At the lake, Hollanden went pickerel fishing, lost his hook in a gaunt,
gray stump, and earned much distinction by his skill in discovering
words to express his emotion without resorting to the list ordinarily
used in such cases. The younger Miss Worcester ruined a new pair of
boots, and Stanley sat on the bank and howled the song of the forsaken.
At the conclusion of the festivities Hollanden said, "Billie, you ought
to take the boat back."
"Why had I? You borrowed it."
"Well, I borrowed it and it was a lot of trouble, and now you ought to
take it back."
Ultimately Hawker said, "Oh, let's both go!"
On this journey Hawker made a long speech to his friend, and at the end
of it he exclaimed: "And now do you think she cares so much for
Oglethorpe? Why, she as good as told me that he was only a very great
friend."
Hollanden wagged his head dubiously. "What a woman says doesn't amount
to shucks. It's the way she says it--that's what counts. Besides," he
cried in a brilliant afterthought, "she wouldn't tell you, anyhow, you
fool!"
"You're an encouraging brute," said Hawker, with a rueful grin.
Later the Worcester girls seized upon Hollanden and piled him high with
ferns and mosses. They dragged the long gray lichens from the chins of
venerable pines, and ran with them to Hollanden, and dashed them into
his arms. "Oh, hurry up, Hollie!" they cried, because with his great
load he frequently fell behind them in the march. He once positively
refused to carry these things another step. Some distance farther on the
road he positively refused to carry this old truck another step. When
almost to the inn he positively refused to carry this senseless rubbish
another step. The Worcester girls had such vivid contempt for his
expressed unwillingness that they neglected to tell him of any
appreciation they might have had for his noble struggle.
As Hawker and Miss Fanhall proceeded slowly they heard a voice ringing
through the foliage: "Whoa! Haw! Git-ap, blast you! Haw! Haw, drat your
hides! Will you haw? Git-ap! Gee! Whoa!"
Hawker said, "The others are a good ways ahead. Hadn't we better hurry a
little?"
The girl obediently mended her pace.
"Whoa! haw! git-ap!" shouted the voice in the distance. "Git over there,
Red, git over! Gee! Git-ap!" And these cries pursued the man and the
maid.
At last Hawker said, "That's my father."
"Where?" she asked, looking bewildered.
"Back there, driving those oxen."
The voice shouted: "Whoa! Git-ap! Gee! Red, git over there now, will
you? I'll trim the shin off'n you in a minute. Whoa! Haw! Haw! Whoa!
Git-ap!"
Hawker repeated, "Yes, that's my father."
"Oh, is it?" she said. "Let's wait for him."
"All right," said Hawker sullenly.
Presently a team of oxen waddled into view around the curve of the road.
They swung their heads slowly from side to side, bent under the yoke,
and looked out at the world with their great eyes, in which was a mystic
note of their humble, submissive, toilsome lives. An old wagon creaked
after them, and erect upon it was the tall and tattered figure of the
farmer swinging his whip and yelling: "Whoa! Haw there! Git-ap!" The
lash flicked and flew over the broad backs of the animals.
"Hello, father!" said Hawker.
"Whoa! Back! Whoa! Why, hello, William, what you doing here?"
"Oh, just taking a walk. Miss Fanhall, this is my father. Father----"
"How d' you do?" The old man balanced himself with care and then raised
his straw hat from his head with a quick gesture and with what was
perhaps a slightly apologetic air, as if he feared that he was rather
over-doing the ceremonial part.
The girl later became very intent upon the oxen. "Aren't they nice old
things?" she said, as she stood looking into the faces of the team.
"But what makes their eyes so very sad?"
"I dunno," said the old man.
She was apparently unable to resist a desire to pat the nose of the
nearest ox, and for that purpose she stretched forth a cautious hand.
But the ox moved restlessly at the moment and the girl put her hand
apprehensively behind herself and backed away. The old man on the wagon
grinned. "They won't hurt you," he told her.
"They won't bite, will they?" she asked, casting a glance of inquiry at
the old man and then turning her eyes again upon the fascinating
animals.
"No," said the old man, still grinning, "just as gentle as kittens."
She approached them circuitously. "Sure?" she said.
"Sure," replied the old man. He climbed from the wagon and came to the
heads of the oxen. With him as an ally, she finally succeeded in patting
the nose of the nearest ox. "Aren't they solemn, kind old fellows? Don't
you get to think a great deal of them?"
"Well, they're kind of aggravating beasts sometimes," he said. "But
they're a good yoke--a good yoke. They can haul with anything in this
region."
"It doesn't make them so terribly tired, does it?" she said hopefully.
"They are such strong animals."
"No-o-o," he said. "I dunno. I never thought much about it."
With their heads close together they became so absorbed in their
conversation that they seemed to forget the painter. He sat on a log and
watched them.
Ultimately the girl said, "Won't you give us a ride?"
"Sure," said the old man. "Come on, and I'll help you up." He assisted
her very painstakingly to the old board that usually served him as a
seat, and he clambered to a place beside her. "Come on, William," he
called. The painter climbed into the wagon and stood behind his father,
putting his hand on the old man's shoulder to preserve his balance.
"Which is the near ox?" asked the girl with a serious frown.
"Git-ap! Haw! That one there," said the old man.
"And this one is the off ox?"
"Yep."
"Well, suppose you sat here where I do; would this one be the near ox
and that one the off ox, then?"
"Nope. Be just same."
"Then the near ox isn't always the nearest one to a person, at all? That
ox there is always the near ox?"
"Yep, always. 'Cause when you drive 'em a-foot you always walk on the
left side."
"Well, I never knew that before."
After studying them in silence for a while, she said, "Do you think they
are happy?"
"I dunno," said the old man. "I never thought." As the wagon creaked on
they gravely discussed this problem, contemplating profoundly the backs
of the animals. Hawker gazed in silence at the meditating two before
him. Under the wagon Stanley, the setter, walked slowly, wagging his
tail in placid contentment and ruminating upon his experiences.
At last the old man said cheerfully, "Shall I take you around by the
inn?"
Hawker started and seemed to wince at the question. Perhaps he was about
to interrupt, but the girl cried: "Oh, will you? Take us right to the
door? Oh, that will be awfully good of you!"
"Why," began Hawker, "you don't want--you don't want to ride to the inn
on an--on an ox wagon, do you?"
"Why, of course I do," she retorted, directing a withering glance at
him.
"Well----" he protested.
"Let 'er be, William," interrupted the old man. "Let 'er do what she
wants to. I guess everybody in th' world ain't even got an ox wagon to
ride in. Have they?"
"No, indeed," she returned, while withering Hawker again.
"Gee! Gee! Whoa! Haw! Git-ap! Haw! Whoa! Back!"
After these two attacks Hawker became silent.
"Gee! Gee! Gee there, blast--s'cuse me. Gee! Whoa! Git-ap!"
All the boarders of the inn were upon its porches waiting for the dinner
gong. There was a surge toward the railing as a middle-aged woman passed
the word along her middle-aged friends that Miss Fanhall, accompanied
by Mr. Hawker, had arrived on the ox cart of Mr. Hawker's father.
"Whoa! Ha! Git-ap!" said the old man in more subdued tones. "Whoa there,
Red! Whoa, now! Wh-o-a!"
Hawker helped the girl to alight, and she paused for a moment conversing
with the old man about the oxen. Then she ran smiling up the steps to
meet the Worcester girls.
"Oh, such a lovely time! Those dear old oxen--you should have been with
us!"