THE MAN WHO KNEW IT ALL.
After a restless sleep Norman was astir an hour before sunrise. His
grandfather was already up and preparing a breakfast for him.
“You maun eat, ma laddie. It seems unco’ that ye maun gang tae meet
thae Britishers alane. I fain wad gang wi’ ye.”
“That cannot be, grandfather. It would not do to leave Rilma here
alone. Never fear but I shall come back safely.”
As soon as he had eaten hastily of the plain meal, Norman kissed Rilma
and taking his gun started to leave the house.
“If the lassie disna mind, I’ll walk wi’ ye tae the river’s bank,” said
his grandfather. “I’ll nae be gane lang, lassie, so hae nae fear.”
Norman felt that his grandfather’s real object in accompanying him was
to get a look, if possible, at the Woodranger, who was expected to meet
him on the river bank. But nothing of the kind was said until they came
in sight of the stream, when they discovered the forester already on
hand. He had crossed over to the east bank, and at sight of Norman said:
“I am glad you are so promptly here, lad; it shows a good mark to be
prompt. It always pays to be prompt. As we shall have to go down on
this side, I thought I would come over and save――”
Woodranger, with a sudden change in his demeanour unusual to him,
stopped in the midst of his speech, to fix his gaze closely on the old
Highlander. The latter was eyeing him no less intently. Anxious to
break the embarrassing silence, Norman said, quickly:
“My grandfather, Woodranger. He felt so anxious about me that he has
come down to see me fairly started.”
“So yo’ air Woodranger?” asked Mr. MacDonald, as if such a thing was
not possible, while shifting looks of doubt, curiosity, fear, and
confidence crossed his features. The forester soon recovered his wonted
composure, replying to the other’s interrogation:
“Men call me that, MacDonald. I have heerd o’ you, and I’m glad to meet
you. I hope you have no undue consarn over the lad.”
“Th’ laddie is puir, Woodranger,” cried the old man, putting aside
further reserve and grasping the forester’s hand. “Yo’ll hel’ him out
o’ this trouble?”
“He shall not lack for a friend. I trust the lad will have no great
difficulty. Where is the dog, lad?”
“Gone, Woodranger, but I do not know where. I thought perhaps Gunwad
took him with him. I did not see him after I met you.”
“I see him sneaking through the woods as if he had committed some
grievous misdeed, but thought he might be pulling home.”
“Ye’re no in sympathy wi’ thae Britishers?” asked Mr. MacDonald at this
juncture.
“Nay, old man; I’m neutral. It is a foolish quarrel and no good can
come o’ it.”
“Neutral!” exclaimed the old Highlander, to whom, with his stubborn,
aggressive nature, such a thing seemed impossible, and then a new shade
of misapprehension came over his countenance, as he scrutinised the
ranger’s rifle.
“A French weapon!” he exclaimed. “Nae guid can come o’ a man’s bein’
neutral an’ a-carryin’ a French gun.”
“We are in luck, lad,” said Woodranger, ignoring the last speech of
Mr. MacDonald. “I l’arned last evening that Captain Blanchard had come
to Tyng Township yesterday, so I see him and he says you can be tried
without going to Chelmsford. That will save you twenty-five miles o’
walking.”
“I am glad of that!” exclaimed Norman, “and I hail it as a good omen.
Do you hear that, grandfather? I have not got to go to Chelmsford to
have my trial.”
Mr. MacDonald only shook his head, seeming too much engrossed over the
appearance of the Woodranger to reply by words.
“I don’t like to cut short any speech you wish to make to the old man,
lad, but it’s time we were on our way. A mile or more o’ the river has
run by sence we stopped here. It’s an ’arly start that makes an ’arly
end to the jarney. Good morning, Mr. MacDonald; have no undue consarn
over the lad.”
Fully understanding the Woodranger’s anxiety to meet Gunwad promptly,
Norman hastily caught the hand of his grandfather, as he murmured his
good-bye, while the forester moved silently away.
“I jest want to say a word to ye, ma laddie,” said Mr. MacDonald, in an
undertone. “I dinna ken whut to mak o’ this man ca’d Woodranger, but ye
canna be owre careful. He carries a French weapon, an’ is neutral in
a quarrel whin every true Scot shud stan’ by his colours. I dinna ken
what tae mak o’ the man.”
With this dubious warning, which no words of Norman could shake, he
stood there watching the twain until their forms had disappeared in
the distance. Even then he hesitated about starting homeward. His
head continued to move back and forth, and his lips became tightly
compressed, as if fearful they might allow something to escape that he
was anxious to conceal.
Tyng Township comprised a strip of territory three miles wide, and
extending six miles along the east bank of the river, so it was not
necessary for them to cross over. In fact, that would have necessitated
a return to that side before reaching their destination. After leaving
his home Norman saw but a few houses for some distance, the land being
little more than sand patches, and too poor to support a crop of any
kind.
“I do not wonder it is called Old Harrytown,” Norman said, as he
noticed this, “and they say only the Old Harry could live here.”
“Tyng’s men got a bad bargain when they got it,” said the Woodranger.
“Though it may be that they think more of the fish than the soil. They
be fat and plenty. The deer, too, are sleek; but they are fading away
with the red hunter. Sich be the great unwritten law that a man’s
associates must go with him.”
They had not gone more than a mile before they were met by Gunwad, who
showed his satisfaction at seeing them.
“Was afeerd th’ feller mought gin ye th’ slip, Woodranger.”
The forester making no reply to this statement, the three walked on
in silence, the appearance of the deer reeve putting an end to all
conversation.
Another mile down the stream they began to come in sight of the log
houses of the pioneers, who were trying under adverse circumstances
to found themselves homes in the new town. As they came in sight of
one of these typical homes, they saw a tall, cadaverous man mounted on
the top of a blackened log fence surrounding a cleared patch bordering
the house. He was bareheaded, and had no covering for his feet, save a
generous coating of dirt, and his lank body was clad in a coarse shirt,
made, by long contact with the earth, the colour of the soil, and a
pair of gray homespun trousers stopping short in their downward career
a little below the knees. As he sat there on his elevated perch, his
long arms were doubled akimbo over his knees, which stuck up sharp and
pointed.
At first it looked as if his occupation was the watching of the
gyrations of one of his big toes, as it scraped back and forth on the
charred surface of the log, but a closer inspection showed that he was
gazing at a patch of broad-leaved plants looking suspiciously like that
much despised weed of lane and pasture, the mullein. But if so, it had
been cultivated with assiduous care, and had flourished like “the green
bay-tree” of the story-writer.
At sight of our party he suddenly checked the movements of his toe,
his jaws stopped their rapid grinding, and he cried out in a shrill,
piping voice:
“Hello, Ranger! Wot in creation is yer sweeping by fer like a falling
hemlock? Ain’t fergot an ol’ man in his weakness, hev ye?”
“Not a forgit, Zack Bitlock, but as we have a lettle amazement with
’Squire Blanchard we wanted to be sure and get to him afore he should
leave for down the river. A fine morning.”
“Mornin’s well ’nough; ’bout as ye air mind to look at yit. But it’s
pesky gloomy to me. Say, Ranger, I kalkilate ye mus’ be a tol’rable
good jedge o’ ’backer?”
“Mebbe I know the leaf from dock root, though I can’t say as I’m much
o’ a jedge o’ the quality, Zack, seeing I never――”
“Look a-here, Ranger! I want yer honest opine consarnin’ thet air
stuff,” pointing, as he spoke, to the rows of green, broad-leaved
plants adorning his primitive garden, and comprising most of its
contents.
Approaching the fence, the Woodranger looked over, saying, after a
brief survey of the scene:
“I see leetle but mullein, though I must say, while not claiming to be
an apt jedge in sich matters, it has made a good growth. How is it,
Zack, you give so much ’tention to raising sich useless truck, though
it be said it is excellent for cattle?”
“It’s my gol-danged foolishness, Ranger, which made me spend my
valer’ble time raising sich truck. I ain’t got no cattle to feed it.
My ol’ woman ’lowed it was mullein a goodish spell ago, but I larfed
at her. An’ then, when I see thet she wuz right an’ I wuz wrong, like
the hog I wuz, I had to hol’ my mouth and keep on growing mullein! Gol
dang! To think, I, Zack Bitlock, in my sound mind an’ common sense,
sh’u’d be a-weedin’ out an’ prunin’ up an’ ’tendin’ mullein, thinkin’
all th’ while ’twas ’backer!”
“How did it happen, Zack?” asked Woodranger, who could not help
smiling at the look of utter disgust and shame on the other’s wrinkled
countenance.
“It all kem o’ my blamed smartness! Ye see I figger yit out like this.
Joe Butterfield, he don’t pertend to know more’n other folks, an’ so
las’ year he kem to me an’ wanted to know what was th’ bes’ thing to
make taters grow. He had seed mine climbin’ like all creation, and
seein’ he wuz too blamed green to raise ennything but fun fer his
betters, I tole him th’ very bes’ thing was rotten hemlock, an’ to put
a chockin’ handful in each hill. Well, what did th’ dried-in-the-oven
fool do but follow my ’vice, only he put a double portion in each
hill, so as to beat me at my own game, I s’pose. I larfed to myself
all th’ while ’em taters didn’t stick up a top. Ye see th’ hemlock wuz
so durned dryin’ it jess baked the taters afore they c’u’d sprout. Joe
laid it to th’ seed, an’ I s’posed thet wuz the las’ o’ it, ’ceptin’ a
good stock o’ jokes I had laid in fer spare talk with Joe.
“But I can see now th’ critter was sharper’n I ’lowed, an’ he mus’ hev
smelled a mice. So when I kem to ’quire fer backer plants he gin me
more’n I wanted. Leastways he give me what I s’posed wuz backer plants,
an’ now, drat my pictur’! ef I ain’t been ’tendin’ an’ nussin’ ’em
blamed ol’ mulleins, an’ a-workin’ my jaws all th’ while, thinkin’ what
a Thanksgivin’ I’d hev chowin’ th’ backer. Oh! th’ fool ingineuity o’
some men!”
Smiling at the evident disappointment and chagrin of Zack Bitlock,
Woodranger started on, when the other called out to him:
“Say! seems to me ye hev got a smart start fer th’ shootin’-match.”
“I can’t say that I’ve given the matter a thought, Zack. Been away
perambulating the forests for a good space o’ time.”
“A shootin’-match, an’ ye not know yit, Ranger? I do vum! thet’s
amazin’. But there is to be a tall shoot at th’ Pines this mornin’.
Cap’en Goffe is to be there, an’ Dan Stevens; an’ I overheerd las’
evenin’ Rob Rogers wuz to kem. Everybuddy’ll be on hand. Coorse ye’ll
go now, Ranger?”
“Onsartain, Zack, onsartain. If we have time the lad and I may be
there. Good morning.”
“Ye may be thar, Woodranger, an’ I see no reason w’y ye shouldn’t; but
with th’ youngster it’ll be different. I reckon he’ll be fur from hyur
then, ’less my plans miscarry,” said Gunwad, who had been silent.
Without noticing this speech, the forester moved ahead at a rate of
speed which showed he was anxious to make up for the few minutes lost
in conversation with Goodman Bitlock. Norman kept close beside him,
while Gunwad, the deer reeve, followed at his heels.
Zack Bitlock did not shift his position on the fence until he had
watched them out of sight, when he left his perch, exclaiming:
“Blamed queer ef th’ ol’ Ranger is goin’ to er shoot an’ won’t own yit!
Thar’s sumthin’ afoot. But I’ll l’arn their dodge or I ain’t up to
shucks,” and without further delay he shuffled down the road after the
others.