ON THE JOB
“Who’s Sparrow?” Tom inquired of Ferris as they made their way across
the clearing and into the woods.
A couple of young fellows were clearing out the basin of the tiny
reservoir as they passed, throwing stones and timber out onto the
ground.
Another seemed to be hoeing out a space for a garden. Still another was
restoring a stretch of private roadway, evening its edges and discarding
weedy growth. There was no view from the clearing, for the woods
completely enclosed the spot. Tom glanced about with curious and lively
interest.
“Sparrow? Oh, he’s a kid came up here after adventure. Nice boy. He’s
got malaria or pip or something or other. He’s going home to-day. I had
him picking stones. They come and go,” he added good-humoredly. “If a
fellow can’t stick at something else I suppose we ought not to expect
him to stick up here. If he could stick at a thing he wouldn’t be here.
They’re a funny bunch.
“Ned and the legitt are about the best of the lot. I’ve wished them onto
you for to-day; I want to get that little bridge up over the brook.
Guess they’ll be waiting for us now. You can take care of a little job
like that, can’t you? I thought we’d just chop down trees and make it of
rough logs. Summer boarders like that sort of thing, don’t they?”
“Guess so,” laughed Tom. “I guess they’re a kind of a happy-go-lucky
lot, hey?” he added.
“That’s it. Sis hasn’t much use for ’em. But I wouldn’t just call them
failures. I’d like to know the history of some of them. Most of ’em are
on the square, I’ll say that. The kid says they’re sediment. She
imagines all sorts of things about them. She likes you though,” he added
with hearty frankness. “She thinks you’re about the best since Daniel
Boone.”
“She’s one smart girl,” said Tom. “You can tell that by the way she
talks.”
“She reads books on—what d’yer call it—oh, she’s got one—_Character
Building_, it’s called. Yes, she’s some little high brow.”
“She’s wonderful, I’ll say,” repeated poor Tom. “I don’t suppose I
should have brought her up here at all,” Ferris said. “But you see we’re
all alone and she had the flu bad last winter and I thought the mountain
air would do her good. Well, here we are.”
They had reached a part of the woods where the path encountered a brook
and it was here that Ferris wished to build a rough bridge which would
be at once a convenience to strollers and a thing of some rustic beauty.
The other two were not waiting here.
“We could lay planks, I suppose,” Ferris said, “but I thought a sort of
natural wood affair would be better, with a kind of a roof you know, and
maybe a couple of seats; what you might call an arbor. It was the kid’s
idea. Be more in harmony, hey?”
“Sure thing,” said Tom.
The word harmony had scarcely escaped Ferris’ lips when there appeared
in the path some few yards off such a masterpiece of harmonious effect
as to cause Tom to pause, in speechless wonder.
Approaching he beheld the gracious and pliant form of Mr. Fairgreaves
wearing an expansive smile of greeting upon his romantic countenance. He
wore his khaki trousers and flannel shirt, set off by his black cutaway,
and over his shoulder he carried an axe. No pioneer of old could ever
have carried an axe with such an air.
But the axe was not the feature of this sartorial medley. For upon the
wavy hair of Mr. Royce Fairgreaves was a derby hat, the sight of which
caused even sober Tom to struggle frantically to suppress unholy mirth.
But yet it was not this derby of the woodland that was the headliner in
Mr. Fairgreaves’ all star cast of apparel. Rather was it the air of Mr.
Fairgreaves which cannot be described.
[Illustration: Mr. Fairgreaves appeared with a smile, an axe and a derby
hat.]
Behind him came the ex-soldier, also shouldering an axe. He wore a
threadbare doughboy’s suit and a large brimmed slouch hat. He seemed to
have a certain humorous appreciation of his companion, yet Tom could not
have said exactly how. He was silent and sober, simply nodding a
greeting as he approached.
“The top of the morning to you,” said Mr. Fairgreaves in his melodious,
rolling voice. “We come most faithfully upon the hour.”
“Sleep all right?” Whalen asked Tom in a weary sort of way, which
somehow bespoke real interest.
“Fine,” said Tom.
“Boys,” said Ferris, “I thought we might as well get started on this
arbor bridge or whatever you’d call it. Slade has some ideas about it;
he’s built log cabins and such things.”
“Forest architect?” said Whalen.
Tom thought he could discern in Whalen that quality which had caused
Audry to call him sarcastic. He was not exactly that, but it was
sometimes possible to imagine a sneer in some of his remarks.
His calling Tom a forest architect was like his calling the cottage the
executive mansion. And there seemed always the faintest slur in his
invariable habit of calling Audry the maid of the mountain. But there
was nothing critical or disrespectful in the words themselves and Tom,
with all his profound regard for Audry, could never find anything to
criticize in Whalen’s talk. It sometimes annoyed him that he could not.
But as they became better acquainted he felt that Whalen did not take
much stock in Miss Audry Ferris and that this was the real reason why
she did not approve of Whalen.
During the work which began that morning, Tom found his new friends
companionable and cheerfully helpful. They began by selecting and
felling trees, and by the middle of the afternoon they had laid four
trunks across the brook and proceeded with the interesting task of
chopping thinner timber for the rustic superstructure which they had
jointly planned.
“We’ll have a seat on either side of it,” said Tom. “So’s any one can
sit and rest or read in it.”
“Sip refreshment from the brook and wisdom from a book,” said
Fairgreaves in his elegant way. “Miss Audry can come here with her book
and imbibe wisdom under the arbor.”
“And distribute it,” said Whalen. “A seat for pupils would be a good
idea.”
Tom said nothing. This was the sort of remark he did not like.
That very first evening, after about the pleasantest and most
interesting day’s work that Tom had ever done, something occurred which
to him was nothing less than a minor tragedy.
Mr. Royce Fairgreaves was called to other duties and thenceforth
bestowed his pervasive personality and expansive smile elsewhere. Tom
saw much of him thereafter, encountering him at various labors, usually
in his derby and cutaway save when the heat forbade.
“I am called to a wider field of usefulness,” Mr. Fairgreaves explained,
which turned out to be picking stones for the reservoir which he did
with all the grace and dignity that were his. He picked stones as if
Shakespeare instead of Ferris had planned the work for him....