IN SEARCH OF A GRANDFATHER
Nothing very serious had happened to the blue and gray plane that was
carrying Mary and her friends toward their home.
“A loose wire connection, that’s all,” the pilot explained as he read the
worry wrinkles on the girl’s brow. “Have it fixed before you know it. And
then—”
“Home,” Mary breathed. How she loved that word. Would she ever want to
leave that home again?
A half hour later they were once again in the air. One more half hour and
their skis touched the frozen surface of their own small lake.
“Welcome home,” Dave shouted as he came racing toward them. “Just in time
for a feast. Tim Barber got a deer yesterday. We’re having a roast of it
for dinner, your mother and—”
“And Madam Chicaski?”
“Oh, sure!” Dave laughed. “You couldn’t drive her away. And who’d want
to? She’s been a splendid help to your mother, milked the cow, fed the
horse, hauled wood, everything. And now,” he laughed, “I think she’s
fixing to run a trap-line. From somewhere she’s dug out a lot of rusty
traps and is shining them up.”
“Has she—” Mary hesitated.
“Revealed her secrets—copper kettle, golden candlesticks, all that? Not a
word.
“But Mary,” Dave took both her hands. “How good it is to see you back.”
“I—I’m glad to be back, David,” Mary blushed in spite of herself.
“And how about me?” Bill demanded in a bantering tone. “You should be
glad I’m back.”
“We are, Bill,” Mrs. Hughes said with a friendly smile. “Awfully glad to
have you back.”
“But you’ll not have me long. Boo!” Bill shuddered. “I’m off with the
wild birds for a warmer climate.”
“You’ll be back, Bill,” the elder McQueen rumbled. “You’ve been a pioneer
for a summer. After that you may not want to be a pioneer, but you’ll be
one all the same. The snow-peaked mountains, the timber that turns to
green in spring and gold in autumn, the lure of gold, the call of the
wild will bring you back.”
“I don’t know about that.” For once Bill’s face took on a sober look.
Turning about, Mrs. Hughes led them all, like a brood of chicks, to the
cabin where the delicious odor of roast venison greeted their nostrils.
Over that venison, now turning it, now testing, and now turning again,
large, silent, mysterious, hovered Madam Chicaski.
“So you’re going to Nome by plane?” the eyes of Mrs. Maver, Florence’s
gray-haired hostess at Anchorage, shone. “Going with the Bowmans? Why,
that’s splendid. They are old friends of ours. We knew them before they
went to Nome. I must have them over to dinner.” And she did.
“So you’re going north with us?” Mrs. Bowman, a round, jolly person,
beamed on Florence as they entered the small parlor to await the
announcement of dinner. “Never been there before, have you?”
“No, I—”
“You’ll enjoy it. Why, you’re just the sort of girl for that country.
Healthy! Look at her cheeks, John,” Mrs. Bowman turned to her husband.
“You’d make a grand prospector,” Mr. Bowman, a large, ruddy-faced man,
laughed. “Going after gold, I suppose.”
“I—I might,” Florence admitted timidly. “But first I must find my
grandfather.”
“Your grandfather?” Mrs. Bowman stared at her. “Is he in Nome?”
“Yes, I—”
“Look, John!” Mrs. Bowman broke in excitedly. “This is Tom Kennedy’s
granddaughter. She, why, she’s the living image of him!”
“You are right, my dear,” the husband admitted.
“Oh! And do I truly look like him?” Florence’s mind went into a wild
whirl. “I am his granddaughter, but who’d have thought—”
“That we could tell it? That is strange. But such things do happen. Shall
we be seated?” Mrs. Bowman took a chair.
“Let me tell you,” she leaned forward, “your grandfather is a wonderful
man, truly remarkable.”
“He—he is?” Florence stared. “I thought—”
“That he was just an old sourdough prospector,” Mr. Bowman put in. “Not a
bit of it. He is a prospector, has been for thirty-five years. Found gold
once and lost it again to save his partner’s life. Yes, a prospector, but
a long beard, hair to the shoulders, beer guzzler always dreaming about
the past? Not a bit of it! Tom Kennedy is young, young as a boy. Keen as
any youngster, too.”
“And clean,” Mrs. Bowman put in. “Never drinks a drop. I don’t think he
even smokes.
“Just now,” her voice dropped to conversational tone, “he’s doing a truly
wonderful thing. He’s got the notion that our young people are growing
soft.”
“They are, too,” Mr. Bowman grumbled.
“Tom Kennedy’s trying to bring back some of our glorious past, dog-teams,
long, moonlit trails, the search for gold. He’s trying to interest the
young people in all that,” added Mrs. Bowman.
“He’s doing it, too,” Bowman nodded his head. “Look at the dog race. They
really think they’ll win,” he laughed good-naturedly. “Of course they
won’t. Smitty Valentine’s going to beat ’em, by an hour or two. Good
thing to have them try, though.”
“You see,” Mrs. Bowman explained, “we have an annual dog race. It ends
with a big feast in honor of the winner. Your grandfather has gotten the
young people interested in that race, made them think they can win.
They’ve put their best dogs together into a team. A boy named Jodie
Joleson is going to drive it. I surely wish they could win. But this man,
Smitty Valentine, who is backed by all the pool halls and men’s clubs in
town, has won so many years hand running, that we’ve lost track.”
“Belongs to the Sourdough Club,” Bowman explained. “Sort of old timers’
club.”
“And now these young people have what they call the ‘Fresh Dough Club’ of
young timers,” Mrs. Bowman laughed.
“And now I think you may all come in and sit down at the table.” It was
their hostess who brought to an end this—to Florence—amazing revelation.
“So that is what he’s like,” she whispered to herself. “How strange! How
wonderful! And yet—”
It was a sober Florence who, after sending word to her cousins regarding
this, her proposed journey, climbed aboard the large gray monoplane.
“This,” she was thinking, “is to be my most exciting adventure. I wonder
how it will end?” How indeed? Seldom does a girl go in search of her
grandfather. And how her ideas of that grandfather had changed! She had
always known, in a sketchy manner, the story of her grandfather’s life. A
big, boisterous, fun-loving youth, little more than a boy, he had loved
and married a beautiful, frail girl from a proud well-to-do family. That
girl became Florence’s grandmother.
Tom Kennedy was not loved by his wife’s parents. They made life hard for
him. When at last life under his own roof became unbearable, he had found
escape by joining the gold rush to Alaska.
Alaska brought more hardships, cold, hunger, and disappointment. And
after that, months on the way, a letter reached him, saying that his wife
was dead and that, without his consent, her parents had adopted his only
child, a girl. That girl had been Florence’s mother.
From that day, Tom Kennedy was lost to the outside world. “But Alaska,”
Florence thought, with a tightening at the throat, “Alaska, it would
seem, came to know and love him. And now—”
Ah, yes—and now. She had always thought of Tom Kennedy as a typical
prospector, like Malcomb Dale, who had lured Bill from his ranch. And now
here he was, not rich, but loved and respected. She was going to him. The
large gray plane, drumming steadily onward, carried her over broad
stretches of timber, frozen lakes, arms of the sea, on and on and on,
toward Tom Kennedy, her grandfather. And how would he receive her?
The answer to this question came when, four days later, a little
breathless, but quite determined, she stood at the door of a
weather-beaten cabin, on the outskirts of Nome.
“Come in!” a large, hearty voice roared.
It was with uncertain movements that she lifted the iron latch, pushed
the door open and stepped inside.
“I—I beg your pardon, Miss.” A tall man, with keen gray eyes that matched
his well-trimmed beard, rose hastily to his feet. “I thought it was one
of the boys. And it’s you, a stranger and a girl.”
“Not a stranger,” the girl’s voice was low with emotion. “I—I am Florence
Huyler, your granddaughter.”
The effect on the old man was strange. Taking a step backward, he drew a
hand across his face, then spoke as in a dream:
“My granddaughter? No! It cannot be. And yet, it could be so. I had a
wife. She was beautiful.... I loved her.... She died.... All this was
long ago. I could not go back. The call of gold got me, and—
“So you are my granddaughter,” his voice changed. The notion seemed
unreal but pleasing to him. “My granddaughter! How strange!”
“They say,” Florence tried to smile, “that we look alike.”
“That so?” Tom Kennedy looked at her long and earnestly. “Big for a
girl,” he murmured. “You look strong as a man.”
“I am,” Florence admitted frankly.
At that, Tom Kennedy looked at himself in a glass by the window. “Yes,”
his eyes brightened, “yes, we do look alike. Welcome, child! Welcome to
your grandfather’s cabin.” Seizing her hand, he held it for a moment with
a grip that hurt.
“One more member for that gang of young pirates that haunt this cabin of
mine,” he laughed. “You must meet them all, meet them and get to know
them. They’re a fine lot, my gang. First thing I know you’ll be their
leader, I’m bound. You’re a Kennedy and that means a lot.”
“Yes,” Florence replied with a smile, “I am sure it means a very great
deal.”
And so it was that Florence found her grandfather, and at once a whole
new wonderful life opened up for her.