I
Everybody along the river knew old "Andy" Lavergne; for years he had
been "the lamplighter," if such an office could exist in the rough
backwoods settlement that bordered that treacherous stream in the timber
country of northern Ontario. He had been a great, husky man in his time,
who could swing an axe with the best of the lumbermen, but an accident
in a log jam had twisted his sturdy legs and hips for life, and laid him
off active service, and now he must cease to accompany the great gangs
of choppers in the lumber camps, and do his best to earn a few honest
dollars about the settlement and the sawmill. So the big-hearted mill
hands paid him good money for doing many odd jobs, the most important of
which was to keep a lantern lighted every dark night, both summer and
winter, to warn them of the danger spot in the Wildcat river, that raced
in its treacherous course between the mill and their shanty homes on the
opposite shore.
This danger spot was a perfect snarl of jagged rocks, just below the
surface of the black waters that eddied about in tiny whirlpools, deadly
to any canoe in summer, and still more deadly in winter, for the ice
never formed here as in the rest of the river. Only a thin, deceptive
coating ever bridged that death hole, and the man who mistook it for
solid ice would never live to cross that river again. So, on the high
bank above this death trap old Andy lighted his lantern, year in and
year out. Sometimes he was accompanied by his old grey horse, who
followed him about like a dog. Sometimes little Jacky Moran, his young
neighbor, went to help him on very stormy or windy nights. Sometimes
both Jacky and the horse would go, and as a reward for his assistance
old Andy would always lift the boy to the grey's back and let him ride
home. Then one wet spring old Andy got rheumatism in his poor, twisted
legs, and the first night he was unable to leave his shanty Jacky came
whistling in at nightfall and offered to take the lantern up stream
alone. Andy consented gratefully, and, with the horse at his heels,
Jacky set out for the bank above the dangerous spot.
"I believe, old Grey, it's the lantern you love as much as you love
Andy," laughed the boy as he struck a match and sheltered its flame from
the wind. "Here you are following me and the lantern just as if you
belonged to us, or as if Andy were here. How's that?" But the old grey
only stood watching the lamp-lighting. His long, pathetic face was very
expressive, but, try as he would, he could not speak and tell the boy
that he had learned to love him as well as Andy. So he only put his soft
nose down to Jacky's shoulder, and in his own silent way coaxed the boy
to mount and ride home, which Jacky promptly did, bursting into the old
Frenchman's shanty with the news that the grey had followed the lantern.
"Don't you believe it, Jacky," chuckled Andy. "The grey loves the
lantern, I know, but it's you he's followed. You see that horse knows
a lot, and he knows that his old master is never likely to light that
lantern again, and he wants you for his master now."
"Well, he may have me," smiled the boy. "We'll just light up together
after this." Which they certainly did, for that was the beginning of
the end. Andy could never hobble much further than his own door, and
Jacky took upon his young shoulders the duties of both lamp-lighting
and feeding and caring for his now constant companion, the grey.
"I see your Jacky is helping old Andy since he's been laid up," said
Alick Duncan, the big foreman, some weeks later, as he paddled across
the river with the boy's father.
"Oh, he likes Andy," replied Mr. Moran, "and he likes the old horse,
and he likes the work, too. He feels important every time he lights
that lantern to steer the mill hands off danger.
"Speaking of the horse," went on the big foreman, "they're short one up
at the lumber camp. The boss sent down yesterday that we had to get him
an extra horse by hook or crook. They've started hauling logs. It would
be a great thing if Andy could sell that nag at a good figure. It would
help him out. He's hard up for cash, I bet. I'll speak to him to-night
about it."
At supper Tom Moran mentioned what a fine thing it was for Andy that
there was an urgent demand for a horse at the lumber camp; that he could
get twice the money for old Grey that the animal was worth. Mrs. Moran
agreed that it would be a great help to old Andy, but Jacky's small face
went white, he ceased his boyish chatter, and his little throat refused
to swallow a mouthful of food.
As soon as he could, he escaped, slipped outside, and made for Andy's
shanty as fast as his young legs could carry him. With small ceremony
he flung open the door, to find the old Frenchman sitting in his barrel
chair, a single tallow candle on the shelf above his head, his ever
present pipe between his lips, and his lame leg stuck up on a bench
before the tumbledown stove, where a good spruce fire crackled and
burned. For the first time the extreme poverty of the place struck
Jacky's senses. He realized instantly, but for the first time, how much
in need of money the poor old cripple must be, but, nevertheless, his
voice shook as he exclaimed, "Oh, Andy, you won't sell old Grey? Oh,
you won't, will you?"
"Why not, youngster?" asked a deep voice from the gloom beyond the
stove, and Jacky saw with a start that Alick Duncan was already there
with his offer to buy.
"Because," began the boy, "because--well, because he helps us, Andy and
me; he helps us light up at night." It was a lame excuse, and poor Jacky
knew it.
"It appears to me Andy ain't doing much lighting up these days," went on
the foreman. "And you know, kid, Andy's old and sick, and money don't
come easy to him. If he gets one square meal of pork and beans a day,
he's getting more than I think he does. The horse is no use to him now.
He can't even pay for its keep when next winter comes. He can't use it,
anyhow, and Andy needs the money."
But the boy had now recovered his balance.
"But timber hauling would kill old Grey. He wouldn't last any time at
it; he's too old," he argued.
"That's so, sunny," said the foreman; "he sure can't last long at that
work, but don't you see Andy will have his money, even if the horse does
peg out?"
"But--but Grey will die," said the boy tremulously.
"Maybe," answered the foreman, "but Andy will have something to live on,
and that is more important."
"But I'll help Andy," cried the boy enthusiastically. "I'm used to the
lighting up now. I can do all the work. Can't the mill hands go on
paying him just the same as ever? Can't they, Andy? I'll do the
lamp-lighting for you, and we'll just keep old Grey. Won't you, Andy?
Won't you?"
The boy was at Andy's shoulder, his thin young fingers clutched the old
shirt-sleeve excitedly, his voice arose, high and shrill and earnest.
"Why, boy," said the old Frenchman, "I didn't know you cared so much.
_I_ don't want to sell Grey, and I _won't_ sell him if you help me with
my work for the mill hands."
Alick Duncan rose to his feet, his big, hearty laugh ringing out as
Jacky seized his hand with the words, "There, Mr. Duncan, Andy _won't_
sell Grey. He says so. You heard him."
The big foreman stooped, picked up the boy, and swung him on his
shoulder as if he had been a kitten.
"All right, little Jack o' Lantern, do as you like. We mill hands will
go on with Andy's pay, only you help him all you can--and maybe he'll
keep the old grey--just for luck."
"I _know_ it's for luck," laughed Jacky. "The grey knows so much. Why,
Mr. Duncan, he knows _everything_; he knows as much as the mill hands."
"I dare say," said the big foreman, dryly. "If he didn't he wouldn't
have even horse sense."
"But why do you call me that--'Jack o' Lantern'?" asked the boy from his
perch on the big man's shoulder.
"Because I thought the name suited you," smiled the foreman. "I've often
seen the little Jack o' Lantern hovering above the marshes and swales,
a dancing, pretty light, moving about to warn woodsmen of danger spots,
just as your lantern, Jacky, warns the rivermen of that nasty 'wildcat'
place in the river."
"But," said the boy, "dad has always told me that the Jack o' Lantern is
a foolish light, that it deceives people, that it misleads them, that
sometimes they follow it and then get swamped in the marshes."
"Yes, but folks know enough to _not_ follow your lantern, boy," answered
the foreman seriously. "Your light is a warning, not an invitation."
"Well, the warning light will always be there, as long as I have legs to
carry it," assured Jacky, as the big foreman set him down on the floor.
Then--"And when I fail, I'll just send the grey."
They all laughed then, but none of them knew that, weeks later, the
boy's words would come true.