THE BOYS FIND A FRIEND
“Thought you said there was no money-worshipping in the West,” exclaimed
Phil, when at last the bride and groom had returned to their section.
“It is the fact that Mr. Hopkins is the biggest wheat-raiser on the
Pacific side of the Rockies that impressed Jerry, and not that he is a
millionaire,” retorted Ted.
“Mult-i-millionaire,” smiled his brother, imitating Rosey.
“Here comes the conductor with a telegram. A bag of peanuts it is for
us,” exclaimed the younger boy, jumping at the excuse to change the
subject.
“You’re on.”
In silence, the young homesteaders watched the official approach.
“The next stop is yours,” he said, pausing at their section.
“I thought there were two other stations before we came to Chikau,”
returned Phil, taking a time-table from his pocket.
“They are only flag stations and we have no passengers to let off. I’ve
just heard from our superintendent, and he told me to find out if you
boys had money enough to last until your letter of credit reaches you.”
“Plenty,” declared Phil.
“That is, if it isn’t too long,” added Ted.
“It will not be more than twenty-four hours.”
“Then we are all right, thank you,” returned the elder boy.
“You are quite sure?” persisted the railroad man.
“Positive,” asserted Phil, adding: “that is, if, as you say, it will not
be more than twenty-four hours before our letter of credit reaches us.”
“You may see for yourselves,” smiled the conductor, and he handed the
telegram he held in his hand to the elder of the young homesteaders. And
with his brother looking over his shoulder, Phil read:
“White, conductor 69, Westbound.
“Letter of credit belonging to Porter boys will reach Chikau on 69
tomorrow. If they need ready money, advance them twenty-five
dollars and take receipt. Tell agent Chikau to look after them.
“GREY, Supt.”
“Satisfied?” asked the railroad man as the boy returned the telegram to
him.
“Perfectly.”
“It is surely very kind of Mr. Grey,” added Ted.
“The railroad always makes it its first business to care for its
passengers,” replied the conductor, with the glibness of his kind. “We
regret the occurrence very much, and if you think you would feel safer
to have the twenty-five dollars in your pocket, why—”
“Chikau! Chikau!” called the brakeman interrupting, and with another
hasty refusal of the proffered aid, the young homesteaders quickly
gathered together their belongings, bade hurried good-byes to their
travelling companions, and left the car.
As they reached the platform, they were joined by the conductor, who
growled:
“Confound that agent, he is never here when he’s wanted. Just take this
telegram and show it to him. Good-bye and good luck!” And waving his
hand, the railroad man swung aboard the train, leaving the boys standing
on the platform, alone in the wilderness save for their luggage.
In silence, Phil and Ted watched the train depart and, when they could
no longer see it, turned to survey their surroundings.
Not a soul was to be seen, not even a house.
“Wonder where the town is,” exclaimed Ted, his voice a bit tremulous.
Save the main track, a siding which quickly lost itself in the forest,
and an old freight car, they could see nothing but giant trees rearing
their lofty tops all about them.
“Don’t you suppose there are any houses in Chikau?” asked Phil. “I
wonder why the railroad makes a stop at such a place.” And he looked
about him disconsolately, his courage failing as he beheld the forsaken
spot they had selected as the location of their new home.
“There must be—somewhere,” declared his brother. “Let’s go up this
switch, maybe the town is back from the main line. We can probably find
the agent and give him the telegram.”
“Suppose we might as well do that as stay here; we must find a place to
sleep.”
Before the boys had picked up their luggage, however, a big man, clad in
corduroys, a blue and yellow bandanna about his neck, came running along
the siding.
“Did 64 stop?” he gasped, winded by his haste.
“I don’t know whether it was 64 or not, but the train from Duluth did;
that’s how we got here,” replied Ted.
“Just my luck! Hasn’t been a passenger stopped for three weeks, and when
I go up to camp, 64 not only stops but leaves passengers. Reckon I’ll
get called down good and plenty. Did the conductor say anything?”
From his words, the boys decided the man must be the station agent.
“He most certainly did,” returned Phil; whereat the boys laughed.
“Was he mad?”
“Well, he said,” began the older boy, when his brother interrupted with:
“What’s the use of repeating what Mr. White said, Phil? Just give the
gentleman the telegram.”
Acting on the suggestion, Phil handed the piece of yellow paper to the
agent, and both boys forgot their loneliness in their amusement at the
changes of expression that followed one another across the man’s face.
“Jumping elk! Wish I’d been here,” he exclaimed, as he finished reading
the message. “I haven’t got twenty-five—”
“Never mind, we don’t need it,” interposed Ted, “but if you _will_ show
us the hotel, we shall be obliged.”
“Hotel?” And the agent chuckled. “There isn’t a hotel within thirty
miles.” But observing the looks on the boys’ faces, he added: “But I can
find a place for you to put up, all right, all right. Come on.” And he
began to pick up the young homesteaders’ hand baggage.
“How about our trunks?” inquired Phil.
“They’ll be just as safe on the platform as anywhere, unless it rains,”
returned the agent. “I’ll come down for them later.” Then, noting their
well-fitting clothes and hands, which showed no sign of hard labour, his
face evidenced his wonder at their presence.
“Got folks here?” he asked, his curiosity proving greater than his
control.
“No,” returned Phil.
“Going to work in the logging camp?”
“No.”
“Then what did you come to this neck of the woods for?”
“To take up a homestead,” smiled Ted.
At this statement the agent again burst into a roar of laughter,
slapping his thighs and repeating, “Come to Chikau for a homestead,”
until his actions nettled Phil and he demanded:
“What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing—only there isn’t an acre within twenty miles of Chikau that
isn’t covered with trees.”
At this announcement the boys looked at one another in dismay.
“Wish we’d got off at Avon with Mr. Hopkins,” sighed Phil.
“What Hopkins?” asked the man, eagerly.
“Silas Hopkins,” both boys answered. And again they were made aware of
the potency of that name.
“Why didn’t you say you were friends of Si?” demanded the agent. “Reckon
if he’s back of you, you won’t have any trouble locating. Anyway, Andy
Howe will do his best for any of Si’s friends, to say nothing of the
railroad’s orders.
“But shucks! You don’t want to stay here all night. We’ll go up to the
‘city.’ There are only two houses besides the general store, so we call
it the ‘city.’ How big a section are you planning to take up?”
The change in the agent’s manner was very welcome to the young
homesteaders, for they had felt pretty lonely as, standing on the
platform, they had realized they were face to face with their new life,
and they determined to make the most of Howe’s friendship.
“We’d thought of a quarter section,” returned Ted.
“Good! I know where there’s a ‘beaut,’ just enough timber to pay a
little profit and the rest easy to clear.”
“Where?” chorused the boys.
“That’s telling,” smiled Andy. “Until I see Si, I’d rather not say.”
“How soon will you see Mr. Hopkins?” inquired Phil.
“I’ll jump 15, that’s the freight that hauls our logs East tonight and
get back tomorrow. Twenty-four hours won’t make much difference. Give
you a chance to go into the woods and see how we log out here where the
trees are trees. Ever see any like those back East?” Following the
direction of the agent’s finger, the young homesteaders gazed in wonder
at the enormous tree trunks, towering a hundred and more feet above
them.
“My eye! but they are big!” exclaimed Ted.
“Only middling here. Wait till you get to where they are logging. Twelve
feet through is nothing.”
As the boys were still expressing their wonder at the size of the trees,
they rounded a curve in the track and came upon a clearing in which
stood two log cabins and a long building, also built of logs.
“Welcome to our city,” grinned Andy.
Again Phil and Ted felt their hearts sink as they beheld the
habitations.
“Do they—er—take boarders in any of those cabins?” asked the elder.
“Seeing that one is mine, the other the camp foreman’s, and the third
the store, they don’t, that is, the kind we usually get. They are
shipped right on to the logging camp. But any friends of Si Hopkins will
be taken care of,” returned the agent, leading the way to the long
building.
As the trio mounted the steps, a weasel-faced little man appeared in the
door.
“Peleg, I want you to put these boys up for a few days,” announced Andy.
“Wall, you _kin_ want. Let ’em go through to the camp.”
“Better get your glasses, Peleg. These boys aren’t lumberjacks, they’re
gentlemen—and special friends of Si Hopkins.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the fust place? Howde, gents. You kin stay as
long as you want. Glad to have you. Hey, Jennie, come git these duds and
take ’em up to your room. You kin sleep in the office.”
“What did you say your names was?”
“Porter. I am Phil, and this is my brother, Ted,” returned the elder
boy.
“Mine’s Hawkins. Most forgot it, though, ain’t heered it for so long.
Everybody calls me Peleg.”
“Jest sit down on the steps, Jennie will have to slick up a bit before
she’ll let you go to her room, I cal’late. Set down, too, Andy.”
“Can’t. I’m going out on 15. Mind, you take good care of these boys,
Peleg. I’ll be in tomorrow on 64 with your letter of credit.” And the
station agent started back down the track.