Something of a Mistake
“OH, GRACE, he has gone, really gone; now I shall be able to breathe
freely again!” cried Bertha, skipping into the kitchen again after she
had seen the sledge with the police and Edgar Bradgate disappear across
the snow and vanish into the mist, which was beginning to obstruct the
clear brilliance of the winter morning.
“Poor child, it has been bad for you,” said Grace, “and yet, do you
know, as the poor man sat in the rocking chair, I kept thinking what a
nice strong face he had, and it was intellectual and good also. I should
think that he was a man well worth knowing.”
“Humph! Anyhow, I am thankful indeed to be spared his closer
acquaintance,” retorted Bertha, as she cleared away the breakfast which
she had prepared so hastily for the police, and she was bustling to and
fro, intent on getting the day’s work through as quickly and as easily
as she could make it go, when she heard a jingle of sledge bells, and a
minute later up dashed a sledge drawn by two horses and driven by Bill
Humphries, while Mr. Semple, the father of Dan, sat by his side, and
appeared to fairly bristle with rage.
Bertha went out to meet them with a smile, and expected that Mr. Semple
was at least going to be very grateful to her for having driven the
sledge of goods over so early in the day; but, to her surprise, instead
of the thanks she expected, and felt that she had honestly earned,
Semple senior asked in a loud and angry tone:
“Where is that fellow who brought the sledge here?”
“Inspector Grant came over from Rownton, and finding how ill the poor
man seemed, took him back to the barracks at Rownton, because he said
that they could nurse him more easily than I could,” said Bertha, and
because she was offended at the lack of proper gratitude in Mr. Semple’s
manner, her tone was more cold and distant than her wont.
“I am downright disappointed to hear it,” snorted the irate storekeeper,
who seemed to be in a great state of indignation, “for I had promised
myself the pleasure of punching the fellow’s head and then rolling him
in the snow, and if I could have added to that the chance of keeping him
tied up in my barn for two or three days on short commons, I think that
I should have been really happy, in spite of having had to go so short
of food myself the last few days.”
“The man could not help being unable to deliver the goods last night,”
Bertha reminded him, with considerable dignity in her tone. “He was
quite unconscious from the cold when the horses reached here, and at
first I thought that he was dead, as indeed he would have been but for
the accident of his slipping down under the robes of the sledge, which
luckily were most beautifully thick.”
“Do you know what was in that sledge?” demanded the storekeeper, in a
tone of extreme exasperation.
“Food supplies, so the driver said, when he came to himself a little
last night. He told us how the doctor had made his way through to
Rownton, and had said that Pentland Broads was hard pushed for food; so
he had volunteered to drive a load through as quickly as possible, and
when he found that he could not get on, he was in very great distress,”
Bertha replied, and her tone was offended still.
There was a cackle of unmirthful laughter from Mr. Semple, with a hoarse
sort of explosion from Bill Humphries, and then the storekeeper said, “A
regular first-of-April time we have had this morning, and no mistake
about it. When Dan came driving that sledge to the door this morning we
all swarmed about him like bees round a honey-barrel, and the women came
running out of their houses for meal, and sugar, and tea, and all the
other things we wanted so badly, but not a solitary eatable thing was
there in the load anywhere, and all the packages that I have opened so
far seem to consist of clocks, watches, cases of knives, dozens upon
dozens of spoons, and a mess of cheap jewellery which would be dear at
any price.”
“But there must have been some mistake,” protested Bertha, disposed to
take the part of the stranger now, although she had been so very glad to
get rid of him. “I know that the poor man thought that he was bringing
food to you, because he was so pitifully anxious to get on, and he could
not rest at all until I promised that I would drive it over this morning
the very first thing. And I certainly should not have left Mrs. Ellis
this morning as I did if it had not been that I was so anxious to bring
food to you.”
“Then, if it wasn’t the chap who drove the stuff that blundered, I
should like to get the one who did, and have him all to myself for about
ten minutes. I fancy I could do a great deal towards curing shortness of
memory or a taste for practical joking in that time,” said the
storekeeper grimly.
“It is a really dreadful business. Whatever will you do, Mr. Semple?”
asked Bertha, who, although she did not much care for the storekeeper,
was genuinely sorry for his present worry.
“My Dan and young Fricker, that red-headed chap, started for Rownton
directly we found out how we had been had. The snow was hard this
morning, you see, and would bear. It has been like walking through bran
these last few days, and the trail hasn’t got packed yet since the
blizzard; but I doubt whether they will get back very easy, for this
mist that is creeping over means a top thaw, if I know anything about
it, with most likely some more downfall later on.” Mr. Semple looked up
at the sky as he spoke, or rather at the white mist which hid the sky
from his sight.
“Is there anything that we can let you have, Mr. Semple?” asked Bertha.
“We have enough flour for two or three weeks to come, and sugar and tea,
also coffee. If any of it will be of any use to you, please take it.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure, and if Dan hadn’t started for Rownton I
don’t say as I mightn’t have taken some, just to keep matters going;
but, as it is, why, we’ll just go on eating corn porridge and molasses
until the things turn up. It isn’t very appetizing, but I dare say it is
wholesome enough,” said Mr. Semple, and then, refusing to come in, he
was for turning round and driving back as fast as he could go, but
Bertha stopped him, while she enquired of Bill Humphries how Eunice Long
was getting on.
“She is picking up slowly. My wife says that she has been getting better
ever since two days before Christmas, when you came to see her. She took
a turn then, and she has really tried to get on a bit; so you did her a
power of good, and if you don’t take care you will be making the doctor
jealous,” said Bill Humphries, with his deep, rumbling laugh.
Bertha laughed also as she stood watching the two men driving away into
the white mist. It was delightful to hear that Eunice was getting
better, and that she herself had had some hand in it; although all that
she had done was to scold the invalid for wanting to die. Then she went
into the house and told Grace about the disappointing character of the
goods in the sledge which she had driven to Pentland Broads that
morning, and they laughed together over the absurdity of the blunder,
although all the while they were genuinely sorry for the poor people who
wanted stores so badly and still had to wait for them.
“Do you know, I should not be surprised if that is the sledge which the
police were after,” said Grace, with that swift putting of two and two
together which was so characteristic of her. “I expect that somehow in
the heavy weather the sledges must have got mixed, and the man that was
here—Edgar Bradgate, I mean—hitched his horses to the wrong sledge at
some stopping-place.”
“But such a blunder would hardly be made by any man who had any sense at
all,” replied Bertha. “Why, he would see the difference in the sledge
robes and the fittings generally. I told you that those were really
beautiful sledge robes; they were lined throughout with wolf-skin, and
were as warm as could be. I felt myself in the lap of luxury all the way
to Pentland Broads this morning, only I couldn’t enjoy it because of my
worry about you. I wondered then that a mere freight sledge should be so
well turned out.”
“I fancy that the blunder was made because, poor fellow, his sense was
so far gone. He looked to me like a person who was in for a very sharp
attack of influenza, and as a rule people in that condition are not very
discriminating,” said Grace.
“Well, at least our part is done, and we are out of it, which is
something to be grateful for,” said Bertha, and then she had to hurry
off to the barn and put in an hour and a half of work there, which
should have been done much earlier, but for the enforced journey and all
the other delays which had eaten into her day so far. She was most
dreadfully tired, having had but so little sleep on the previous night;
but there was so much work to do, that she had no time to give way to
her feelings, until night came round again and ended the long day of
toil.
But it was destined that she should have one more surprise before she
went to sleep that night, only this was a wholly joyful one.
She had been in the farther bedroom, putting the twins and Noll to bed,
when she heard a squeal of amazement from Molly, with a shout of “Mummy!
Mummy!” from Dicky, and, thinking that something must have gone wrong,
she ran back to the kitchen, and there, to her amazement, was Grace
sitting erect on her couch, holding fast to the edge of the little
bookshelf, by which she had contrived to pull herself erect.
“Bertha! Bertha! Look at me!” cried Grace, in an ecstasy of joy. “I did
it myself, all myself; the children did not help me at all. And oh, I am
so proud of it!”
“And so am I. Why, it is just splendid, and at this rate you may be able
to stand on your feet by the time that Tom comes back,” said Bertha, as
she hastened to put a pillow behind Grace, which would allow her to sit
without holding on to the shelf.
“It is lovely to survey the world from such a giddy height after having
been on my back all these months,” said Grace, and then her voice grew
wistful as she went on, “I wonder where poor dear old Tom is to-night,
and whether there is any instinct to tell him that I am so much better?”
“He may be home soon now, unless indeed they have a camp, which they
cannot leave until the snow breaks,” said Bertha. “But it is pretty
certain that they cannot do much prospecting of any sort or kind in this
weather.”
“I do not think that he will be here until the snow is gone. I never
seem able to see him coming before then,” Grace replied, with the
far-away look in her eyes which always came there when she spoke of her
husband.
The next day it was blizzard again, and nearly another week wore itself
out before news of the outside world reached the isolated household at
Duck Flats.
Then it was Dan Semple and young Fricker who drove over with the mail,
which had found its way, after many delays, to the post office at
Pentland Broads. They had news also, and were eager to tell it as they
sipped the hot coffee which Bertha insisted that they should come in and
drink.
“I should just think that we did have a journey back from Rownton!” said
Dan, in his jolly, boyish voice. “We should have been frozen to the
sledge, I guess, if it hadn’t been for Fricker’s red hair; but, you
know, they say that people with hair that colour never suffer from
frostbite, so I kept as close to him as I could get, and that is how I
escaped, and of course he was as warm as toast, lucky dog!”
“I hope that you won’t believe all he says, Miss Doyne,” said Fricker,
blushing like a girl. “But it was really an awful journey, and it was
next door to a miracle that we got back all right with the sledge.”
“Did you ever find out how the mistake came about?” asked Bertha, as she
plied the two boys with more hot coffee and oatmeal cakes.
“We have made a pretty good guess at it,” said Dan, “but we shall have
to wait until that chap Bradgate is on his feet before the mystery is
cleared up, I suppose. When the police came over and took possession of
that sledge which you drove to our place, they said that a sledge laden
with foodstuffs had been found at old man Holman’s place over beyond
West Creek. Holman is rather a shady customer, and he does not always
speak the truth either; so of course we don’t know quite how much to
believe of his story, and how much is merely trimming, so to speak. The
old fellow says that on the night before Bradgate turned up here a man
came to his place to put in for the night. The sledge was run back under
the shanty—for it threatened more snow—and the man, who seemed very
queer, came indoors, sat awhile by the stove, and then went to lie down
on a lump of straw at the end of the shack, which is all the bed that
old man Holman’s lodgers ever get. Very soon afterwards another sledge
came along, this time with two men, and it was run into the shanty in
front of the first, and the horses being put in the barn, the men came
indoors to supper.”
“And a jolly good supper it was, too, according to old man Holman,”
broke in Fricker, who was not disposed to let Dan do all the talking.
“The old fellow said that the two men had brought their supper with
them, and there was potted beef and fowl, cheese, ham, canned tongues,
and I don’t know what besides, and drink enough to drown anyone. At any
rate, it about drowned Holman’s wits; for when they took to card-playing
after supper they cleaned the old man out of every cent piece he had
got. Then I suppose they all went to sleep, being thoroughly tipsy, and
they slept longer than they meant to do, for it had been daylight a good
long time when they woke up, only to find that the man who had got there
first had hitched his horses to the wrong sledge and had gone off with
it.”
“Ah, that was because it stood first, I suppose,” said Bertha, laughing
at the discomfiture which must have overtaken the other men when they
found their mistake out.
“Just so,” said Dan, breaking in now, because Fricker was just then busy
with his coffee-cup. “And the first man, who was Bradgate, was not
over-clear in his head, poor chap; he evidently didn’t know anything
about the sledge which came after his, and so hitched on to the first
one and started with it. The men were in a royal rage when they found
their sledge was gone, and threatened to shoot old man Holman for not
having guarded their property better. But he isn’t the sort to take a
thing of that kind in a very lamb-like spirit, so they got as good as
they gave, and a little better; for the old fellow happened to have a
shooting-iron handy, and he whipped it out and held up the pair of them.
They climbed down a bit then, and said that they would ride after the
sledge and make the other fellow give it up; but old man Holman, having
got the drop on them, decided that he might as well get the money back
which they had won from him overnight, so he told them that they might
go when they had handed him over the money which they had won overnight
by cheating. He had been wiser, though, if he had let well alone, for
when he allowed them to put their hands in their pockets to get out the
money, what they did was to pull out a couple of barkers, and then, of
course, being two to one, old man Holman was done, and they rode off
with his money in their pockets, and that is the last he has seen of
them.”
“What an extraordinary story!” exclaimed Grace, who was sitting up on
the couch this morning, well backed up with pillows, but looking much
more like herself. “I wonder the men have not tried to get their sledge
again, for I suppose the contents must have been valuable.”
“Very valuable,” replied Dan. “Why, there was enough cutlery and clocks,
watches and that sort of thing to have stocked two or three shops, and
the marvel is where they could have got it from. It is supposed to have
been stolen, and the police were on the trail after it, because their
suspicions had been aroused. They have got it now at the Rownton Police
Barracks, and are waiting for someone to come forward and claim it; and
they are also waiting for Bradgate to be well enough to tell them what
he knows, and if he should happen to peg out without getting better,
they will have to go without knowing, I guess.”
“Oh, I do hope he will get better, for I did like his face so much,”
said Grace, and then she asked Dan Semple about his mother, and charged
him with a message for Eunice, while Bertha listened to young Fricker,
who was telling her about his home in Halifax, and how he downright
ached sometimes for a sight of the dear old folks down east, and a sniff
of the wind from the sea or a fierce Atlantic gale.
“Why, I am from Nova Scotia too, and I am just horribly homesick for the
dear old place sometimes!” said Bertha, with kindling interest in the
red-haired boy, who had such pleasant manners and seemed so eager for
friendship.
“Well, Fricker, my boy, I guess we must get, or the old man will think
that we have started on a holiday tour,” said Dan, reluctantly preparing
to depart.
“May I come again, Miss Doyne, and talk about Nova Scotia?” asked
Fricker eagerly, as Bertha came to the door to see them off.
“Of course you may come,” she said, laughing at him in a cheerful
elder-sisterly fashion. “Do you think that we have such an endless rush
of visitors out here that we are simply sick of seeing fresh people?”
“No, I don’t, but I do think that you are awfully brave to stick through
a winter in such a place. Why, it would be more lively in prison!”
exclaimed the boy from Nova Scotia.