The match went out, but not before Cavvy had noticed the lengths of cord and realized their possibilities. Hastily picking them up, he turned the man over with some difficulty so that he lay upon his face. Five minutes later he had tied the fellow’s wrists firmly behind his back and made his ankles fast. Then he straightened up and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
His mind was in turmoil of doubt and fear and uncertainty. Up to this moment he had acted almost entirely on impulse—an impulse born of nervous fright and the sense of self preservation. He felt certain that in another moment the man would have discovered him and so he had struck instinctively. But now that the tension had relaxed for a moment he did not know what to do.
More than anything else he wanted desperately to get away as quickly as he could and follow Ferris and Ritter back to town where the whole business could be turned over to the proper authorities. He had had more than enough of meddling with anything so fraught with risk and danger as this proved to be, and he blamed himself bitterly for not realizing at first how things were likely to turn out.
But there was Micky. His strange disappearance and the discovery of his stick beside the door made Cavanaugh feel almost certain that his friend was in the house. Remembering what Ferris had said about the motor car that slowed down, he wondered whether the occupant, who might easily have been one of the gang of spies, might not have come suddenly upon McBride and made him a prisoner. The wind and rain up there in the tree top would easily have drowned any sounds of a slight scuffle.
At all events Cavvy couldn’t make up his mind to run away and leave his friend. He didn’t want to venture into that spooky house at all, but he felt that he must at least make a reconnoiter and find out whether what he suspected was true or not.
He glanced again at the man on the grass. The fellow was breathing heavily, but showed no other signs of returning consciousness. With a long breath, Cavvy gripped the stick tightly in one hand and stepping over the sprawling body he cautiously crossed the threshold. Noiselessly, in those rubber-soles which had already served him well that night, he tip-toed down the hall to the foot of the stairs, where he paused to glance around. Even in the semi-darkness, the ruinous, uninhabited look of the place was unmistakable. There was not a stick of furniture to be seen—nothing but odds and ends of rubbish, a few empty packing cases and layers upon layers of dust and cobwebs. Blotches of mold and mildew streaked the walls; a damp chill penetrated to his very marrow. On either side of the hall, doors opened into various rooms, but these rooms were dark, and it was evidently not on this floor that the activities of the wireless gang were centered.
Cavanaugh lost little time in the survey. His teeth were chattering with nervousness and cold and he wanted to be moving. From above still came an intermittent sound of movement and that same clink of metallic objects which he had been unable before to place. Whoever was up there had evidently not yet taken alarm, and Cavvy quickly decided that it would be safe to venture further.
He took the stairs slowly, keeping close to the wall to avoid awkward creakings. Presently his eyes reached the level of the floor above and he saw that the light came through an open door not far from the head of the stairs. Dropping on hands and knees, he crept up the few remaining steps, gained the door and peered eagerly through the crack.
From this point of vantage his glance swept curiously around the room. It was a large one, the walls streaked and spotted, with rotting remnants of paper hanging down in strips. The meager attempts at furnishing dotted the floor sparsely, like an oases in a desert. A bed, a table holding a small oil lamp, a couple of old chairs and a small, round stove thrust into the wide, old fashioned fireplace, practically comprised these furnishings.
But against the outer wall was the most interesting feature of them all and one which instantly riveted the boy’s attention. A wide, rough bench stood there holding a complete wireless apparatus. That is, it had been complete at no very distant time. Just now it was being dismantled as rapidly as the nimble fingers of the fat man could accomplish the task. His back was toward the door, but wires, screws, switches, and various other wireless parts lay about in confusion, while the twitching elbows projecting from the rear of that grotesque, massive figure told something of the feverish haste with which the demolition was being carried on.
The sight thrilled Cavvy and absorbed him for a moment. It looked decidedly as if the plotters had taken alarm and were making ready for a hurried flight. And the cause of that alarm was not difficult to locate. As Cavanaugh’s glance shifted again about the room, he started and narrowly escaped betraying himself by a surprised gasp.
Close to the open door and partly hidden by it, stood a straight backed wooden chair. Someone was sitting in it and for an instant Cavvy wondered if this was still another member of the gang. Then in a flash he realized that the person’s hands were tied together around the back of the chair, and recognized the crisp black hair and familiar profile of—Bill McBride!
Cavvy caught his breath and instinctively drew back. His heart was thumping violently and the hand which held the stick shook a little. Presently he managed to control himself and took another peep through the crack of the door. The fat man was still absorbed in dismantling the wireless, but it seemed certain that his companion’s absence must soon arouse his suspicions. Besides, though the man below was helpless, there was nothing to prevent his using his lungs as soon as he recovered consciousness.
“I’ve got to hustle,” thought the boy desperately. “I’ve got to cut that rope before something happens.”
Swiftly he laid the stick down on the hall floor and taking out his scout knife, opened the largest blade. Then he got down on hands and knees and crept to the doorway and across the threshold. The chair to which McBride was tied hid him from the fat man and another discovery heartened him not a little and brought a momentary sparkle to his eyes. The key was in the lock on the outside of the door. No doubt when the room was not in use it was kept carefully secured, and Cavvy realized comforting possibilities in the fact.
His chief worry at the moment was that Micky might give a start or an exclamation which would betray him. But fortunately the boy’s self control stood the test. As Cavvy, crouching behind the chair, pressed his knife blade across the knotted rope, there was a slight quiver of the bound hands, a swift drawn breath that was barely audible, but that was all. A moment later the severed rope slipped down and Cavanaugh gripped the other’s arm and drew him gently toward the door.
All would have gone well but for an abominably squeaky board. At the sound the fat man straightened with a jerk and whirled around.
“Quick!” cried Cavvy, jerking McBride across the threshold.
There was a bellow of rage from the fat man and a swift forward rush. The door crashed shut and the key clicked in a well oiled lock. Close together the two boys whirled around the newel post and tore downstairs, urged on by the muffled, angry cries and poundings on the door. At the foot of the stairs Micky stumbled and fell headlong, but Cavvy dragged him up and they gained the outer door.
The sprawling body of the man still lay across the threshold. But as they leaped over it and reached the open, a snarling curse burst from him followed by a volley of threats and execrations.
To these the boys paid no heed. Dashing around the corner of the house they made for the road as fast as the inky darkness and the unfamiliar ground permitted. Once they stumbled into the oozy margin of the stagnant pond. Again Cavanaugh ran against a rusty reaper abandoned in the grass and barked his shin painfully. They were constantly tripping and falling over unseen obstacles, but they never paused and at length they gained the belt of trees and undergrowth which surrounded the clearing.
Here they slowed down to get their breath and listen for sounds of possible pursuit.
“They’d—hardly come—this far,” panted Cavanaugh. “Do you—hear anything?”
“No,” gasped Micky. “Nothing but—the rain and—wind. Whew! I’m winded.”
For a space the silence was unbroken save by the sound of their suppressed panting. Then Cavvy turned and began to push through the undergrowth.
“Let’s be going,” he whispered. “It’ll take a while to find the road, I’m thinking.”
McBride followed. “You’re a pippin, old man, to get me out of that mess,” he said presently.
“That’s all right,” shrugged Cavvy. “How did you ever come to get into it?”
“Because I was a nut, I guess,” answered McBride in an apologetic tone. “All the same, he showed up so suddenly and jumped on me so quick, I honestly didn’t have a chance to do a thing—not even to let out a yell.”
“You mean the tall chap with the black beard?”
“Sure. I was standing there beside the door trying to follow you by the rustling you made,” McBride explained. “All at once there was the dickens of a flash in my eyes and the next second somebody grabbed me by the throat and half choked me. I squirmed around and kicked him on the shins a couple of times; then he must have choked me tighter, for I sort of went woozy and the next thing I knew I was inside the house and the door shut.”
“What happened then?” asked Cavvy interestedly.
“He dragged me upstairs and held me down in a chair, while the fat fellow tied my hands. They wanted to find out what I was doing there, of course. The tall guy didn’t talk much; just stood alongside and glowered. It was Fatty who asked the questions—about a thousand of ’em, I should say. He wanted to know who I was, and where I came from, and what I was doing there and a lot more. He was especially keen to know where the other fellows were, and I told him—” Micky gave a chuckle of satisfaction—“I told him we’d seen the wires and suspected a wireless, and the others had gone back to town to get the police.
“Say! It was worth a whole lot to see the way they took it. They were scared green—at least Fatty was. The other guy was madder than a hornet and worried some, too. I stuck to the yarn—of course it wasn’t true, Cavvy, but you’ve got to stretch things sometimes with skunks like that, haven’t you? And after all it was only what we would have done in a little while. Well, the two went off in a corner and gassed a lot. Finally Fatty began taking down the wireless and the big guy pussy-footed out of the room and down stairs.”
“Did you hear anything a little while after he’d gone?” asked Cavanaugh interestedly.
“I thought I did, but I wasn’t sure. I was worried stiff, because it seemed as if he might sneak out and nab you when you came down from the tree. So I listened as well as I could and after a while I heard what sounded like a thump. But I couldn’t be sure, for just then Fatty dropped a coil on the floor and it made the dickens of a racket. Was there a thump?”
“There was,” returned Cavvy grimly. “I was standing just outside the door when your friend opened it, and I beaned him with your stick.”
Briefly, and with many interruptions caused by their progress through the thickets toward the road, he went on to relate what followed and then returned to a consideration of the second man.
“How did he come at you, Bill?” he asked. “Was it from the house?”
“No, he couldn’t have. I was standing right beside the door and it never opened, I’m sure. He must have come around the corner of the building and snapped a flashlight on me.”
“The motor car,” murmured Cavvy to himself. “It was just as I thought.”
Instead of passing, the car must have stopped and the man made his way to the house unperceived by the waiting Ferris and Ritter. For a moment Cavvy considered the possibility of hunting up that car and driving back in it to town. Then he realized that still another member of the gang might have been left in it, and abandoned the idea. While he was still lamenting the necessity of this, they pushed through a final fringe of bushes and stepped out on the road.
“There’s nothing else but to hoof it back to town,” he said in a low tone. “We ought— Listen!”
They both held their breath and in the ensuing silence they heard the throbbing of a motor, growing rapidly louder and more distinct.
“It’s a car coming!” exclaimed McBride excitedly. “Do you suppose Rit and Champ could have—”
He broke off abruptly as a flash of light suddenly illumined the mist. Brighter it grew and brighter still. Then all at once two brilliant headlights popped into view and behind them another pair.
“Guess we’ll take a chance,” muttered Cavanaugh.
He stepped out in the middle of the road and held up both hands. His figure stood out clearly in the glare of the approaching lamps and presently, with a jarring grind of brakes, the foremost car slowed down and came to a standstill a few feet away.
“We’ve got ’em, Cavvy,” shrilled Ritter’s voice from the depths of the tonneau. “A farmer down the road drove us to town and we found—”
Cavanaugh did not hear the rest. His eyes were fixed on the welcome and familiar face of the County Sheriff, who had stepped out into the road followed by several deputies. There were others in the second car, and a few moments later the boy was hastily explaining the situation to a group of keen-eyed, competent looking men gathered about him.
“The car’s the first thing,” stated Sheriff Mardon crisply. “They’ll try to get away in that. Scatter along the road, fellows. It’s likely run into the bushes a ways. Hustle, now!”
There were plenty of lanterns and flashlights, and by their aid the search began. It was quickly over. Cavvy had lingered behind to have a word with the other two scouts when, from a point a hundred yards or so ahead there came a sudden bedlam of voices and the sounds of a scuffle. The scouts dashed forward at a run, but when they reached the spot the brief excitement was over.
Along one side of the road, its hood just protruding from the bushes, stood a small car with all lights out. In front of it were two hatless figures with hands upraised, who glared malevolently at the circle of officers surrounding them.
“These your men?” asked the sheriff curtly as Cavvy came up.
The latter nodded and the sheriff turned to a deputy beside him.
“Take ’em in charge, George,” he said. “Three or four of you men had better stay with him. Don’t take any chances of their slipping off. Now, son, suppose you show us where this plant is.”
Five minutes later they were standing in the upper room of the deserted house, which showed every sign of a hurried flight. The sheriff viewed what remained of the wireless outfit with a grim smile.
“Caught with the goods,” he said in a tone of satisfaction. “It’s a case for the Department of Justice, all right. I’ll leave a couple of deputies ’till their man can take charge.” He turned to Cavanaugh. “You kids have done a mighty good day’s work, son,” he stated. “I want to hear all about how you came to think it out. Suppose you drop in at my office to-morrow and—” He broke off, his eyes widening. “Why, you’re the boy scout who sold me Liberty Bonds, ain’t you?”
Cavvy nodded, his eyes twinkling.
“Ha! ha!” laughed the man. “Got me to take twice as much as I was going to, at that. Well, it was a good job even if I did get stung, and now you’ve done a better one. Let’s get a going. Don’t forget to come and tell me all about this in the morning.”
On the stairs Cavvy heard the big, burly fellow chuckle again.
“I’ll be hanged,” he muttered. “Boy Scouts!”
Private John Farren of Seattle, glanced listlessly out of the barracks’ window and sighed. It was not a very cheerful view. The snow drove past his vision in fine, slanting lines that veiled and softened the raw outlines of the building across the cantonment street. It had been falling steadily all night, and Farren was tired of the soft, monotonous brush of icy particles against the glass. It took very little today to tire him. A month in the contagious ward of a camp hospital is apt to weaken nerves as well as body, and Farren had come out only the afternoon before.
A laugh from the other end of the room, loud, hearty, a little strident, brought a frown to his face and made him lift languidly on one elbow to glance across the rows of neat cots to where a group of men in khaki was gathered intimately in the further corner. There were six or eight of them, bright-eyed, alert, pleasant looking chaps. Their uniforms were still a trifle new, perhaps, but already there was a touch of the soldierly in carriage and bearing in spite of the brief tenure of their training.
Yet Farren, after a single glance, dropped back on his cot, a pang of bitterness in his heart. That was the very corner where he had been wont to gather with his chum, Dick Harley, with chuckling, smiling Bruce Ballard, with lank, taciturn MacComber, and a dozen other of those men whom six months of close association had transformed from strangers into the most intimate of friends.
Where were they now, these men who had come to mean so much to him? In France, no doubt. He could not tell. He only knew that while he lay helpless in the hospital his regiment had gone, bag and baggage, leaving him behind. The nature of his illness made it impossible for them to even come and say good-by. He had returned yesterday to the barracks which had been his home for months to find it full of strangers—strangers who had already acquired an air of permanent possession, which made him feel, curiously, as if he were the rookie and they the old established veterans.
The newcomers had not been deliberately indifferent. It was simply that they had already formed their little cliques and friendships. And with Christmas day at hand, there was the exciting lottery of leave to occupy them, the interest of Christmas letters and Christmas parcels to fill their minds. An added obstacle, too, was Farren’s lassitude and weakness, which made the mere act of friendly overture an effort he could not bring himself to tackle. So he simply slipped back into his place, silent, reserved, desperately lonely. He did not even try for leave. Of what use would that be to him when he knew no one in the East and had no place to go? Once, to be sure, he thought of the Boy Scouts he had come to know so pleasantly. They were mighty nice chaps, and he felt they liked him. But at this season they were probably too full of Christmas fun and excitement to give him even a thought.
A lump rose in Farren’s throat, his lids drooped defendingly. And out of the sheltering darkness, the soft swish of snow sounding in his ears, there rose a picture of—Home! There were dear, familiar faces in that picture, shadowy familiar objects in its background. And because Farren was young and rather weak and very lonely, he clung desperately to the illusion, quite failing to hear the click of a door opening or the rapid thud of feet across the bare boards. The footsteps ceased abruptly and there came a momentary pause. Then a low, eager voice broke through his reverie.
“Jack! Are you asleep?”
Farren’s lids flashed up and he blinked dazedly. Beside the cot a boy of fifteen looked down on him—a red-cheeked, dark-eyed boy with snow powdering his mackinaw and clinging to hair and lashes. Farren’s eyes widened, his lips parted in a smile.
“Why, Micky!” he cried, struggling to a sitting posture. “When did you blow in?”
“This minute. I’ve just come from the hospital.” He caught the man’s thin, white fingers and squeezed them tightly. “Gee! but I’m glad to see you out, Jack!” he exclaimed. “It’s been perfect ages.”
Farren smiled wrily. “It has that,” he agreed. “I began to think they were going to keep me there forever.”
“How are you feeling?” asked McBride, sitting down on the side of the cot. “A little rocky yet?”
“Sort of,” nodded Farren. “I’ll pick up, though, in a day or so. It—it just seems a little queer getting back and finding—”
A roar of laughter came from the far corner of the room and he broke off, wincing unconsciously. The boy, following the direction of his glance, nodded comprehendingly.
“I know,” he said in a low tone. “It’s beastly! But maybe they’ll send you after them. We—we saw them off at the station. It was great, but it made me feel—sort of queer. They gave us all sorts of messages for you—Dick and Mac and Bruce, and all the others. They said—”
He paused. Farren had turned abruptly and was staring out at the driving snow. For a moment the boy hesitated. Then one hand reached out and gently touched the other’s sleeve. A moment later, his voice, elaborately casual, broke the silence.
“Can you get leave this afternoon, Jack?”
“Leave? What for? What would I do with it?”
Farren’s tone was dull and listless, but his face softened a little as he looked into Micky’s eager, smiling eyes.
“Don’t you worry about that,” the boy answered. “We’ll see you have enough to do. I’ll bet the old man would let you off now if you asked him. You’ve been sick and all that, and I don’t believe you’re fit to do any work yet. Come ahead and try. We want you for all day. Cavvy’s waiting outside with a sleigh. I don’t believe you ever had a sleigh ride before. They don’t have any snow in Seattle, do they?”
“Not often,” admitted Farren. He hesitated a moment longer and then stood up slowly. His curiosity was roused, and unconsciously his load of depression was lightening. “What the deuce have you boys got up your sleeves?” he asked doubtfully.
Micky’s eyes danced. “That’s a secret,” he grinned. “You just go and get off for all day and leave the rest to us.”
Farren smiled back at the boy, a pleasant glow stealing over him. After all there were some who seemed to care whether or not he spent Christmas day lying around the barracks. His glance strayed to McBride’s legs, neatly encased in khaki.
“You’re all dolled up in your scout clothes,” he remarked, reaching for his overcoat.
“Sure! This is a scout stunt—sort of. Here let’s hold that for you. Where’s your hat? Oh, I see. There! Now, let’s get going. We’ve got a lot of things to do yet, and it’s getting later every minute.”
He slipped an arm through Farren’s, and together they walked the length of the barracks and out into the storm. As the door closed behind them the man was conscious of a sense of relief, as if in that act he had shut behind him, also, a host of memories and regrets and unattainable longings. For a time, at least, he was free from the bitterness of the past and the uncertainty of the future. His eyes brightened and a faint color came into his face. Life wasn’t such an entirely hopeless business, after all, he thought as he tilted his hat against the driving snow.
There proved to be no difficulty in getting leave for the day, and almost before he realized it they had reached the cantonment entrance and found Jim Cavanaugh driving a sleigh slowly up and down the road. His greeting was quite as eager and enthusiastic as McBride’s had been; and presently, tucked between the two, thick furs drawn up to his chin, Farren relaxed with a contented sigh. The snow drove against his face, bringing the blood tingling responsive to his cheeks. The merry jingle of the bells sounded in his ears. On either hand the white countryside swept by, veiled, mysterious, pleasantly unfamiliar behind that curtain of flying particles.
Pleasantly mysterious, too, was their destination. Farren tried to wheedle something out of the boys, but both refused to give him any satisfaction. They were full of news, having quantities of things to tell him of what had happened during his illness. Chief among them was the exciting incident of the hidden wireless and how the captured men had proved to be German spies of the most flagrant type.
Seeing that his curiosity must remain ungratified, Farren resigned himself to the inevitable and listened with much interest to the tale, which culminated in the arrival of Government Secret Service agents, who heartily congratulated the scouts and carried off the plotters to, as Cavvy put it—“Goodness knows where.”
After all, there was a distinct pleasure in just sitting there, warm, comfortable, relaxed, taking part in the boys’ gay chatter, conscious of their friendly interest with back of it all that intangible sense of a surprise party looming in the future.
In the town they made several stops where bulky, mysterious looking parcels were tucked into the back of the sleigh, adding to the feeling of festivity. Farren rather expected that they would then head for one of the boys’ homes, where he would probably be invited to take part in the family Christmas dinner. But to his surprise Cavanaugh drove straight down the main street and on out into the country again.
“Look here, son,” he said with mock severity, “you’re not going to try any kidnapping stunt, I hope. Don’t forget I’ve got to report back at camp before nine o’clock, or it’ll be the guard house for mine.”
Cavvy grinned. “Don’t worry,” he laughed. “We’ll return you before that in first class shape, charges paid and all the rest of it.”
“Only the parcel will be a few pounds heavier than when it was posted,” chuckled McBride.
Farren smiled, but inwardly was puzzled. So it was a Christmas dinner, then—but where? He knew most of the Wharton scouts well; a few of them intimately. Not one, so far as he could recall, lived as far out as this.
His bewilderment increased when the cutter left the main road and turned to the right into a country road that led back into the hills. It curved along, winding through bits of woods, past level white stretches which might have been swamp or meadow land, or between bush-strewn pastures. The storm had lessened a little and presently the red front of a low farm house loomed warmly through the snow. But they passed that, too, and a little later, when Cavanaugh pulled the horse again sharply to the right into a narrow, twisting track, Farren gave up all speculation, and settled back comfortably to enjoy his outing.
The road was steep as well as narrow and the horse took it at a walk. On either side towered great pines and hemlocks, their laden branches sweeping almost to the ground. Yet here and there through little openings one could glimpse the close-set ranks of dark trunks standing out sharply against the snow, which seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Still climbing steadily, they made a turn and presently another. Then the track levelled abruptly, and in another moment they came out into an open space and stopped.
“Well, here we are,” said McBride, throwing aside the fur robes.
Farren’s eyes swept the clearing interestedly. It seemed to be a bare, rocky shoulder on one of the high hills which looked down on Wharton. From here, on fine days, one could no doubt get a widespread view of hill and dale and open country. But Farren was not thinking of the view just now. His attention was riveted on the structure of logs which stood before him, nestling against a background of pines. It was a log cabin, long, low, with an overhanging roof and a great stone chimney rising at one end. Out of the chimney smoke curled; the small-paned window glowed with the cheery gleam of fire; the tang of burning wood came pleasantly to his senses. And as he stared, heedless for the moment of Cavvy’s question of how he liked it, the door flew open and a horde of boys in scout uniform burst out pell-mell and clustered around the sleigh.
“Merry Christmas!” they shouted exuberantly. “Merry Christmas, Jack! How’s the boy? It’s great to see you again. Lay off him, you roughnecks; don’t paw him to pieces. Give him a chance to get his breath.”
Farren grinned broadly as he stepped from the sleigh into the throng of dancing, excited youngsters. “I certainly need it,” he laughed, ruffling one boy’s hair and slapping another on the back. “You fellows put one over on me this time, all right. But how did it ever come to be here? You didn’t build it yourselves, did you?”
“Alas, no!” returned Cavvy. “Not that we aren’t capable of it if it had been necessary, you understand. But we put some magnificent finishing touches to the interior and furnished it completely. We wanted it to be a surprise for you and Dick and the others. But before we got it quite ready they—they went, so you’re the only one left to take part in the house warming. Come ahead in and look the joint over. Furn, hold the horse a minute, will you?”
He took Farren’s arm, and with Micky on the other side, and the remainder of the boys trailing behind, they tramped through the snow to the open door and stepped inside.
And there they paused, the man surprised, fascinated. He had been prepared, no matter what he found, to show surprise and approval if for no other reason than to satisfy the boyish pride of his hosts. But as it happened there was no pretense necessary; his emotion was entirely genuine and very keen.
The interior was a single room some twenty-five feet long and over half as wide, the walls of pine logs carefully trimmed and notched, with joints made tight with cement. Opposite the door yawned a cavernous fireplace of rough stone in which a pile of four foot logs roared and crackled.
That much there had been on that October night when the scouts first occupied the cabin; otherwise one would have scarcely have recognized it as the same place. Another pair of bunks had been added to match the first. Over the fireplace hung a fine moosehead beautifully mounted, and here and there above the windows or on the walls were other horns of elk, caribou or deer. There were several bear skins on the floor, shelves containing tinware and dishes, several big, comfortable armchairs, a heavy table piled with packages and boxes. And hanging from the rafters, or festooned about the antlers or along the walls, thick ropes of hemlock mingled with glossy mountain laurel lent a festive note to the picture and filled the room with the pungent fragrance of Christmastide.
It was a picture to stir the imagination of any boy, old or young, and John Farren was stirred deeply. In that instant as he stared around, there came to him a vivid memory of the hunter’s shack on the Pacific slope which he had found and renovated with such pride in those boyhood days which now seemed so remote and far away. Swift on the heels of this, there flashed over him in one queer mental medley, the thought of home, of Christmas trees, of his mother’s smiling face, his little sister’s shrill, sweet laugh. And mixed up with those fleeting brain pictures, were vague, blurred visions of skates and toys and candy—even of stockings hung before another fire whose ashes had been cold a thousand years.
He blinked—and was back in the present again, the boys clustered around him, the real fire hot against his face. “It’s great, fellows—simply great!” he said in a voice which was not quite steady. “I never saw anything so corking as—”
He paused, his gaze fixed incredulously on the rough oak slab which formed the mantel. A long, black stocking hung there, bulging, distended, and for a moment he thought his brain was playing tricks. Then someone behind him snickered and Cavanaugh gave him a gentle forward push.
“Santa Claus was here and left that with your name on it, Jack,” he chuckled. “Better take a look at it. The kids are itching to see what’s in it.”
Amidst a laughing chorus of denial from the youngsters, Farren stepped quickly forward. The stocking was very real and solid to the touch, bulging along its length with mysterious, suggestive bumps and corners. Pinned to the top was a card on which was written in painstaking script: “J. Farren; Merry Christmas.” Farren read it slowly; then he laughed—a sudden, bubbling, infectious laugh, and faced around, the stocking in his hands.
“He’s a great old scout, isn’t he?” he chuckled. “Think of his knowing I was going to be here when I didn’t even know it myself! He must have had some silent partners about. Where’s a chair? I’ve got to sit down and take this slowly. I haven’t had a Christmas stocking for goodness knows how long.”
He dragged one of the big chairs up to the table and with the boys crowding around, he began to empty the stocking. It was crammed with parcels of various sizes, some neatly tied in tissue with red ribbons, others showing the work of clumsy fingers in their rumpled, wrinkled wrappings. But each separate one, as its contents was revealed, bore evidence in some way of painstaking thought, of kindness, even of sacrifice. There was a jack-knife, new and shining in its chamois case, a money belt, a leather covered shaving glass. There were packets of writing paper, some handkerchiefs, soap, chocolate, a box of cigarettes, besides many other articles of utility or luxury. As he opened them, Farren kept up a brisk running fire of comment and approval, but when they all lay spread before him, he sat motionless for a moment, his head a little bent.
“This is corking of you, fellows—simply corking,” he said presently in a low tone. “It’s the nicest thing that ever happened to me, and I—I won’t forget it in a hurry.” He raised his head and flashed about the circle a smile of gratitude and appreciation. “I can’t say any more than—thank you; but I mean that a thousand times, and I want to shake hands with every one of you.”
He stood up abruptly, releasing the slight touch of embarrassment which, for just an instant, had held them silent. When the handshakings were over the cabin resounded again with a babel of talk and laughter, which presently merged into the bustle of preparation, for it appeared that a regular Christmas dinner was to be cooked and served.
Farren was eager to help, but his offers were firmly refused, and he was ordered to make himself comfortable by the fire while the others got busy.
“Of course, if you see anything being done wrong, you can draw our attention to it,” said Jim Cavanaugh, his eyes twinkling. “A fellow can’t remember everything all the time.”
“I guess you’ll remember more than I should,” laughed Farren. “What I don’t know about cooking would fill a large volume.”
“We’re none of us experts,” admitted Cavvy. “Still, I reckon we’ll make out somehow.”
In spite of his modesty, the work went forward in a businesslike manner which betokened either uncommon culinary skill, or a good deal of expert advice obtained beforehand. Farren drew up a chair to one side of the blaze and watched everything interestedly, keeping up a running fire of joke and comment with the cooks and their helpers. Once or twice he got up and strolled about the room, admiring the furnishings and decorations, and each time a scout or two accompanied him to make sure he missed no special feature.
But gradually the interest centered around the fireplace. The fire had been allowed to die down and a thick bed of glowing coals raked forward to accommodate the various cooking operations which were going forward in every available corner of the wide stone hearth. Sweet potatoes boiled merrily in one receptacle; onions in another. From a heavy iron crane above them hung a large and ample kettle, a trickle of steam rising from its spout. These, however, were minor details of the banquet, interesting as accessories, but of no real importance compared with the principal dish which occupied the center of the stage and absorbed the anxious attention of the entire assemblage.
In the middle of the hearth stood a heavy iron grate supporting a large tin oven. Cavanaugh, and Steve Haddon, who was in from Washington for a week, squatted before it, each holding an iron poker with which, at frequent intervals, they raked forward fresh coals to replenish the heap beneath the grate. And at intervals almost as frequent one or the other opened the oven door to peer within. Their movements were followed anxiously by every scout not otherwise fully occupied, and there was no lack of advice from the many onlookers. This was received by the two cooks with contemptuous jeers, but there was, nevertheless, a slight touch of tension in their manner, a decided caution of movement, a keen attention to details. For in that oven, trussed, stuffed already delicately browning, reposed—the turkey!
“Mother wanted us to have it cooked at home and just warm it up in the cabin,” explained Cavvy to Farren with a touch of scorn. “But, gee! What’s the use of having a turkey if you can’tsmellit cooking!”
“There’s nothing like it,” agreed the soldier, sniffing the air appreciatively. “Doesn’t it make you hungry, though?”
“You’ve said it!” came in unison from several lips.
“You’re sure it won’t get burned, Cavvy?” added McBride, who had charge of the onions.
“What do you think we’re sitting here watching it for?” retorted Cavanaugh with some heat. “You look after those onions and don’t bother about the turkey. I’ll bet you haven’t made the cream sauce yet.”
“Rit’s mixing it up now.”
“Well, he wants to get some speed on. This bird will be dished up in twenty minutes sharp, and we want all the other grub ready by that time. How are the potatoes, Red?”
Flushed but smiling, Red Garrity withdrew the fork he had just plunged into the bubbling pail. “Just about done,” he answered.
“Better set ’em off to one side, then, and about five minutes before we’re ready you can peel them and put ’em on a plate. When he gets out of there, Chick, you slick on the plum pudding to heat.”
To most of them that twenty minutes dragged interminably, but like all other similar periods of waiting, it came to an end at last. When all the other accessories of the banquet had been placed on the carefully set table, Cavanaugh and Haddon together lifted the oven from the fire to the hearth and removed the steaming fowl to a platter placed in readiness. There was a moment of gasping suspense as Cavvy brushed one hand against the hot metal and nearly dropped his end of the load. But he hung on, and the calamity was averted at the expense of a red ridge across three fingers. A moment later the turkey was laid triumphantly on the board and the boys scrambled to their places, with sighs of mingled relief and anticipation.
The latter were more than justified. No turkey, it seemed to them, had ever been so plump and juicy, so tender, so crisply brown, so succulent of dressing. The creamed onions were delicious, the potatoes done to a turn, the brown gravy plentiful and thick. They ate and ate, and passed their plates for more. When the first pangs of hunger had been assuaged, jesting and banter began to run up and down the table, compliments phrased in the inverse to terms of boyhood were showered upon the cooks, who tried not to look too proud as they themselves enthusiastically consumed the products of their skill.
John Farren’s enjoyment of the meal was utter and complete. The food really was delicious, but better than any material pleasure was the mental relaxation that had come to him. His troubles had quite vanished, his laugh rang clear and unrestrained, and he joined in the joking give and take with all the mischievous abandon of a boy.
So the feast passed on to its predestined end. And when the turkey lay dismembered on its platter, looking like the yawning wreck of some stranded derelict, when the plum pudding had vanished save for a few crumbs and every other dish was scraped quite clean, the boys arose with sighs of repletion and gathered around the fireplace. Fresh logs were piled upon the embers, skins dragged up, and they crowded in a close semi-circle before the blaze with Farren in the center.
Outside the early dusk had fallen, the whispering touch of snow flakes brushed against window panes or across the roof. Now and again the wind howled eerily in the chimney. But inside the cabin was only warmth and cheer and comradeship. And as the dancing flames lit up that circles of boyish faces, some flushed and drowsy, others bright-eyed and alert, each one meeting his own glance now and then with a friendly smile, Farren thrilled oddly. McBride sat close on one side of him, little Furn Barber nestled against the other. And presently, when the small boy began to nod, Farren slid an arm around his shoulder and drew the tousled head down upon his knee. How could he have thought the world cold and lonely, he wondered?
They did not sit long in silence. There were jokes and laughter, a story or two, and presently someone started up a song. But all too soon came the jingle of bells and the muffled stamping of the horse, brought up from the red farm house below.
“I hate to break up the party,” said Cavanaugh, scrambling to his feet; “but you know we promised to return you on time.”
“I know.” Farren stood up, smiling a little at Barber’s dazed awakening. “I’m not the least bit keen to leave, but of course I must.”
It was not easy to tell them what that day had meant to him. They could not understand it all; he hoped they never would. But when he had finished, at least they knew that he was grateful. There was a brisk bustle of handshaking, a chorus of good-bys, and he was in the sleigh, looking back at the open door filled with smiling faces and wildly waving hands. Then the faces blurred into mere outlines, black against the glow of the fire, the friendly voices grew fainter, there came a turn in the path and the cabin vanished.