What easily might have been an embarrassing situation was dealt with
capably by the Safety First Club. Hardly had the jovial Mr. Kane
welcomed the belated Sam and demanded how in the world he had happened
to stray from the rest of the party and what he had been doing to amuse
himself out in the cold; and hardly had Sam explained as nonchalantly
as might be that he had chanced to meet a schoolmate, who was serving
as cookee to the camp, and had paused for a chat with him, when the
door in the partition shutting off the cook’s domain opened, and Orkney
appeared.
There was brief, but tense, silence as Tom advanced toward the group.
Then Step, who chanced to be nearest, spoke.
“H’lo, Orkney!” said he brusquely but not harshly.
“Howdy, Step!” responded Tom, quite in the same manner.
“Oh, up here for a while, eh?”
This was Poke’s contribution. The others nodded, a bit stiffly, maybe;
and the Shark regarded the newcomer solemnly through his glasses.
Nowhere was there sign of hostility, even if warmer welcome were
lacking. There was not a boy there but guessed shrewdly at what had
taken place; but not for love or money would one of them have betrayed
his knowledge by speech or look. At times the methods of youngsters
in their teens curiously resemble those of Indians--at least, to the
extent of jealous hiding of emotion. Both Tom and Sam bore a mark or
two of their encounter, but for the present these were things to be
carefully ignored.
Mr. Kane, as he himself would have said, “sensed” something queer; but
though he glanced quickly and inquiringly from face to face, he could
make nothing of the manner of his guests. And then Orkney going about
his duties and the boys resuming their talk, he gave up the problem,
and turned to Lon, from whom he demanded the latest news of the outside
world.
It was Sam’s first opportunity to inspect a lumber camp, and he
studied with keen interest the long, low room, with its walls of logs,
its big stove, its line of bunks against each wall, and its “deacon’s
seat,” or bench built beside the bunks. The windows were few and small.
Roughly as the house was built, it was very solidly put together, while
drafts were lessened by moss packed between the logs. Here and there
hung spare clothing and extra boots. There was no attempt anywhere at
adornment or decoration, but order of a sort seemed to be maintained,
the order which places everything where it can be most handily come at.
Dusk was falling, and the choppers began to straggle into the camp.
With them came the “yard men,” whose business it is to handle and pile
the logs, and the teamsters. Strapping big fellows were most of Kane’s
crew, roughly clad for rough work, hard as nails, and hungry as bears.
Among the last to arrive was Peter Groche, who slouched into the big
room, grunted when his eyes fell upon Lon and the boys, halted for
an instant, regarding them evilly, and finally made his way to what
appeared to be his especial corner. There he remained until the whole
company trooped through the doorway in the partition to the combined
kitchen and dining-room.
This filled the ell of the camp. There was a range in one corner, and a
table of boards ran the length of the room, benches serving as seats.
Behind these were two bunks for the cook and the cookee. The supper,
everything being eaten from tin plates, made up in quantity what it
lacked in variety. Beans, baked with pork, formed the principal dish,
most excellent beans and in seemingly inexhaustible supply. Then there
were enormous camp doughnuts, which would have appalled a dyspeptic,
but which proved to be singularly toothsome and comforting after a day
in the open. Tea, sweetened with molasses, was drunk from tin cups.
The boys may not have been able to match the huge appetites of the
woodsmen, but they ate and ate until, as Poke whispered to Step, he’d
have to stop or hitch two belts together; for the food, simple as it
was, was well cooked and tempting enough to hungry folk, young or old.
Sam divided attention between Orkney and Peter Groche. The cookee, of
course, was busy throughout the meal, devoting himself to his tasks
and going about them in businesslike fashion. Sam fancied Tom was not
in high favor with the men, though it certainly could not be alleged
that he neglected them. Still, Tom’s was a dogged and silent manner of
performance not calculated to secure popularity anywhere.
At table Groche’s appearance was at its worst. He ate greedily and
enormously, fairly shoveling the food into his mouth. Sam observed that
the man kept his eyes on his plate, spoke to none of his neighbors,
and showed no interest in the talk which began to be heard when the
supper drew to a close. He was the first to rise, and shuffled out as
if glad to go; but when the boys trooped into the main room, there was
Groche, perched in his corner and sucking at a black pipe. And there he
remained until dislodged by no less heroic a champion than the Shark.
Now the Shark, as has been related, had the quaint habit, into which
near-sighted persons, given to reflection, sometimes fall, of fixing
his gaze upon some object and holding it there without any especial
concern in the object, or consciousness of its existence. As it
happened, the Shark had chanced to wonder what might be the weight of
a layer of snow two feet deep, spread evenly over one square mile; and
being more charmed with the computation than with the conversation of
his friends and hosts, he sat down opposite Peter, brought him into
range of his big spectacles--and promptly forgot his very existence.
Groche, on his part, woke up gradually, as it were, to the baleful and
unwinking intensity of the scrutiny to which he seemed to be subjected.
He glared at the Shark, growled deep in his throat, tried to stare down
the unconscious youth over the way. Failing utterly in this, he dropped
his eyes, pulled desperately at the black pipe, shifted position, stole
a side-long glance at his vis-à-vis. The Shark was still contemplating
him with unruffled composure and deadly concentration.
Groche bent forward, scowling his fiercest. The Shark ignored the
demonstration. Groche made an abrupt and threatening motion. The Shark
didn’t move an eyelash. A strange fear clutched the heart of the
ne’er-do-well. He had heard frightful tales of the evil eye. What the
evil eye might be he had no notion, but also he had no intention to
risk learning. Up he jumped, retreating the length of the room; while
the Shark, wholly absorbed, stared at the wall instead of Mr. Groche,
without being aware of the change in view.
Sam, the observant, had not missed Groche’s strategic movement, though
he did not grasp its cause. Nor did he fail to perceive that Peter from
his new post was sourly surveying the group by the stove, with especial
regard for Lon and himself. But then came Orkney to distract Sam’s
attention.
Tom, his work finished, took the place the Trojan made for him on the
bench. His air was not markedly sullen, but it was reserved; and it
could not be denied that the talk, which had been going merrily enough,
began to drag. Sam, hurrying to the rescue, started a topic, which
drooped and languished. Tom was attentive but unresponsive; so were the
club members. Both sides were trying to be fair, and the result was
chilling.
Sam caught Lon’s eye, and telegraphed a message for help. Lon
understood. He nodded in reply. Clasping his hands about a knee, he
fell to rocking his body back and forth. Of a sudden he broke into a
loud laugh.
“Haw, haw, haw! If he wa’n’t jest the plumb ridiculousest old critter!”
“Who was?” asked Herman Boyd.
“Old man Wallowby,” chuckled Lon. “Dunno jest what made me think of
him. Long before the time of you boys he was.”
“I remember him,” said Mr. Kane. “Queer old codger as ever was. Folks
used to say there was only three things he never seemed to get around
to--washin’, workin’, or worryin’.”
“Jesso!” Lon agreed; then made correction: “Say, though! There was one
time he was worried, fast enough. Ever hear tell o’ the night he fit
the bear?”
“Fit a b’ar?” echoed the foreman. “No; new one on me.”
Several of the lumberjacks, who had been listening to the talk, drew
closer.
“There’s two-three b’ar hangin’ ’round No. 3 camp,” one of them
volunteered.
“Never mind them, Jake,” interposed Mr. Kane. “Le’s hear about old
Wallowby’s run-in.”
Lon ran a glance about the expectant group.
“Wal,” he drawled, “I dunno’s I can tell the story the way Wallowby
told it to me, but I’ll try. You know, the old humbug uster give out
that he was a nat’ral bonesetter, and uster wander about, foragin’ off
the country and pretendin’ to look for broken bones. That’s how he got
wind of old Calleck, who must ’a’ been a good deal of the same breed.
Only Calleck was a yarb doctor, and a bigger freak’n Wallowby himself.
He was all the while prowlin’ through the woods, diggin’ up roots for
his medicines; and he called himself a hermit; and he built himself a
mighty queer house off by his lonesome, a stone house, and----”
“I’ve seed it,” one of the men broke in. “What’s left of it’s standin’
over on the South Fork, not ten mile from here. But ’twa’n’t all stone.
Calleck got tired o’ luggin’ rock, and topped it off anyhow he could.”
“Like enough!” said Lon. “I’ve never been to the house, but that’s
about the fashion old Calleck’d ’a’ done any job. But I’ll get on to
where Wallowby and the bear come in. Wallowby’d been cruisin’ down in
the villages, and I guess he’d sorter wore out his welcome in spots.
Way he put it to me was he got to longin’ for the congenial society
of a brother scientist, and so he tramped off to find Calleck. He’d
never seen him and he didn’t know jest where the stone house was, but
everybody was amazin’ glad to give him directions and push him along;
and so he moseyed up into the woods.
“It was along in December, but the ground was still bare; though it had
been mighty cold, and it kept gettin’ colder all the while Wallowby
climbed the hills. Got dark, too, and the wind was risin’. ’Cordin’ to
Wallowby ’twas perishin’ cold, and black as a cellar, before he woke to
the fact that he was as good as lost.
“He stopped and tried to figger out his bearin’s, but it was no use.
It was a second growth, hard wood country, with a lot o’ scrub stuff
mixed in; and he’d been fallin’ over roots, and duckin’ branches till
his notions o’ north and south was twisted as a corkscrew. Looked like
he was in for a night in the brush, but to keep from freezin’ he
wrapped an old blanket shawl--he always carried one--around his head,
and kept goin’. ’Twa’n’t no pleasure trip, believe me! He shivered when
he told about it, but he owned up he shivered wuss that night when he
thought he heard something pantin’ off to the right. What with the old
shawl over his ears he wa’n’t quite sure; but, anyhow, he stepped out
livelier’n ever, and then plunk! he bust through a bush and into a
clearin’. And in the clearin’ was a big black spot that meant a house
o’ some sort.
“Wallowby made for that house same’s a woodchuck makes for his hole
when there’s a dog after him. He went round the corner of it so fast
that he couldn’t stop, when, all of a sudden, he saw waddlin’ ’round
the other corner something big and black, and loomin’ like a mountain.
And he heard that pantin’ so loud it sounded like a steam engine. And
then, not bein’ able to clap on the brakes quick enough, he butted
fair into the thing. His hands hit the thing’s body, and he could feel
thick fur. He tried to yell, but all that’d come out of his throat was
a hoarse growl. And then what was like a big claw raked his arm, and
laid open three-four deep gashes across the back of his hand.
“’Twas a mutual surprise party all right. Wallowby turned, and headed
for the bush, as if he was more like a scared jack-rabbit than a
woodchuck. But he didn’t go far. He fell over a root, and before he got
up it broke on him that the bear was makin’ for cover on the other side
o’ the house.
“Wallowby told me he didn’t lose sight of the argyment that, if he
didn’t get into that house, he’d freeze. With the blood tricklin’ from
his hand he wa’n’t anxious to risk old Bruin changin’ his mind and
comin’ back, so he sneaked round to the back o’ the place. He had no
weapon but a jack-knife with a broken blade, but he got it out.
“‘And would you believe it?’ he says to me. ‘It was like Tophet for
darkness, but, jest as I got to the house, that miserable critter came
pantin’ at me! He let drive with that murderin’ claw of hisn, and I dug
into him with the knife. And then, somehow, each of us was reminded
of his own business, and done accordin’. I got back into the brush,
and sot there thinkin’. I was all of a sweat, and freezin’ at the
same time; for the chill was gettin’ into the very marrow of my bones.
And, pooty soon, studyin’ that lump of a house like it was a chicken
pie Thanksgivin’ mornin’, I managed to make out the chimney against
the sky. It was a whoppin’ big chimney, big enough for a man to drop
through. And the roof sloped ’most to the ground.
“‘Wal,’ says Wallowby, tellin’ the story, ‘I didn’t need two hints. I
got holt of the edge of that roof, and I wriggled up and clumb to the
chimney. And then I heard that pantin’ ’tother side o’ the stack, and
next minute me ’n’ that fool bear was buttin’ our heads together. I
rolled down the slope and over the edge, and ’most druv the breath out
o’ my body. But, all the same, I heard an awful thud as the bear fell
off ’tother side.
“‘Wal, I sat there a minute or two gettin’ my wind back and my mad
up. I couldn’t stay where I was--I’d ‘a’ froze stiff. And if I’d got
to bet by a bear, I’d be something better’n a cold lunch, anyhow.
And, besides, all my life I’d been helpin’ sufferin’ humanity dirt
cheap; but I drew the line at sellin’ my life anything but dear to
a wuthless old he-bear. So up I got, grippin’ the knife, and started
full tilt for the front door. If that bear interfered, he’d take his
chances o’ gettin’ hurt. But would you believe it? Just as I dove for
the door he riz up in the darkness ahead o’ me and done the same thing,
simultaneous. We whanged away at each other, and then, sir, sure as I’m
standin’ here! we jammed through that door together; and fell over a
stool; and he went one way, and I went another. And the knife flew out
o’ my hand, and hit a log smoulderin’ on the hearth, and a flame shot
up. And there on his hands and knees, glarin’ at me and wheezin’ like a
broken bellows, was the ornariest old codger in a buffalo coat you ever
set eyes on!
“‘“Wal,” says I; “wal, but you got a mighty peculiar way o’ treatin’
company! Ain’t you got no better manners?”
“‘“Why--why”--Calleck gasps--“I--I took ye for--for a bear.”
“‘“Same here,” says I; “only vicy versy. And what you want to go
pantin’ like one for?”
“‘“It’s the--the asthmy,” says he. “And what for do you go--go
traipsin’ ’round with--with that mess o’ shawl disguisin’ the human
figger?”
“‘I stuck out my bleedin’ hand. “Anyhow, I ain’t grown claws,” says I.
“‘“Huh! neither have I,” says he, and shows what he’s carryin’. And
it’s a little rake he uses to dig for his roots.’
“And that,” Lon concluded, “is old Wallowby’s own yarn o’ the biggest
bear fight that ever was pulled off in these parts, I guess.”
There was a roar of applause and laughter, led by the cheery boss of
the camp; even Tom Orkney was grinning. Sam sent a grateful glance at
the breaker of the social ice. And then, as Mr. Kane prepared to match
one bear story with another, he saw Peter Groche get upon his feet and
lounge clumsily to the door.