THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
The interior was a single room some twenty-five feet long and over half
as wide, the walls of pine logs carefully trimmed and notched, with
joints made tight with cement. Opposite the door yawned a cavernous
fireplace of rough stone in which a pile of four foot logs roared and
crackled.
That much there had been on that October night when the scouts first
occupied the cabin; otherwise one would have scarcely have recognized it
as the same place. Another pair of bunks had been added to match the
first. Over the fireplace hung a fine moosehead beautifully mounted, and
here and there above the windows or on the walls were other horns of
elk, caribou or deer. There were several bear skins on the floor,
shelves containing tinware and dishes, several big, comfortable
armchairs, a heavy table piled with packages and boxes. And hanging from
the rafters, or festooned about the antlers or along the walls, thick
ropes of hemlock mingled with glossy mountain laurel lent a festive note
to the picture and filled the room with the pungent fragrance of
Christmastide.
It was a picture to stir the imagination of any boy, old or young, and
John Farren was stirred deeply. In that instant as he stared around,
there came to him a vivid memory of the hunter’s shack on the Pacific
slope which he had found and renovated with such pride in those boyhood
days which now seemed so remote and far away. Swift on the heels of
this, there flashed over him in one queer mental medley, the thought of
home, of Christmas trees, of his mother’s smiling face, his little
sister’s shrill, sweet laugh. And mixed up with those fleeting brain
pictures, were vague, blurred visions of skates and toys and candy—even
of stockings hung before another fire whose ashes had been cold a
thousand years.
He blinked—and was back in the present again, the boys clustered around
him, the real fire hot against his face. “It’s great, fellows—simply
great!” he said in a voice which was not quite steady. “I never saw
anything so corking as—”
He paused, his gaze fixed incredulously on the rough oak slab which
formed the mantel. A long, black stocking hung there, bulging,
distended, and for a moment he thought his brain was playing tricks.
Then someone behind him snickered and Cavanaugh gave him a gentle
forward push.
“Santa Claus was here and left that with your name on it, Jack,” he
chuckled. “Better take a look at it. The kids are itching to see what’s
in it.”
Amidst a laughing chorus of denial from the youngsters, Farren stepped
quickly forward. The stocking was very real and solid to the touch,
bulging along its length with mysterious, suggestive bumps and corners.
Pinned to the top was a card on which was written in painstaking script:
“J. Farren; Merry Christmas.” Farren read it slowly; then he laughed—a
sudden, bubbling, infectious laugh, and faced around, the stocking in
his hands.
“He’s a great old scout, isn’t he?” he chuckled. “Think of his knowing I
was going to be here when I didn’t even know it myself! He must have had
some silent partners about. Where’s a chair? I’ve got to sit down and
take this slowly. I haven’t had a Christmas stocking for goodness knows
how long.”
He dragged one of the big chairs up to the table and with the boys
crowding around, he began to empty the stocking. It was crammed with
parcels of various sizes, some neatly tied in tissue with red ribbons,
others showing the work of clumsy fingers in their rumpled, wrinkled
wrappings. But each separate one, as its contents was revealed, bore
evidence in some way of painstaking thought, of kindness, even of
sacrifice. There was a jack-knife, new and shining in its chamois case,
a money belt, a leather covered shaving glass. There were packets of
writing paper, some handkerchiefs, soap, chocolate, a box of cigarettes,
besides many other articles of utility or luxury. As he opened them,
Farren kept up a brisk running fire of comment and approval, but when
they all lay spread before him, he sat motionless for a moment, his head
a little bent.
“This is corking of you, fellows—simply corking,” he said presently in a
low tone. “It’s the nicest thing that ever happened to me, and I—I won’t
forget it in a hurry.” He raised his head and flashed about the circle a
smile of gratitude and appreciation. “I can’t say any more than—thank
you; but I mean that a thousand times, and I want to shake hands with
every one of you.”
He stood up abruptly, releasing the slight touch of embarrassment which,
for just an instant, had held them silent. When the handshakings were
over the cabin resounded again with a babel of talk and laughter, which
presently merged into the bustle of preparation, for it appeared that a
regular Christmas dinner was to be cooked and served.
Farren was eager to help, but his offers were firmly refused, and he was
ordered to make himself comfortable by the fire while the others got
busy.
“Of course, if you see anything being done wrong, you can draw our
attention to it,” said Jim Cavanaugh, his eyes twinkling. “A fellow
can’t remember everything all the time.”
“I guess you’ll remember more than I should,” laughed Farren. “What I
don’t know about cooking would fill a large volume.”
“We’re none of us experts,” admitted Cavvy. “Still, I reckon we’ll make
out somehow.”
In spite of his modesty, the work went forward in a businesslike manner
which betokened either uncommon culinary skill, or a good deal of expert
advice obtained beforehand. Farren drew up a chair to one side of the
blaze and watched everything interestedly, keeping up a running fire of
joke and comment with the cooks and their helpers. Once or twice he got
up and strolled about the room, admiring the furnishings and
decorations, and each time a scout or two accompanied him to make sure
he missed no special feature.
But gradually the interest centered around the fireplace. The fire had
been allowed to die down and a thick bed of glowing coals raked forward
to accommodate the various cooking operations which were going forward
in every available corner of the wide stone hearth. Sweet potatoes
boiled merrily in one receptacle; onions in another. From a heavy iron
crane above them hung a large and ample kettle, a trickle of steam
rising from its spout. These, however, were minor details of the
banquet, interesting as accessories, but of no real importance compared
with the principal dish which occupied the center of the stage and
absorbed the anxious attention of the entire assemblage.
In the middle of the hearth stood a heavy iron grate supporting a large
tin oven. Cavanaugh, and Steve Haddon, who was in from Washington for a
week, squatted before it, each holding an iron poker with which, at
frequent intervals, they raked forward fresh coals to replenish the heap
beneath the grate. And at intervals almost as frequent one or the other
opened the oven door to peer within. Their movements were followed
anxiously by every scout not otherwise fully occupied, and there was no
lack of advice from the many onlookers. This was received by the two
cooks with contemptuous jeers, but there was, nevertheless, a slight
touch of tension in their manner, a decided caution of movement, a keen
attention to details. For in that oven, trussed, stuffed already
delicately browning, reposed—_the turkey_!
“Mother wanted us to have it cooked at home and just warm it up in the
cabin,” explained Cavvy to Farren with a touch of scorn. “But, gee!
What’s the use of having a turkey if you can’t _smell_ it cooking!”
“There’s nothing like it,” agreed the soldier, sniffing the air
appreciatively. “Doesn’t it make you hungry, though?”
“You’ve said it!” came in unison from several lips.
“You’re sure it won’t get burned, Cavvy?” added McBride, who had charge
of the onions.
“What do you think we’re sitting here watching it for?” retorted
Cavanaugh with some heat. “You look after those onions and don’t bother
about the turkey. I’ll bet you haven’t made the cream sauce yet.”
“Rit’s mixing it up now.”
“Well, he wants to get some speed on. This bird will be dished up in
twenty minutes sharp, and we want all the other grub ready by that time.
How are the potatoes, Red?”
Flushed but smiling, Red Garrity withdrew the fork he had just plunged
into the bubbling pail. “Just about done,” he answered.
“Better set ’em off to one side, then, and about five minutes before
we’re ready you can peel them and put ’em on a plate. When he gets out
of there, Chick, you slick on the plum pudding to heat.”
To most of them that twenty minutes dragged interminably, but like all
other similar periods of waiting, it came to an end at last. When all
the other accessories of the banquet had been placed on the carefully
set table, Cavanaugh and Haddon together lifted the oven from the fire
to the hearth and removed the steaming fowl to a platter placed in
readiness. There was a moment of gasping suspense as Cavvy brushed one
hand against the hot metal and nearly dropped his end of the load. But
he hung on, and the calamity was averted at the expense of a red ridge
across three fingers. A moment later the turkey was laid triumphantly on
the board and the boys scrambled to their places, with sighs of mingled
relief and anticipation.
The latter were more than justified. No turkey, it seemed to them, had
ever been so plump and juicy, so tender, so crisply brown, so succulent
of dressing. The creamed onions were delicious, the potatoes done to a
turn, the brown gravy plentiful and thick. They ate and ate, and passed
their plates for more. When the first pangs of hunger had been assuaged,
jesting and banter began to run up and down the table, compliments
phrased in the inverse to terms of boyhood were showered upon the cooks,
who tried not to look too proud as they themselves enthusiastically
consumed the products of their skill.
John Farren’s enjoyment of the meal was utter and complete. The food
really was delicious, but better than any material pleasure was the
mental relaxation that had come to him. His troubles had quite vanished,
his laugh rang clear and unrestrained, and he joined in the joking give
and take with all the mischievous abandon of a boy.
So the feast passed on to its predestined end. And when the turkey lay
dismembered on its platter, looking like the yawning wreck of some
stranded derelict, when the plum pudding had vanished save for a few
crumbs and every other dish was scraped quite clean, the boys arose with
sighs of repletion and gathered around the fireplace. Fresh logs were
piled upon the embers, skins dragged up, and they crowded in a close
semi-circle before the blaze with Farren in the center.
Outside the early dusk had fallen, the whispering touch of snow flakes
brushed against window panes or across the roof. Now and again the wind
howled eerily in the chimney. But inside the cabin was only warmth and
cheer and comradeship. And as the dancing flames lit up that circles of
boyish faces, some flushed and drowsy, others bright-eyed and alert,
each one meeting his own glance now and then with a friendly smile,
Farren thrilled oddly. McBride sat close on one side of him, little Furn
Barber nestled against the other. And presently, when the small boy
began to nod, Farren slid an arm around his shoulder and drew the
tousled head down upon his knee. How could he have thought the world
cold and lonely, he wondered?
They did not sit long in silence. There were jokes and laughter, a story
or two, and presently someone started up a song. But all too soon came
the jingle of bells and the muffled stamping of the horse, brought up
from the red farm house below.
“I hate to break up the party,” said Cavanaugh, scrambling to his feet;
“but you know we promised to return you on time.”
“I know.” Farren stood up, smiling a little at Barber’s dazed awakening.
“I’m not the least bit keen to leave, but of course I must.”
It was not easy to tell them what that day had meant to him. They could
not understand it all; he hoped they never would. But when he had
finished, at least they knew that he was grateful. There was a brisk
bustle of handshaking, a chorus of good-bys, and he was in the sleigh,
looking back at the open door filled with smiling faces and wildly
waving hands. Then the faces blurred into mere outlines, black against
the glow of the fire, the friendly voices grew fainter, there came a
turn in the path and the cabin vanished.
It was nearly an hour before Cavvy and McBride returned, but it was an
hour well spent in washing dishes and tidying up generally. It is just
possible that this job _might_ have been put off till morning but for
the fact that the entire crowd was spending the night here and needed
every inch of room. The clearing up had hardly been finished before the
two boys were heard outside kicking the snow from their feet. A moment
later they entered.
“Greatest news you ever heard,” exclaimed Cavanaugh at once, stripping
off his mackinaw and hanging it on some horns to dry. “Jack’s going
over!”
“What! Right away?” inquired several voices at once.
“Yep. He starts the first thing in the morning. His Colonel’s had word
that the regiment will be a month longer wherever they are in France
before going to the front, so he’s sending four or five men who were
left behind to join it. Jack’s about crazy with joy.”
“I should think he would be,” remarked Steve Haddon slowly. “It must
have been tough having all the others go without him. I’d hate it, I
know.”
No one answered him directly. At the further end of the room the
youngsters were raucously disputing over sleeping places, but on the
four or five older scouts gathered before the fire a sudden, thoughtful
silence had fallen. A year from now where would they all be! Scarcely
together as they were to-night. Presently Cavvy caught Steve’s eye and
his arm dropped across the other’s shoulder to rest there with a faint
pressure.
“So should I,” he agreed. Then he smiled. “Steve, old scout,” he went on
briskly, “we’ll have to enlist together when we go and maybe they’ll put
us on the same ship. Meantime— Hanged if I’m not hungry again! Let’s see
if we can’t dig up some cold turkey.”
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--Left unsolved the identity of the enigmatic “Stafford” who speaks two
lines but otherwise comes and goes unnoticed.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)