be done,”—but before he could finish his remark, he had leaped into the
air, precipitated upon the toe of a heavy boot.
[Illustration: “‘Now, Nick Perkins, if you have got anything to say to
me personally, just come down here in the road and I’ll talk to you.’”]
“Oh, he _will_ have the say about whom they take to the county farm,
will he!” and Bill Blakely danced in a howling rage around the wagon of
his hated foe. “You hypocrite! You prowling tax-gatherer! You hunter of
the weak and homeless!” he yelled, and half climbing into the wagon, he
shook his fist in the face of the surprised tax collector, shouting
right into his ear, “Not while Bill Blakely lives and Andy Cameron is
away from The Front will you ever hitch your ring-boned and spavined
outfit to a post before the home of a Cameron on The Front! Now, Nick
Perkins, if you have got anything to say to me personally, just come
down here in the road and I’ll talk to you.” Bill was rolling up his
gingham shirt sleeves and again dancing around bear fashion, while the
discomfiture of the astonished Perkins was being hugely enjoyed by
the group, now enlarged by the return of Angus Ferguson and Laughing
Donald. Davy Simpson stood in the door of his shop watching the
proceedings over the rims of his spectacles.
“Oh, you ain’t a-comin’ down, be you! Well, I didn’t expect you,”
retorted Bill. “Your kind fight the women only. You’re sneaking around
now to see if they ain’t a-gettin’ hungry, some on ’em over here. But
we’ll fool you, Perkins. Laughing Donald is a better man dead than
anything you can produce alive in your hull county at The Gore. And
Andy Cameron won’t let the wind blow a whiff of ye to the lee side
of his place when he comes back, neither. And that won’t be long from
now,” and old Bill threw his quid of tobacco after the retreating
wheels of the vehicle as Perkins drove away amid the jeering laughter
of the group.
As soon as the tax gatherer was out of hearing distance, Bill turned to
Donald, and in a tone serious for him, said, “Donald, I am a-speakin’
fer you. The Camerons are from The Front. Your brother Andy is a good
man; he is a friend of mine. He will be back soon, for that I am
telling ye. William Fraser, the carpenter, he’s been telling ye what
‘_they say_.’ Tell yer wife, Donald, when ye go home, what I say,
what Davy says, and what Angus’ wife says for him to say, and don’t
you worry about the mortgage.” Then Bill went over to the shop door,
and they thought he was going to confide something to Davy, but he
hesitated, finally bit off an enormous quid of tobacco and sauntered
slowly down the road homeward.
Donald climbed the little hill by the shop, going away happier than he
had been in months. Angus Ferguson still stood in the road watching
him; then, looking behind him and catching sight of the carpenter
closing the door to the wheelwright shop, he turned his face to the
open meadow at the opposite side of the road, and slamming his straw
hat down upon his head, struck into his rapid circular gait down the
road, past the cheese factory toward his home.
The quietness outside seemed unusual. Davy looked out of his shop door,
scanned the cinder heap, glanced at the puncheon seat, then at the
wagon parts: nothing was moving, nothing was doing, all was darkness.
The club had gone. He closed the door, put the bar across the staple,
inserted the padlock, turned the key, then climbed the hillside to the
back door of his house; his day’s labors were done.