If the orders issued from headquarters (viz. P. D. McPherson) had been
implicitly obeyed, the life of the newspaper man would have been most
uncomfortable. Even as it was, he was prudent enough to give the house
a wide berth. “Dunc” Mallison was fond of fishing, and his assignment
was in the nature of a vacation for him. He possessed a “dinky” little
flivver, whose front seat turned back on hinges, transforming the
interior into a tolerably comfortable bed, a la Pullman. Scouting along
the banks of the Ghost River, which bounded one side of the O Bar O
ranch, the newspaper man found an ideal place for a camp, not far from
the cave where Cheerio painted of a Sunday in secret.
Though “Dunc” fished the greater part of the day, he nevertheless
dispatched bulletins to his paper in town, and began work on a
feature story concerning P. D., the mysterious Cheerio, Hilda
McPherson, “beautiful daughter of the Chess Champion and famous
rancher,” Sandy, the wise young son and heir of O Bar O, and the
various other folk who made up that temperamental ranch. The reporter
depended not upon personal interviews with P. D. himself after that
first explosive-forced session, through the medium of the evidently
belligerent Hilda. Sandy, the guileless and the garrulous, himself
interested in the attractions of the Ghost River canyon, was a mine of
information upon which the reporter drew at length. Sandy was unable to
resist the cigarette case, nor did the resulting tumult in his stomach
of that first day’s indulgence prevent his appearance at the newspaper
man’s camp and the reindulgence in the noxious weed, which his father
had once vehemently declared was “purely poisonous.”
Besides Sandy, Mallison had made the acquaintance of Cheerio. The
latter, on his way to his “cave studio,” had paused at the sight of the
reporter, fishing in the forbidden waters of the Ghost River. Now P.
D. had nailed at the Bridge on the Banff Road, large signs, warning
all aspiring fishermen to keep away from the Ghost River, and these
prominent notices were signed “P. D. McPherson, Fish and Game Warden.”
Cheerio, an employee of the O Bar O, was puzzled for a moment what to
do in the circumstances, but the triumphant smile of the reporter as
he held up three shining-bodied trout, disarmed the Englishman, who
grinned back in sympathetic response, and a moment later was sitting on
the bank beside the trespasser, filling his pipe from his old rubber
pouch.
All of that quiet Sunday morning, the two fished and smoked, and though
their conversation practically consisted of monosyllabic remarks about
the water or the possibility of there being a pool farther up the river
where their chances might be even better and grunts of satisfaction or
exclamations of delight when something nibbled or bit at the end of
the lines, almost unconsciously a quiet feeling of comradeship grew up
between them, and each took the measure of the other and knew him for a
kindred spirit.
In the middle of the afternoon, they counted with pride the results of
the day’s work. Cheerio made a “rock stove” and built a fine bonfire
in it, while Mallison cleaned and prepared the fish. While the bacon
was spluttering upon the pan, Sandy came down through the bush, and
squatting down before the reporter’s improvised table of an upturned
suit case, he sniffed the odour of frying bacon hungrily and said
vehemently, as his hands rested upon his stomach, “Oh, boy!” Mallison
was an excellent cook, and Cheerio and Sandy were excellent eaters and
they did justice to the fare set before them by the camper.
After the meal, the three “chinned,” as Sandy expressed it, until the
deepening of the sun glow showed the end of the approaching day, and
Sandy’s drowsy head slipped back upon the grass and his questions came
irregularly and presently not at all. Then Cheerio dumped his pipe,
shook the half-asleep boy, and said:
“Come on, old man. Time to get back,” and Sandy sat up with a start,
rubbed his eyes, yawned, and unwillingly arose and moved toward Silver
Heels, whose bridle had slipped down the slender trunk of the tree to
which it had been loosely tied.
At the ranch house, the nightly games proceeded. Sometimes a game would
end with a single night’s playing; at other times a game would drag
along for a week.
Cheerio had won three games in succession, when he suggested that his
opponent should be allowed a handicap. P. D. received this generous
suggestion with hostility and fury.
“What for? What for? Because you win a damnation game or two, do you
mean to insinuate that I am out of your class?”
“Nn-n-not at all, sir,” stammered Cheerio, “b-b-but you see, I’ve a
b-b-bit of an advantage over you, sir. B-b-been playing ch-chess for a
long time b-b-before coming to the ranch.”
It was true enough, P. D. admitted, that he was off his game on account
of having had “only children and amateurs” to play with. Nevertheless
he had not fallen to the damned handicap class. There were thirty-one
days in the month; they had been playing but ten inconclusive and
insignificant days; he was neither a cripple nor a moron and he’d give
his opponent a dashed stiff fight before he was through with him, and
he asked for no quarter whatsoever now.
The fierceness with which the old man took his well-meaning suggestion
caused Cheerio to stammer further explanations. During his recent stay
in Germany, so he said, he had played constantly, and the Germans were
excellent players.
This was the first intimation that he had been in Germany, and the
information passed over P. D.’s head as of no especial interest, but
Hilda’s eyes narrowed and she began to speculate upon the cause of his
presence in their late enemy’s country. From day to day, Hilda had
been hardening her heart more and more against him and she was ready
to believe the worst. Hilda had her opinion of a man who pretended to
be a cowpuncher, who wore a piece of jewellery dangling from a black
fob at his waist. She despised the type of man, so she told herself,
who carried a woman’s face in a locket. Only a “sissy” would do an
asinine and slushy thing like that, and sissies were not popular in the
ranching country. However, apparently unconscious of, or indifferent
to, her glance of scorn at the despised locket, he continued daily to
wear it, and quite often, right before her eyes, even lovingly and
tenderly toyed with it.
“What were you doing in Germany?” queried Sandy, pop-eyed with interest.
Cheerio moved uneasily, thrust his hand through his hair, looked dashed
and worried, and shook his head.
“_When_ were you there?” persisted Sandy. “Was it when the war was on?”
“Y-y-y-yes, I believe it was,” admitted Cheerio, uncertainly.
“Believe it was!” said Hilda. “Don’t you _know_ when you were there?”
“Well--” began Cheerio, miserably, “you see----”
He was interrupted by P. D., whose exasperated glare turned from his
son to his daughter.
“Is this a game of chess, or a quiz concerning international questions
touching upon the infernal recent war?”
“Chess, by all means, sir.” Thus Cheerio, placatingly, and with evident
relief at the change of subject. To Sandy, he promised:
“Tell you all about Germany some day, old man, wh-wh-when I’m
f-ff-feeling a b-bit more f-fit to tackle the s-ssubject.” To P. D.
persuasively:
“How about it, governor? It’s quite fair under the circumstances that I
should yield you something. What do you say to a Castle? One will do me
first-rate.”
“Sir, when I want quarter, I’ll ask for it. I’ll have you know that
I have never yet taken a dashed flippity handicap and when the time
comes for me to do that, by Gad! I’ll cease to play. I play, sir,
chess, and I want no damned favouritism. I’ll be placed under no
G--D--oblig--D--igation to any man.”
“Righto! Your move, sir.”
P. D. was indeed off his game. He was, moreover, the victim of a
creeping panic. He made longer pauses, debated a move for a solid hour,
in the meanwhile moving (in his head) every single man upon the board;
imagine their effect in such and such a position, then presupposing a
move which his opponent never intended to make, with a crafty quiver of
a bushy eyebrow old P. D. would move to the attack, when the position
of his King called for defense.
Once Cheerio made an obviously bad and wild move. This was when looking
up unexpectedly he had found Hilda regarding him, not with her usual
expression of hate and scorn, but with her dark eyes brimming with
something that brought a strange tug to his heart and dimmed his own
eyesight.
At that bad move, P. D.’s amazed eyes shot up above his glasses and
he coughed angrily. If his opponent were attempting to curry favour
with him by playing badly, he would receive no thanks. P. D. removed
Cheerio’s valuable Bishop which had been sacrificed by his absent
move, and snarled across the board:
“Damned curious move, sir. You wish to stop for to-night?”
“M-m-m-ore c-c-areful next time,” murmured Cheerio, stiffened by the
fact that Hilda had blinked the brightness out of her eyes, and her
chin was at a most disdainful angle. More careful he was; wary, keen
and cunning. Before the clock pointed to nine o’clock, Cheerio murmured
his firm, if slightly regretful:
“Check! Game!”
P. D. studied the board, his eyebrows twitching. His King was enclosed
on all sides. Not even a chance for stalemate. This, though Cheerio had
sacrificed his Bishop. P. D. blinked behind his glasses, cleared his
throat noisily and grunted:
“Four games for you, sir.” After another noisy clearing of throat:
“Tides turn, sir. Tides turn. He ‘laughs best who laughs last.’”
“Oh, rather,” agreed Cheerio eagerly.
Undemonstrative Hilda came behind her father, solicitous and sweet,
hovered above him a moment, sat on the arm of his chair, put her arm
about his shoulders, cuddled her warm cheek lovingly against the top of
his grey head. P. D. jerked up, shaking the embracing arms irritably
from his shoulders.
“Well, well, what’s this? What’s this? Stop pawing me,” he objected.
“What in the name of Holy Christmas are you whimpering about? I don’t
like it. Women’s tears are a scientific evidence of a weak intellect.
Stop sniffling, I say! Stop leaking on my neck! Damn dash it all! Get
away! Get away!”
Hilda’s rare tears, dropping like pearls down her russet cheeks,
described as leaks! In the presence of that man, stooping above the
chess board the better to hide the amused grin that would show despite
his best efforts, despite indeed the stony glare (if eyes moist with
running-over tears could stonily glare) that Hilda favoured him with.
She had no soft thoughts for him now. If she could have forgotten his
confession at the corrals, Hilda felt that she never, never could
forgive his treatment of her father.
Just what Hilda would have desired him to do in the circumstances,
cannot be said. She would have shared her father’s resentment had
Cheerio purposely played a poor game, in order to give the older man an
opportunity to win. Nevertheless she bitterly resented the fact that
his victories were crushing the spirit of the old chess warrior. There
had been some discussion--an idea, in fact, put out in the newspaper of
that miserable reporter who was camped down by the river, on the edge
of the O Bar O lands, that in the event of P. D.’s failure to beat the
Englishman that the latter should take his place in Chicago, so that
Canada’s chances of the world championship might be more likely assured.
That story, read by Hilda in the newspaper brought her from the camp by
Sandy, and jealously hidden from her father, caused the girl’s heart
to ache. She was intensely patriotic, was Hilda, and she desired, as
any good Canadian would, to see the championship wrested from the U.
S. A., but she loathed the thought of the wrester being Cheerio. She
had fondly hoped to see her father in that desired role. Her heart
coiled in tenderness about the crochetty, thorny old man, with his
stumbling moves. She could not recall when her father had played so
poorly or so uncertainly. He seemed to have lost all of his former
skill. His confidence in himself as a chess player was completely
gone. Anyone could have seen that after watching the old man play.
Even the winning of one game might have a good effect and restore P.
D.’s former confidence and craft. It was the daily absorption in the
game, and the constant losing which was having its bad psychological
effect upon him. Hilda knew that if P. D. failed to keep that Chicago
engagement, he would suffer the bitterest disappointment of his life.
She feared, indeed, it would seriously affect his health. He would lose
his interest in chess forever, and for P. D. to lose interest in chess
was tantamount to losing interest in life itself.