MORE GOOD LUCK
“Are such riggings very expensive?” inquired Ted of the foreman, after
they had watched the donkey pay out cables and haul in and load other
logs.
“That depends on your idea of expense,” returned Steve. “The cables
alone are worth close to a thousand dollars for each engine and the en—”
“You need not say any more,” broke in the boy. “We couldn’t even buy the
cables.”
“Why should you want to? Think of starting in the logging business?”
“Hardly, but we are going to take up a homestead and, as we shall be
obliged to clear it, I wondered how much a rigging like this would
cost.”
The announcement of the boys’ purpose surprised and interested Steve.
“You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “Ever had any experience farming?”
“No.”
“Then, if I were you, I’d tackle something else. It’s no easy job
clearing land, and when you’ve got it cleared, like as not the soil will
be so dry you’ll have to irrigate it. I’ve seen a lot of farmers, good
ones too, who came out here thinking they’d get rich in a few years. But
when they found there was a mighty sight of difference between doing and
thinking, before the time came when they could ‘commute,’ they’d quit.”
“Why?” asked Phil.
“Too hard work, that and the cost of getting started.”
“We expect to work hard; we realized that we should be obliged to before
we came out here.”
“You sure will, especially as you don’t know anything about clearing
ground or planting. Why not take something easy—a job with me, say?”
“You call this work felling and sawing trees ‘easy’?” asked Ted.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I want some men to keep books—one in camp here
and one at Peleg’s store. His accounts are in a terrible mess.
Understand, I don’t mean he’s dishonest, but they are so mixed up it’s
an awful job to find out how much a man owes the company. Jonson was
owing six dollars when I discharged him, but until I looked up the
records to close his account, I didn’t know it. What do you say? I
couldn’t offer you more than fifty a month and board, but there’s no
place where you can spend anything in these woods.”
“Much obliged, but we can’t do it,” replied Phil, after looking at his
brother.
“Why not? You boys ain’t got the slightest idea of the work and trouble
of taking up a homestead. When men brought up on farms give it up, what
show have you? Just talk with the jacks when they come in for grub.
Every other one of them, almost, has sunk all he had on a claim and then
woke up and got into logging, where there is real money. I can tell you
of—”
“There’s no need,” interrupted Ted. “We came out here to take up a
homestead and we shall do it. Because others quit is no sign that we
shall. Besides, our case is different.” And on account of the kind
interest the foreman had evinced, the boy told him of the little mother
ill at home.
“You’ve sure got pluck,” commented Steve, when the story was finished.
“But what made you come to Chikau? If I’d been you, I’d have gone into
Canada. There you can get what they call ‘a ready-made home.’ The
government, after looking you up and finding you O. K., not only gives
you a quarter section, but builds a house and barn on it for you, and
will loan you from five hundred to five thousand dollars with which to
equip, stock, and get your farm started.”
“The United States is good enough for us,” returned Phil. “But I should
think our government would do the same for its settlers.”
“It’s beginning to. So many families that entered claims in this country
have left them and crossed the line, it had to do something. At present,
however, the few ‘ready-made homes’ in the United States are controlled
by private interests, and the rates they charge are so high a man can
hardly pay when crops are good. When they are not, he can’t. As I asked
before, how’d you come to pick out Chikau?”
“A friend of ours heard that it was a promising region,” said Phil.
“And Andy—I mean Mr. Howe—says he knows a fine place. He’s gone to talk
with Mr. Hopkins about showing us where it is.”
“He has, eh?” exclaimed the foreman, in surprise. “H’m! Reckon I know
where it is.”
“Where?” asked both boys, eagerly.
“I’ll let Andy tell you. But if you get it and Si says the word. I’ll
bring over one of my riggings and clear what you want.”
“Will you really? How much will it cost?” queried Ted.
“Not a cent; that is, I’ll take my pay in logs and you can sell my
company the rest.”
“That will be splendid. You’re mighty kind, Mr. Anderson!” exclaimed
both young homesteaders.
“Don’t ‘mister’ me, or anybody else out here! We aren’t used to it. You
boys have the heart, I saw that when you faced the Swede last night.
That’s what counts with me. So you can bank on my doing all I can to
help you.”
This promise revived the boys’ spirits, which had sunk to a low ebb as
they had listened to the foreman’s statements concerning men who had
given up their struggle with the wild land, and they passed the rest of
the day tramping about the tract with Steve, entirely forgetful of their
letter of credit, picking up all the points they could and asking
countless questions.
“Andy wants you to go right down to the station,” shrilled Jennie from
the steps of the store where she had been watching for them, as she
beheld Phil and Ted climbing off the engine. “I thought you never was
coming. Pap ’lowed you mought of got hurted. Hurry back. I’ll have
supper ready.”
“Why should Andy send for us?” mused Phil, as the engine started again.
“Station’s the only place to talk where Peleg won’t be listening,”
smiled Steve. “Evidently Andy has something important to say.”
“Why, we have for—” began Ted, only to be interrupted by the engineer.
“Bet Peleg’s snooping down there now,” chuckled Jim.
“Yes, there he is,” cried Steve, pointing to a figure gliding among the
trees, as they neared the freight-car station.
“Oh, you Peleg! Better get back to the store,” shouted the foreman.
“Andy said he’d duck you in the water tank if he caught you snooping—and
you know you don’t like water.”
Never a word did the storekeeper reply, but the others all laughed as
they saw him turn and go back.
“Aren’t hurt, are you?” called Andy, anxiously, as he caught sight of
the boys. “You’ve been gone so long, I was getting uneasy. Never
supposed any one would forget to meet a train that was bringing him
money.”
At the agent’s words the boys looked at one another in dismay.
“Our letter of credit!” they cried together.
“Exactly,” returned Andy. “It didn’t seem natural that two
ki—er—strangers should not be on hand to meet the train that was
bringing them so important a document. First, I thought you were late.
Then, as time went on and you did not appear, I decided you must have
been injured. I couldn’t believe you would _forget_ a—”
“Oh, cut the lecture, Andy,” Steve broke in. “I don’t know what you are
talking about, but if there’s any blame coming, put it on me. I asked
Ted and Phil to go to camp with me and tried to make them have a good
time.”
“Which you evidently succeeded in doing,” the agent commented drily.
So serious was Andy that the boys felt something must have happened.
“Wouldn’t the man on the train give it to you?” asked Phil, in alarm.
During this scene, which they did not in the least understand, Steve and
Jim had glanced about the station, noticed the agent’s rifle lying
across a box, while at his side hung his pistol holster.
“What’s up? Never saw you packing a gun before,” commented the engineer.
“I want you to see me pass this money to Phil and Ted.”
“Money for us?” exclaimed the boys, in surprise.
“Exactly.”
“But we haven’t any coming,” said Phil.
“Yes, you have. Five hundred and forty dollars.”
“From whom?” demanded Ted.
“Si Hopkins. He sent it to cash your letter of credit. Said there wasn’t
any bank short of Waterfield and that you’d need it to fit out with.”
“But we haven’t the letter yet,” returned Phil.
“Wrong again. I’ve got it. Express messenger on 64 gave it to me. Here
it is, with the money.” And the agent lifted the box and took from
beneath it the recovered letter of credit and a pile of bills. “Count
them, please. Then sign this draft. It’s to Si. If you act lively, I can
send it back on 17; she’s whistling now.”
Quickly both young homesteaders went to the table and affixed their
signatures to the draft which would reimburse Mr. Hopkins for the money
he had sent.
“Have we time to write a letter?” asked Phil.
“No. Andy’s flagging 17 now,” returned Steve.
“I’ve written ‘Thank you very much. More later,’” said Ted. “Hurry and
sign it, Phil.”
“Got your names down?” demanded the agent, poking his head through the
door. “Good! Put the draft in the envelope I’ve addressed to Si and the
letter of credit with it. That’s the stuff. Give it here, lively!”
And with a bound Andy started for the cab of the engine, which had just
stopped, handing the envelope to the engineer with instructions to
deliver it to the agent at Avon if he valued his job.
“Now perhaps you’ll act like a sane man and tell us what this is all
about,” said Steve, as Andy returned to his station.
“I wanted to get that letter back to Si tonight, I told him I would.”
“What about the ‘beaut’ section?” asked Ted.
“It’s yours. We’ll go to it tomorrow. Si’s coming over himself by and by
to see how you are getting along.”
“You boys have sure landed on your feet,” declared the foreman. “What
else did Si say, Andy?”
“A lot.”
“Then let’s hear it. Jim and me got to go back to camp.”
“There’s nothing more to hear. What else Si said was just for Andy
Howe’s ears.” And he bustled about, so full of importance that the
others laughed.
“Quit fussing round and come up to supper,” ordered Steve.
“Can’t. Got to wait for 18.”
“Why, we don’t expect any cars tonight,” declared Jim.
“But I do.”
“What have you got coming—airship?” grinned Steve.
“No. Horses.”
“Horses? In Chikau?” gasped the engineer.
“That’s what I said.”
“What for?”
“Phil and Ted and me. Si’s lending them.”
“Going to start a livery stable?” grinned Jim.
“Not much. These horses are for the boys and me to ride about on. We
have too much ground to cover to walk.”