THE PARTING
The farm on which Westy spent one of the pleasantest summers of his life
was about seventy miles from his New Jersey home and the grizzlies in
Yellowstone Park were safe. But he thought of that wonderland of the
Rockies in his working hours, and especially when he roamed the woods
following the trails of little animals or stalking and photographing
birds. The only shooting he did on these trips was with his trusty
camera.
Sometimes in the cool of the late afternoon, he would try his skill at
hitting the bull’s eye and after each of these murderous forays against
the innocent pasteboard, he would wrap his precious rifle up in its oily
cloth and stand it in the corner of his room. No drop of blood was shed
by the sturdy scout who had given his promise to be careful and who knew
how to be careful.
The only place where he ever went gunning was in a huge book which
reposed on the marble-topped center table in the sitting room of his
uncle’s farmhouse. This book, which abounded in stirring pictures,
described the exploits of famous hunters in Africa. The book had been
purchased from a loquacious agent and was intended to be ornamental as
well as entertaining. It being one of the very few books available on
the farm, Westy made it a sort of constant companion, sitting before it
each night under the smelly hanging lamp and spending hours in the
African jungle with man-eating lions and tigers.
We are not to take note of Westy’s pleasant summer at this farm, for it
is with the altogether extraordinary event which terminated his holiday
that our story begins. His uncle had given him eight dollars a week,
which with what he had brought from home made a total of something over
a hundred dollars which he had when he was ready to start home. This he
intended to add to his Yellowstone Park fund when he reached Bridgeboro.
He felt very rich and a little nervous with a hundred dollars or more in
his possession. But it was not for that reason that he carried his rifle
on the day he started for home. He carried it because it was his most
treasured possession, excepting his hundred dollars. He told his aunt
and uncle, and he told himself, that he carried it because it could not
easily be put in his trunk except by jamming it in cornerwise. But the
main reason he carried it was because he loved it and he just wanted to
have it with him.
He might have caught a train on the branch line at Dawson’s which was
the nearest station to his uncle’s farm. He would then have to change to
the main line at Chandler. He decided to send his trunk from Dawson’s
and to hike through the woods to Chandler some three or four miles
distant. His aunt and uncle and Ira, the farm hand, stood on the
old-fashioned porch to bid him good-by.
And in that moment of parting, Aunt Mira was struck with a thought which
may perhaps appeal to you who have read of Westy and have a certain
slight acquaintance with him. It was the thought of how she had enjoyed
his helpful visit and how she would miss him now that he was going.
Pee-wee Harris, with all his startling originality, would have wearied
her perhaps. Two weeks of Roy Blakeley’s continuous nonsense would have
been enough for this quiet old lady.
There was nothing in particular about Westy; he was just a wholesome,
well-balanced boy. She had not wearied of him. The scouts of his troop
never wearied of him—and never made a hero of him. He was just Westy.
But there was a gaping void at Temple Camp that summer because he was
not there. And there was going to be a gaping void in this quiet
household on the farm after he had gone away. That was always the way it
was with Westy, he never witnessed his own triumphs because his triumphs
occurred in his absence. He was sadly missed, but how could he see this?
He looked natty enough in his negligee khaki attire with his rifle slung
over his shoulder.
“We’re jes going to miss you a right good lot,” said his aunt with
affectionate vehemence, “and don’t forget you’re going to come up and
see us in the winter.”
“I want to,” said Westy.
Ira, the farm hand, was seated on the carriage step smoking an atrocious
pipe which he removed from his mouth long enough to bid Westy good-by in
his humorous drawling way. The two had been great friends.
“I reckon you’d like to get a bead on a nice, big, hissin’ wildcat with
that gol blamed toy, wouldn’ yer now, huh?”
“You go ’long with you,” said Aunt Mira, “he wouldn’ nothing of the
kind.”
Westy smiled good-naturedly.
“Wouldn’ yer now, huh?” persisted Ira. “I seed ’im readin’ ’baout them
hunters in Africa droppin’ lions an’ tigers an’ what all. I bet ye’d
like to get _one—good—plunk_ at a wildcat now, wouldn’ yer? _Kerplunk_,
jes like that, hey? Then ye’d feel like a reg’lar Teddy Roosevelt, huh?”
Ira accompanied this intentionally tempting banter with a demonstration
of aiming and firing.
Westy laughed. “I wouldn’t mind being like Roosevelt,” he said.
“Yer couldn’ drop an elephant at six yards,” laughed Ira.
“Well, I guess I won’t meet any elephants in the woods between here and
Chandler,” Westy said.
“Don’t you put no sech ideas in his head,” said Aunt Mira, as she
embraced her nephew affectionately.
Then he was gone.
“I don’t see why you want ter be always pesterin’ the poor boy,”
complained Aunt Mira, as Ira lowered his lanky legs to the ground
preparatory to standing on them. He _had_ been a sort of evil genius all
summer, beguiling Westy with enticing pictures of all sorts of perilous
exploits out of his own abounding experiences on land and sea. “You’d
like to’ve had him runnin’ away to sea with your yarns of whalin’ and
shipwrecks,” Aunt Mira continued. “And it’s jes a parcel of lies, Ira
Hasbrook, and you know it as well as I do. Like enough he’ll shoot at a
woodchuck or a skunk and kill one of Atwood’s cows. They’re always
gettin’ into the woods.”
“No, he won’t neither,” said her husband.
“I say like enough he might,” persisted Aunt Mira. “Weren’t he crazy
’baout that book?”
“I didn’ write the book,” drawled Ira.
“No, but you told him how to skin a bear.”
“That’s better’n bein’ a book agent and skinnin’ a farmer,” drawled Ira.
“It’s ’baout the only thing you didn’t tell him you was,” Aunt Mira
retorted.
Acknowledging which, Ira puffed at his pipe leisurely and contemplated
Aunt Mira with a whimsical air.
“I meant jes what I said, Ira Hasbrook,” said she.
“The kid’s all right,” said Ira. “He couldn’ hit nuthin further’n ten
feet. But he’s all right jes the same. We’re goin’ ter miss him, huh,
Auntie?”
But they did not miss him for long, for they were destined to see him
again before the day was over.