KIDDIE'S "SELFISHNESS"
Kiddie's fall had been violent, and might easily have been fatal; but
it had been neither sudden nor unexpected, while his experience with
bucking bronchos, and his great skill as a horseman, had helped him to
avoid serious physical injury.
He was bruised, he was shaken; but no bones were broken, and his worst
injury was his sprained ankle. This gave him acute pain and
inconvenience for many days, requiring care and rest.
Naturally he fretted under the forced inactivity; he became impatient,
and when at length he could limp from his room to the veranda, he
wanted to mount a horse and ride along to the forest clearing to
superintend the building of his cabin.
"There's no need fer you ter go an' see things," Rube Carter insisted.
"Jus' you have a good rest until you're quite well. Everything's goin'
on famous. We've gotten the roof on, an' we're now fixin' up your
bedroom, so's you kin occupy it while the rest of the shanty's bein'
finished."
"Yes," pursued Kiddie. "But I want to be there right now. I'm
hankerin' badly to see how it looks, ter judge what it'll be like when
all the work's done and we've got the fixings in--the books and
pictures and all that. I'm envying you terrible, Rube, being there
every day and watching the thing grow. I'm envying you being able to
see the wild critters while I'm kept a prisoner here on account of a
fool saddle that was broken and mended with rotten string. I guess
you've seen heaps of things this morning--new birds, new insects, new
beasts, and wild flowers that you couldn't put a name to, eh?"
"Dunno 'bout that," said Rube. "Dunno as I saw anythin' as I hadn't
seen before."
"Ah, you've got a heap to learn yet, Rube," Kiddie rejoined. "Why,
when I'm out and about there's never a day, never an hour, hardly a
minute, but I see something new, learn something fresh in woodcraft and
scoutcraft. You don't go along with your eyes shut and your ears and
nostrils closed, do you? What did you see early this mornin', for
example, when you went across the grass patch, the dew still lying?"
"Say, now, how d'you know I saw anythin'?" Rube asked. "You was in
bed."
"Yes, but I could see you from my pillow. You went aside from the
straight trail."
"That's so," acknowledged Rube. "I was tryin' ter foller a track in
the dew--some biggish animal, I guess; but thar wasn't no
footmarks--not in the long grass--an' the track didn't lead to
nothin'--only a root of dandelion with the leaves chewed off."
"Perhaps you went the wrong way," suggested Kiddie. "Was the track
lighter than the rest of the grass, or darker?"
"Um! Now you puzzle me," demurred Rube. "I ain't just sure; but I
guess it was darker. Yes, it was sure darker. Why? What's that
gotter do with it?"
"Why? Well, a scout would sure know that grass blades bent towards him
look dark; bent away from him, light. If the trail of your biggish
animal this morning was darker than the grass, then you didn't follow
him, you were going away from him all the time. He was probably a
stoat on the track of a jack-rabbit. If you'd followed the other way,
you might have seen where that stoat chased his victim into its burrow,
and you might have seen where he came out again alone, after his feed
underground. There's a heap of information in a track, Rube,
altogether independent of plain footprints."
Rube rested his chin in his hands, listening.
"Suppose a bicycle or an automobile car had gone along a dusty or a
muddy trail," continued Kiddie, "and you wanted to know which way it
was travelling, what 'ld you do ter discover? You'd look at the rut
the wheel had made. You'd see that the loose dust or the wet mud
feathered out from it in the direction in which the wheel was going.
No need ter search for footprints. It's the same with drops of blood
from a wound, drops of water splashed from a jug or a bucket--any
drippin' liquid; the drops splash forward in the direction in which the
person splashing them was movin', the splashes being longer or shorter
according to the person's pace. If you aim at being a capable scout--a
good tracker--don't study the obvious things alone: look as well at the
smaller signs, which often tell you more. And wherever you are,
whatever you're doing, keep your senses busy--your sight, your hearing,
your senses of smell and touch. At the present moment my senses tell
me there's a mosquito in this yer veranda: I c'n hear the critter
humming away back of me. I know that we're goin' to have bacon and
eggs for dinner; I c'n smell them bein' fried. The kitchen's some
warm; your mother has opened the window; I c'n feel the draught from
it."
In the days of Kiddie's convalescence, Rube learnt many a lesson in
scoutcraft; lessons which he hastened to put into practice. It was
afterwards, however, when Kiddie was well, and they could go camping
out together in the wilds, that he learnt most. In the meantime, there
was the work of building the woodland cabin to attend to.
He had at first intended that the cabin should be constructed by his
own hands alone, of rough, unhewn timber; that it should contain only
one room, and that of the simplest. It was to be merely a trapper's
log hut in the forest, and he was to live as a simple trapper, quite
alone, forgetting that he was a wealthy English nobleman.
But gradually his ideals had developed, and he had decided to make the
place comfortable and convenient as well as simple and solitary--to
make it, as it were, his headquarters, where he could store his
trophies of the chase and keep his guns and books and pictures.
If he wished to go away on hunting trips, he could leave the cabin in
safety, and take his pony and his tent and knapsack and live as a lone
trapper in the woods, moving from place to place, always having a home
to come back to if he wished. What he had always to fight against was
an inclination towards luxury and labour-saving convenience. He had
bought a patent camp cooking-stove in New York. It was capable of
cooking anything, from a sirloin to a savoury. But when he unpacked it
he saw how incongruous such a thing was with the domestic economy of a
shanty in the forest.
"What does a plain trapper want with fancy fixings like this, anyway?"
he asked himself. "If he's hankerin' after delicacies an' dainty
cookery, he'd best quit right back to London. My food's goin' ter be
frizzled over an open wood fire, and that dinky, high-class kitchen
range is goin' right away to the bottom of Sweetwater Pond."
He allowed himself to stain the outer planks of the dwelling, but not
to use any decorative paints which an ordinary trapper or an Indian
could not procure. A garden, with flowers as well as vegetables, and
creepers for the veranda, he considered necessaries, just as frames for
pictures, shelves for his books, racks for his guns, and cupboards for
his crockery were necessary.
There were three rooms in the cabin--a large living-room, which was
also kitchen, a workroom, and a bedroom; and they were all three very
simply furnished. Not far behind the cabin were the sheds and
outhouses, the stables, cow-house, and barns; and down at the lakeside
was a boathouse, in which to keep his canoes and fishing materials.
This was the secluded home which Lord St. Olave was making for himself,
in preference to a grand house in London and a great mansion on his
vast estate in Norfolk, with innumerable servants to wait upon him, and
crowds of fashionable friends to enjoy his hospitality. He was
realizing his wish to abandon the social whirl of London and to return
to his native wilds. But he was not yet wholly satisfied with his
choice.
He entered the living-room one afternoon looking weary and untidy, and
flung himself into an easy-chair, giving a curt nod of greeting to
Gideon Birkenshaw, who had strolled down from the homestead to have tea
with him.
"Tired, Kiddie?" Gideon inquired. "Bin workin' too hard?"
"No," returned Kiddie, "I ain't tired. I'm never tired."
"Ankle still hurtin' you some, mebbe?" pursued Gideon.
"Ankle's gettin' along all right," Kiddie assured him. "Guess it'll
soon be's well's ever. Shall we have tea? Rube'll get it ready."
Gideon did not respond to the invitation.
"Buildin's progressin' all s'rene," he observed. "I like this yer
room. It's real homesome; and the view fr'm your front windows and the
veranda's real elegant. Time you gets a collection o' choice flowers
in your door-yard, you'll have 'bout the most desirable residence in
the hull state of Wyoming. Ain't you satisfied? What's the matter?"
"I'm just some worr'ed, Gid," Kiddie answered, flinging a leg over the
arm of his chair.
"My!" exclaimed Gideon. "What in creation 've you gotter worry about?"
"Just the cabin," Kiddie answered dreamily. "Just the cabin and my
living in it all lonesome; enjoyin' it--enjoyin' it too much. It's
just what I've wanted. Everything's all as I planned. But I've bin
thinkin', Gideon; thinking hard."
"That ain't a new experience fer you, Kiddie," said Gid. "You was
allus' a deep thinker. Guess it's the Injun blood in you assertin'
itself. An' what's the matter wi' the cabin ter make you meditate an'
worry?"
"Why," Kiddie responded slowly, keeping his Western manner of speech,
as was usual with him when addressing Gideon Birkenshaw, "I've come to
the conclusion as it ain't just right an' proper o' me ter live here
with everything I most covet in the shape of personal comfort--a cosy
home in beautiful scenery, with the perfumed pine trees all around, the
woodland solitude, where I c'n study the wild critters, beasts an'
birds an' insects; the creek an' the lake, where I c'n paddle an' fish;
my time all my own, with no slavish duties, no tasks, no
responsibilities. An' it's all selfish, Gid, real mean an' selfish."
"Selfish, Kiddie?" Gideon screwed up his eyes in wonder.
"Yes. It ain't anyways right for a man ter live for himself alone,
shirkin' his duties ter humanity. What did I do this mornin' that was
any good whatever to anybody in th' world but myself? I went out 'fore
sunrise, when the blue mist was hangin' round the mountain tops an' in
among the trees. It was like a fairy dream. I listened t' th'
orchestra of the birds--the woodthrush, the veery, the scarlet tanager
an' the rest of the thrillin' songsters--and the music was more
delicious 'n any opera I've heard in London an' Paris. I wasted a full
hour watchin' a fool centipede that had gotten himself tangled in a
spider's web--watched th' manoeuvres of that spider for a full hour, I
did."
"I allow you learnt suthin', too, since the spider was at home,"
interrupted Gid. "Them critters has wonderful skill in tactics. I'm
figurin' as that hour wasn't a whole lot wasted, Kiddie."
"It was wasted in selfish enjoyment, selfish gratification," Kiddie
insisted.
"Git!" exclaimed Gideon. "You dunno what selfishness means, Kiddie,
an' you couldn't be selfish if you tried. You's allus doin' suthin'
unselfish. Here's you comin' back to this yer camp an' the Sweetwater
district, an' right straight away you starts helpin' other folks,
pertectin' their homes from hostile Injuns, makin' their lives smoother
an' safer. Is it selfish ter do what you've already done? What about
your takin' Jim Thurston's place in th' Express, riskin' yer life, an'
precious near losin' it? Was that a act of selfishness?"
"It was my fault that Jim was hurt. I couldn't do otherwise than take
his place."
"You wouldn't ha' done it if you'd bin selfish. You'd ha' let somebody
else carry on the job," argued Gideon. "You's allus thinkin' of
others; doin' 'em good turns, givin' 'em pleasure. You've given me a
gold timepiece, you've given Isa a hoss, you've given us new guns all
round. Thar's not a housewife along the trail as hasn't gotten suthin'
as you brought her from England--cloth for a frock, trimmin' fer a hat,
a box of scented soap, a machine fer mincin' meat. An' the
children--the boys an' gels--what about them, eh? You brought 'em toys
an' dolls an' pictur' books, whips, boxes of paints, needlecases with
scissors an' thimble all complete. You've filled their little hearts
with a joy they never knowed afore. Selfish! Great snakes!"
"Tea's ready," announced Rube Carter, breaking in upon the
conversation. "I've opened a new tin o' peaches, and thar's cream."
In spite of Kiddie's efforts to be homely and unassuming, Gideon
Birkenshaw was not always entirely at his ease in his presence. The
old man recognized that his own upbringing and education had been sadly
deficient and that his roughness of speech and manners became painfully
obvious in comparison with Kiddie's unvarying courtesy and refinement.
"Kiddie," he said now, as they sat at tea, "thar's a many things in
you, I notice, as makes you a whole lot different from what you was in
th' old days, 'fore you made the surprisin' discovery that you was a
aristocratic nobleman. In a heap o' ways you's the same Kiddie.
Nothin' c'n alter your natur' or wipe away th' effects of your early
trainin' as a frontier scout. You've lost none o' your skill an'
cleverness, but added suthin' to them that makes you inches taller an'
bigger'n you was. I guess it's the things you acquired in England as
makes you diff'rent. Rubbin' shoulders with them high-class friends o'
yours over thar has kinder wore off the rough corners."
"'Twas high time I quitted, perhaps," mused Kiddie. "If I'd stopped
over there any longer, I guess there wouldn't have been any corners
left to know me by. I should have been worn round as a pebble, exactly
like all other pebbles without character and individuality."
"Thar you are!" nodded Gideon, "'without character an' individuality,'
says you, as if you'd lifted the phrase outer a printed book. You
wouldn't ha' used sich choice an' dainty langwidge 'fore you went away.
Your speech has growed more c'rrect, more elegant, same as your dress."
"My dress, Gid? What's the matter with my dress?"
"Oh, yes," pursued Gideon. "You wears buckskins an' flannels an' a
frontier hat; you goes about with your shirt-sleeves rolled up an' a
scarf 'stead of a stiff starched collar; but you takes care that thar's
allus elegant underclothin' nex' yer skin. You've gotten surprisin'
clean habits, too: washes yourself three or four times a day, allus
shaves yerself mornin's an' oils an' brushes yer hair. You don't go
ter bed wi' yer boots and breeches on; you sleeps in a dinky suit o'
pyjamas with stripes on 'em, an' braid, an' fancy buttons. I ain't
complain'n' none, mind you. I gotter tremendous admiration fer all
these yer signs of gentlemanhood. Only they makes me feel ter'ble
humble, Kiddie. I feel 's if I oughter be sayin' 'sir' or 'your
lordship' all the time."
"I'm glad you never commit such an outrageous mistake, Gid," said
Kiddie, helping himself to preserved peaches with the spoon especially
provided for them. Rube had just used his own spoon for the same
purpose.
"An' thar's another thing--your manners at table," went on Gideon.
"You're that dainty in your ways of eatin' an' drinkin', you make me
feel like a brute animal 'stead of a well-brought-up human. Allus uses
yer fork, you do; never shovels th' food inter yer mouth with a knife;
never touches a bone wi' yer fingers. Seems ter me, Kiddie, if you was
livin' on a desert island, same's that chap Robi'son Crusoe, you'd
still show a example of perlite table manners t' the poll parrot an'
the nanny goat."
Kiddie smiled in amusement.
"Well, well, Gid," he said, "you just wait until Rube an' I come back
from our camp in the forest. I shall have dropped all the
objectionable politeness by then. We shall take no forks or plates,
but will tear our food with our teeth. We will sleep in our boots
under blankets of balsam branches, and forget the comforts of pyjamas
and hot shaving water. We're going to live like a pair of primitive
savages, talkin' in the sign language, killin' an' cookin' our own
food, takin' with us nothin' that you c'd buy in a city emporium,
except, of course, our guns and huntin' knives. An' even then we shall
be a heap better off than Robinson Crusoe, for, although he had his
shot gun an' the fixin's he'd gotten from the wreck, yet he had ter
build his own boat, while we shall have our birch bark canoe, and I
guess the things we shall carry in the canoe an' in our pockets and
haversacks 'll give us an enormous advantage over the shipwrecked
mariner."
"An' when d'you purpose startin' on this yer outlandish trip,
abandonin' the delights o' civilization?" Gideon inquired. "It's the
fust I've heard of it. You ain't bin makin' no preparations. When
d'you reckon on startin'?"
Kiddie glanced aside at Rube.
"As soon's Rube's ready," he announced.
"Why, I bin ready fer days an' days," said Rube. "I ain't thought o'
nothin' else ever since yer told me it was goin' ter happen!"
"What about the weather prospects?" Kiddie asked.
"Weather's all right," answered Rube. "I've had me eye on it a lot.
It's plumb sure t' be fine. Birds are flyin' high; flowers ain't got
much scent in 'em; the sheep are grazin' with their heads to the wind;
cattle are quiet. Mother's clothes line's saggin' betwixt the poles;
spiders' webs are slack, too, an' thar's crowds of 'em on every bush.
This mornin', when I looked out, great white mountains of cloud were
banked up in th' sky. 'Fore I'd dressed an' got out, the clouds had
melted clean away. All them signs mean fair weather, I reckon."
"That's so," agreed Kiddie, "especially the spiders' webs an' the
quickly meltin' clouds. Guess we may's well start right now."
"Some sudden, ain't it?" said Gideon in surprise.
"No advantage in delay," returned Kiddie, rising from his seat and
signing to Rube to begin at once. He went methodically about the cabin
collecting things--a sack of potatoes, a bag of flour, some tins of
milk, supplies of lard, salt, onions, rice, bacon, tinned fruit, and
eggs, tea, cocoa, sugar, and butter, with various cooking utensils, his
medicine chest, a hurricane lamp, candles, and a can of oil. Rube had
made out a long list of their requirements, and busied himself
collecting them.
"How many blankets?" he inquired.
"None," Kiddie answered. "Two ground sheets an' our sleepin' bags 'll
be enough. An' we'll take the Indian teepee. It's better 'n a canvas
tent. Shift all these fixin's inter the garden, an' then we'll start
puttin' back everything we c'n do without. What d'you want the books
for? You'll have no time fer readin'; we'll talk instead. You c'n do
without a lookin' glass. Put tin dippers in place of the china cups
an' saucers. Where's the fryin'-pan? Don't ferget soap an' towels."
In the garden he rejected a surprising number of things which Rube had
thought necessary. He reduced the equipment to the smallest possible
bulk. Nevertheless, he forgot nothing that was essential and included
nothing which did not afterwards prove indispensable. The whole outfit
occupied only a small space in the canoe.
They were carrying the bundles down to the lakeside when Rube, who was
leading, stopped and looked back. Kiddie had come to a halt, and,
still with the wigwam poles over his shoulder, was staring curiously at
the ground at his feet.
"You passed by without noticin' that, Rube," he said, when the boy went
back to him. What he was staring at was the stub of a cigarette. "It
wasn't lyin' there when I went along here this mornin', I guess. You
c'n see by the ash that it hasn't been here long. Less'n an hour, I'd
say. Who dropped it, I wonder? There ain't anybody in this yer camp
smokes cigarettes."
He searched for footprints, but could discover none; a newly-broken
twig was all the sign that he could see. He glanced around among the
trees, but there was no visible movement, and a whip-poor-will was
singing undisturbed from a high bough of a balsam tree close at hand.
"No occasion ter worry about a trifle like that," he remarked, as he
went on in the direction of the lake. "All the same, I'm some curious."
He did not look back while carrying the long teepee poles through the
narrow ways between the closely-growing trees. Had he done so, even
the sureness and quickness of his eyesight might still have missed the
cleverly hidden form of Broken Feather, who lay at full length in the
midst of an elder bush, stealthily watching him.