When first I arrived at Golden Crescent, I was not a little worried as to whether or not there would be sufficient work in the store and on the property to keep two men busy. It did not take me long to discover that there really was not; but then, few people in and around that easy-going little settlement cared about being very busy. Still, when Jake and I wished for work, there was always enough of it at hand; just as, when we felt inclined to be idle, there was no very special reason why we should not, for there seldom was anything calling for immediate accomplishment unless it were the transporting of goods from the up-going steamers to the store and the putting up of camp orders. I did not have to concern myself much over the fixing of leaky boats, the building and repairing of fences, the erection of any small sheds or buildings required, the felling of trees, the sawing and splitting up of our winter supply of fuel, the raising and feeding of our very small poultry family and the tending of the garden. These had been Jake's departments before my coming, and, as he looked after them as no other man I knew could have done, they remained his especial cares.
Jake was never tremendously occupied, yet he always was doing something during the day time,—something worth while, something that showed.
However, when there was a particularly big wash-up on the beach of stray timber logs from some of the booms travelling along the coast, both Jake and I had to knuckle down with a will and an energy in order to push them off with the next out-going tide so as to prevent them jamming and piling on our tidy, clear and well-kept foreshore.
Outside of an almost unnecessary supervision, the store was my only care; consequently, once things were running properly, I had lots of time on my hands to fish over by Rita's Isle if I so desired, to shoot in the woods behind when the inclination seized me, to swim, to smoke, or read and daydream as fancy dictated.
I thrived on the life. Maybe, I grew lazy. Anyway, I enjoyed every minute of it, working or idling, waking or sleeping.
I soon got to know the men from the Camps, and they me. With the knowledge of them came an ever-increasing regard and admiration for those simple, uncomplaining, hard-working, easily led world-wanderers, who, most of them, were ever ready to gamble all they had on the toss of a coin or the throw of a die and, if they lost, laugh, and start off afresh.
That there were evilly disposed men among them,—men who would stop at nothing,—men who, already, had stopped at nothing,—I knew, but with most of them, their hearts were good.
Joe Clark did not honour me with a visit for many a day after our first encounter. Almost I had begun to congratulate myself that he had decided to let slumbering dogs lie, when, one afternoon, as I was sorting the newly arrived and scanty mail, I was surprised to find a letter bearing the name of Dow, Cross & Sneddon of Vancouver and addressed:—
Mr. George Bremner,Superintendent, Golden Crescent Trading Co.,Golden Crescent Bay, B. C.
Hello! I thought; Joe Clark at last has been putting some of his threats into execution. Now for the fireworks!
I opened the envelope and found that my conjecture was a wrong one and that Joe Clark's knife for me,—if he had one,—was not yet sharpened.
"Dear Sir," the letter ran,
"We have received a letter from Messrs. Eldergrove & Price, Solicitors for the property adjoining that of the Golden Crescent Co.'s, informing us that some friends of the owner have permission from him to occupy his house at Golden Crescent. This refers to the house in proximity to the wharf and the store. It is at present boarded up.
"Two Japanese women will arrive by the steamerCloochmanat the end of the week to open up, air, clean out the house and put it in order. These cleaners will return to Vancouver by the same steamer on her southward journey the following week.
"This letter is written simply to inform you of the facts, so that you may know that nothing illegal is going on.
"Of course, we are in no way interested in this property.
"Yours truly,"DOW, CROSS & SNEDDON."
I showed the letter to Jake, who expressed a fear that the Bay was becoming "a damned pleasure resort," as this would make the second time in five years that visitors had been staying in that house. On the strength of the news, he drank an extra half-cup of whisky, then said, for decency's sake he would row out and bring the Japs ashore when theCloochmancame in.
Two shy, pretty, little women they proved, who thanked Jake with smiles and profuse bows, much to that old rascal's confusion. They were all bustle and work. They had the boards down from the windows and had the doors and windows wide open five minutes after they got ashore. Morning, noon and night, they were scrubbing, washing, beating, dusting, polishing and airing, until I was more inquisitive than an old maid's cat to view the results of their labours. But my sense of propriety overcame my curiosity, and, for the time being, I remained in ignorance.
One night, after the little workers had gone back to Vancouver, I was lying in my bed enjoying Robert Louis Stevenson's "Virginibus Puerisque," when I fancied I heard the throbbing of a gasoline launch. I rose and looked out at the open window; but it was one of those inky-black nights, without either moon or stars, a night when even the sea became invisible,—so I saw nothing.
When the throbbing ceased, I heard the sound of oars and, as a small boat evidently neared the shore, there came a sound of voices, both male and female.
Two trips were made from the launch, one bearing the people, I presumed, the other conveying their baggage. I had no doubt in my mind that my new neighbours were arriving, although I might have been stone-blind so far as anything being visible was concerned.
It was chilly standing there at the window, in the night air, in my pyjamas. The nights were always chilly at Golden Crescent. So I went back to bed, determined to wait and see what the morrow would disclose.
My first glance out of doors, early next morning, materialised what I had a vague notion might have been a dream. There was no sign of any stir in the house across the little, wooden, rustic bridge that connected it, over a narrow creek, with the roadway leading to the store. That was only natural, as, in all probability, the travellers were journey-weary. But a freshly painted rowing boat, with light oars, was made fast to the off side of the wharf, while several leather travelling bags and other packages were piled on the veranda of that house over the way.
I had shaved, parted my hair at its most becoming angle and dressed myself with particular care that morning, going to the extent of sewing a burst seam in my breeches and polishing my leggings; all in anticipation of a visit from the new arrivals, thinking they would be almost certain to call at the store that forenoon to arrange for their supplies.
I dusted the shelves, polished the scales, put the sacks of potatoes where they belonged, mopped up some molasses that had escaped to the floor from a leaky can and swept out the store; then I waited in blissful anticipation for my new customers.
I caught a glimpse of Jake in the distance. In some strange, wireless-telepathic manner, he must have got wind of what had occurred during the night, for I noticed that he had been suddenly attacked by the same fever for cleanliness and smartness as I had been. He had turned his neckcloth, and the clean side of it was now trying to delude the innocent outside world that it (the neckcloth) had been freshly washed. Mike,—bad luck to his drunken carcass,—looked sick and appeared to be slowly recovering from the evil effects of a bath.
As the morning wore on I saw an elderly, rotund lady come out to the veranda and take the baggage inside. That was the only bit of excitement that happened, after all my preparations.
Later, a launch called from Camp No. 1, with an order for a thousand and one different commodities, and all required right away. That put idle, inquisitive thoughts out of my head for the remainder of the forenoon.
I got out of my best clothes, donned a half-dirty shirt, a suit of overalls and a pair of old boots, then got busy selecting, sorting and packing until my brow was moist and my hair was awry.
I had just got rid of the men and was standing surveying my topsy-turvy store, with everything lying around in tremendous confusion and all requiring to be set to rights again before I would know where to lay my hands on a single article; when a melodious, but rather measured, feminine voice, in the vicinity of my left shoulder, startled me into consternation.
A young lady, almost of a height with me, was standing by my side, while a stout, elderly lady,—the same lady I had seen on the veranda over the way,—was filling the doorway.
I was messy all over with flour dust, brown earth from the potato sacks, grease and grime. I had slipped at the water edge while assisting the loggers to load their goods, and this did not contribute to the improvement of my personal appearance. I wiped my hands on my damp overalls, and my hands came out of the contact worse than before.
"I wish to see the manager," demanded the melodious voice, its owner raising her skirts and displaying,—ah, well!—and stepping over some excelsior packing which lay in her way.
"Your wish is granted, lady," I answered.
"Are you the manager?" she asked, raising her eyebrows in unfeigned astonishment.
"I have that honour, madam," I responded with a bow, but not daring to look at her face in my then dishevelled state.
"I am Miss Grant," she said.
"Miss Grant! Pleased to meet you."
I shoved out a grimy paw, like the fool I was. When it was too late, I remembered my position and brought the paw back to my side.
The young lady had already drawn herself up with an undefinable dignity.
It was a decided snub, and well merited, so I could hardly blame her.
I saw, in the hurried glimpse I got of her then, that she was hatless and that her hair was a great crown of wavy, burnished gold, radiating in the sunlight that streamed through the doorway despite the obstruction of the young lady's companion.
"It is our intention to live at Golden Crescent for some time, sir. I understand we may purchase our supplies here?"
"Yes! madam,—miss."
I backed, in order to get round to my proper side of the counter. But, unfortunately, I backed without looking; I stumbled over an empty box and sprawled like a clown into the corner, landing incontinently among bundles of brooms and axe handles.
Never in all my life did I feel so insignificant or so foolish as then. The very devil himself seemed to have set his picked imps after me; for it was my habit, ordinarily, to be neither dirty as I was then, nor clownish as I must have appeared.
To put it mildly, I was deeply embarrassed, and at a woman, too. Oh! the degradation of it.
As I rose, I fancied that my ears caught the faintest tinkle of a laugh. I turned my frowning eyes on the young lady, but she was a very owl for inscrutable solemnity. I looked over at the elderly person in the doorway; she was smiling upon me with a most exasperating benignity.
"What kind of business do you run here?" asked the self-possessed young lady.
"Strictly cash, miss,—excepting the Camps and the better class of settlers."
"I did not inquirehowyou ran your business, but what kind of business you ran," she retorted icily. "Of course,—we shall pay as we purchase."
I was hastening from bad to worse. I could have bitten my tongue out or kicked myself. With a tremendous effort, I pulled myself together and assumed as much dignity as was possible in my badly ruffled internal and external condition.
"Are there any men about the place?" she asked, changing the subject with disconcerting suddenness.
I flushed slightly at the taunt.
"N-no! miss," I replied, in my best shop-keeper tone, "sorry,—but we are completely out of them."
She must have detected the flavour of sarcasm, for her lips relaxed for the briefest moment, and a smile was born which showed two rows of even white teeth. I ventured a smile in return, but it proved a sorry and an unfortunate one, for it killed hers ruthlessly and right at the second of its birth, too.
I almost waited for her to tell me I was "too fresh," but she did not do so. She had a more telling way. She simply wilted me with a silent reserve that there was no combating.
Only on one or two occasions had I encountered that particular shade of reserve that adjusts everything around to its proper sphere and level without hurting, and it was always in elderly, aristocratic, British Duchesses; never in a young lady with golden hair and eyes,—well! at that time, I could not tell the colour of her eyes, but there was something in them that completed a combination that I seemed to have been hunting for all my life and had never been able to find.
"Mr. Store-keeper," she commenced again.
I felt like tearing my hair and crying aloud. "Mr. Store-keeper," forsooth.
"You appear anxious to misconstrue me. Let me explain,—please."
I bowed contritely. What else could I do?
"This afternoon, I have a piano,—boxed,—coming by the steamerSiwash. I would like if you could find me some assistance to get it ashore and placed in my house."
She said it so easily and it sounded so simple. But what a poser it was! Bring a full-fledged piano from a steamer three hundred yards out in the Bay, land it and place it in a house on the top of a rock. Heaven help the piano! I thought, as I gaped at her in bewilderment.
"Oh!—of course," she put in hurriedly, toying with the chain of her silver purse,—"if you are afraid to tackle it, why!—I'll—we shall do it ourselves."
She turned on her heel.
She looked so determined that I had not the least doubt but that she would have a go at it anyway.
"Not at all,—not at all. It will be a pleasure,—I am sure," I said quickly, as if I had been reared all my life on piano-moving.
She turned and smiled; a real, full-grown, able-bodied, entrancing, mischievous smile, and all of it full on the dirty, grimy individual,—me.
"It does not happen to be the kind of piano one can take to pieces, Miss Grant, is it?" I asked.
"It is," she answered, "but that one might not be able to put it together again."
It was another bull's eye for the lady.
She went on. "I have never received a piano,—knocked down."
Something inside of me sniggered at the phrase, for it was purely a business one. But I was too busy just then figuring the ins and outs of the matter to give way to any hilarity.
"Thanks so much! What a relief!" she sighed, with a nod to her silent companion, who nodded in return.
"Oh!—may I have five cents' worth of pins,—Mister, Mister——"
"Mr. Bremner," I added.
"Thank you!"
"Hair pins, hat pins, safety pins or clothes pins?" I queried.
"Just pins,—with points and heads on them,—if you don't mind."
I bowed ceremoniously.
"We shall be over this afternoon, when we have made a list of the supplies we require," she went on.
As I hunted for the pins, she began to look in her purse for a five cent piece.
"Oh!—never mind," I said; "I can charge these to your bill in the afternoon."
"No! thank you," she replied, airily and lightly;—oh! so very, very airily that I would not have been surprised had she flown away.
"Your terms are strictly cash;—I would not disturb your business routine for worlds."
As I held out the package to her, I stopped and, for the first time, I felt really at ease and equal to her.
"Possibly you would prefer that I send this package round by the delivery wagon?" I said.
She picked the paper package from between my fingers and her chin went into the air at a most dangerous elevation, while her eyelids closed over her eyes, allowing long, golden-brown lashes to brush her cheeks. Then, without a word, she turned her back on me and passed through the doorway with her companion, or chaperon, or aunt, or whatever relation to her the elderly lady might be.
"So foolish!" I heard her exclaim, under her breath, then she went over something on her fingers to the elderly lady, who laughed and started in to talk volubly.
The mystery of that madam's benign smile solved itself: she was evidently talkative enough, but she was as deaf as a wooden block and used her smile to cover her deficiency.
Had I only known, how I could have defended myself against, and lashed out in return at, that tantalising, self-possessed, wit-battling, and, despite it all, extremely feminine young lady!
They left my place and went over to their own bungalow. Soon they reappeared with large sun-hats on their heads, for the sun was beautifully bright and exceedingly warm. They went down to the beach together. The elderly lady got into the rowing boat, while my late antagonist pushed it into the water and sprang into it with a most astounding agility. In a few moments, they were out on the Bay.
Miss Grant,—as I remembered her name was,—handled the oars like an Oxford stroke and with that amazing ease, attained only after long practice, which makes the onlooker, viewing the finished article in operation, imagine that he can do it as well himself, if not a shade or so better,—yes! and standing on his head at that.
For an hour, I worked in the store righting the wrongs that were visible everywhere, vowing to myself that never again would it be found in such a disgraceful condition; not even if the three Camps should come down together and insist on immediate service.
At high noon, I went over to Jake's shack and found him preparing his usual clammy concoction.
I broached the subject of the piano to him, putting it in such a way that I left him open to refuse to do the job if he felt so inclined.
He did not speak for a minute or two, but I knew he was thinking hard.
"Well,—I'll be gol-darned," he said at last. "They'll be transporting skating rinks and picture shows up here next. It'll be me for the tall timbers then, you bet."
A little later, he went on,
"Guess, George,—we got to do it, though. Young ladies is young ladies these days, and we might as well be civil and give in right at the start, for we got to do it in the finish."
I agreed.
As we were in a hurry, I helped Jake to eat his clam chowder. We went down to the beach to review the situation and inspect the apparatus we had to work with.
I told Jake the piano would probably weigh about five hundred pounds and that we would require to bolster up the raft sufficiently to carry some three hundred pounds more in order to be safe.
As it stood, the raft was capable of carrying some four hundred pounds, so we had just to double its capacity.
Jake knew his business. He rowed along the beach, and picked out short logs to suit his needs. He lashed them together and completed a raft that looked formidable enough to carry the good shipSiwashherself across the Bay to the shore.
We put off with a rowing boat fore and aft, long before theSiwashwhistle announced her coming.
Had the sea been otherwise than calm as a duck pond, we would have experienced all kinds of trouble, for our raft was nothing more or less than an unwieldy floating pier.
When the steamer ran into the Bay, I noticed Miss Grant put out alone and row toward us.
"Jake," I exclaimed somewhat hotly, "if that young lady interferes with the way we handle this job, by as much as a single word, we'll steer straight for the shore and leave the piano to sink or swim."
"You bet!" agreed Jake.
"Skirts is all right, but they ain't any good movin' pianners off'n steamers. Guess we ain't proved ourselves much good neither, so far, George," he added with a grin.
TheSiwashcame to a standstill and we threw our ropes aboard and were soon made fast alongside.
Everything there went like clockwork. The piano was on the lower deck and slings were already round it, so that all that was necessary to do was to get the steamer's winch going, hoist the instrument overboard and lower it on to the raft. The piano was set on a low truck with runners, contrived for the purpose of moving. I arranged that this truck be left with us and I would see to its return on the steamer's south-bound journey.
Our chiefest fear was that the piano might get badly placed or that the balance of the raft might prove untrue, the whole business would topple over and the piano would be dispensing nautical airs to the mermaids at the bottom of Golden Crescent Bay.
Jake's work stood the test valiantly, and, with the hooks and rings he had fixed into the logs at convenient distances, we lashed the instrument so firmly and securely that nothing short of a hurricane or a collision could possibly have dislodged it.
Miss Grant stood by some fifteen yards away, watching the proceedings interestedly, and anxiously as I thought; but not a word did she utter to show that she had anything but absolute confidence in our ability.
Finally, they cast our ropes off, and Jake and I, with our four oars, manned our larger rowing boat and headed for shore. It was hard pulling, but we ran in on the off side of the wharf, directly in line with the rocks at the back of which Miss Grant's bungalow was built,—all without mishap.
Despite the great help of the piano-truck, Jake and I, strive as we liked, were unable to move the heavy piece of furniture from the raft. We tugged, and pulled, and hoisted, but to no purpose, for the wheels of the truck got set continually between the logs.
Once, I went head over heels backward into the water; and once Jake tripped over a cleat and did likewise.
"All we need, Jake," I remarked, "is about one hundred and fifty pounds more leverage."
Miss Grant heard and jumped out of her boat.
"Mr.—Mr. Bremner,—could I lend you that extra hundred and fifty pounds or so?"
I looked at her. She was all willingness and meekness; the latter a mood which I, even with my scant knowledge of her, did not altogether believe in.
"Sure, miss," put in Jake. "Come on, if you ain't skeered o' soilin' your glad rags."
She waited for my word.
"I am sure your help would be valuable, Miss Grant," I said. "It might just turn the trick in our favour."
She scrambled up the rock and returned in half a minute with a pair of stout leather gloves on her hands. She jumped up on to the raft and lent her leverage, as Jake and I got our shoulders under the lift.
Bravo! It lifted as easily as if it had been a toy. All it had required was that little extra aid.
We three ran it clear of the raft, down on to the beach, over the pebbles and right under the rocks.
I knew, in the ordinary course, that our troubles would only be beginning, but I had figured out that the only possible way to get over this difficulty of the rocks was to erect a block and tackle to the solid branch of a tree which, fortunately, overhung the face of the cliffs.
In half an hour, we had all secure and ready for the attempt.
I worked the gear, while Jake did the guiding from below.
When we had the piano safely swung, it took our combined strength and weight to bring it in on top of the rocks. After that, it was simply a matter of hard work.
So, in three hours after receiving it from the steamerSiwash, the piano was out of its casing and set safely, without a scratch on it, in a corner of Miss Grant's parlour.
Jake and I never could have done it ourselves. Both of us knew that. It was Miss Grant's untiring assistance that pulled the matter to a successful conclusion.
She thanked us without ostentation, as she would have thanked a piano-mover or the woodman in the city.
It nettled me not a little, for, to say truth, I was half dead from the need of a cup of good strong tea and my appetite gnawed over the odour of home-made scones that the elderly, rotund lady was baking on Miss Grant's kitchen stove. All day I had been picturing visions of being invited to remain for tea, of my making witty remarks under Jake's mono-syllabic applause, looking over the photo albums and listening in raptures to Miss Grant's playing and singing. And I was sour as old cider as I descended the veranda steps, soaking, as I was, with brine and perspiration.
Jake was perfectly happy, however, and all admiration over Miss Grant's physical demonstration.
"Gee! Miss," he exclaimed, in a sort of Klondike ecstasy, "but you're some class at heavin' cargo. Guess, if you put on overalls and cut off your hair, you could get a fifty-cents-an-hour job at pretty near any wharf on the Pacific seaboard."
I could see that Jake's doubtful compliment was not exactly relished by the lady. Nevertheless, she smiled on him so sweetly that he stood grinning at her, and might still have been so standing had not I pulled him to earth by the sleeve, three steps at a time.
He left me at the wharf without a word. I went into the house, threw off my dirty overalls and indulged in the luxury of a bath. Not a salt-water apology for one,—a real, live, remove-the-dirt, soapy, hot-water bath;—and it did me a world of good both mentally and bodily.
I dressed myself in clean, fresh linen, donned my breeches, a pair of hand-knitted, old-country, heather hose and a pair of white canvas shoes. I shaved and brushed my hair to what, in my college days, I had considered its most elegant angle.
The remainder of the afternoon and evening was my own. I was just at that agreeable stage of body-weariness where a book and a smoke seemed angels from heaven. I had the books,—lots of them,—I had tobacco and my pipe, I had a hammock to sling from the hooks on the front veranda,—so, what care had I?
I chose a volume of "Macaulay's Essays" and, with a sigh,—the only articulate sign of an unutterable content,—I stretched myself in the hammock, blew clouds of smoke in the air and resigned myself to the soothing influences.
I had lain thus for perhaps an hour, when a shadow intervened between the page I was reading and the glare of the sun.
It was Miss Grant.
She had come by the back path and, in her noiseless rubber shoes, I had not heard her.
I sprang out of the hammock, loosed the ring from the hook and threw the canvas aside to make way for her.
She appeared a perfect picture of glorious loveliness and contagious health. She did not speak for a moment, but her eyes took me in from head to heel.
I felt confident in the knowledge that the figure I presented was decidedly more pleasing than when last she had seen me.
I was glad, for I knew, even with my small acquaintance with the opposite sex, that the woman is not alive who does not prefer to see a man clean, tidy and neat.
I pushed the store doors open and followed her in.
Again, that bewitching little uplifting of the eyebrows; again the alluring relaxation of her full lips; silent ways, apparently, of expressing her pleasure. The appearance of my store, on this occasion, met with her approval.
She laid aside her sunshade and handed me a long, neatly written list of groceries which she required; not all, but most of which, I was able to fill.
"Make up the bill,—please. I wish to pay it now. I shall not wait until you make up the goods. If not too much trouble, would you——"
I was listening to the soft cadences of her voice, when she stopped.
She was leaning lightly with her elbow on the counter. I was on the inner side, bending over my order book.
When her voice stopped, I felt that she was looking at the top of my head. I raised my face suddenly and, to her, unexpectedly. For the first time, I saw clearly into her eyes. My breath caught, as, like a flash, I saw myself standing in the doorway of Modley Farm, along with my old chum, Tom Tanner; his mother beside us, with her arms round our shoulders; and I remembered the flippant conversation we had at that time.
The young lady before me had eyes of a liquid, golden-brown, lighter in colour than her hair, yet of wondrous depth and very attractive; inexpressibly attractive.
I averted my gaze quickly, but not quickly enough for her to miss the admiration I had so openly shown.
She picked up a tin from the counter and scanned the label.
"The delivery wagon is at your service, my lady," I put in lightly.
"Thank you!" she answered in relief.
I totted up the bill and handed it to her. "Eight dollars and thirty-five cents," I said.
"Now, Mr. Bremner,—please add your charge for the conveying of my piano, so that I may pay my debts altogether."
I gasped in amazement. I straightened myself indignantly, for the idea of making a charge for that work had never entered my head. And I knew Jake had never thought of such a thing either. It had been simply a little neighbourly assistance.
The mention of payment annoyed me.
"There is no charge, Miss Grant," was all I could trust myself to say.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "Surely you must understand that it is not my habit to engage men to work for me without payment!"
"We did not look upon it in the nature of ordinary work," I put in. "It was a pleasure, and we did it as any neighbours would do a favour."
Her eyes closed a little angrily.
"I do not accept favours from men I am unacquainted with," she retorted unreasonably. "How much do I owe,—please?"
"And I do not hire myself out, like a dock labourer or a mule, to any one who cares to demand my services," I replied, in equally cold tones.
She stood in hesitation, then she stamped her rubber-soled foot petulantly. "But I will not have it. I insist on paying for that work."
I shook my head.
"If you wish to insult me, Miss Grant,—insist."
I could see that she was suffering from conflicting lines of reasoning. Her haughtiness changed and her eyes softened.
"Mr. Bremner,—what do I owe for the work,—please?" she pleaded. "You are a gentleman,—you cannot hide that from me."
Discovered! I said to myself.
"Surely you understand my position? Surely you do not wish to embarrass me?"
Ah, well! I thought. If it will please her, so be it. And I'll make it a stiff charge for spite.
"Thirty dollars!" I exclaimed, as if it had been three. "Our labour was worth that much." I looked straight at her in a businesslike way.
It was her turn to gasp, but she recovered herself quickly.
"The cost of labour is, I presume, high, up here?" she commented.
"Yes!—very high,—sky-high! You see, I shall have to pay that old Jew-rascal assistant of mine at least two and a half dollars for his share, so that it will not leave very much for the master-mind that engineered the project."
She turned her eyes on me to ascertain if I were funning or in earnest, but my face betrayed nothing but the greatest seriousness.
She counted out her grocery money and I gave her a receipt. Then she laid three ten dollar bills on the counter to pay for the piano moving.
"Thank you!" I said, as I walked round the counter to a little box which was nailed on the wall near the door; a box which the Rev. William Auld had put up with my permission on the occasion of his last visit, a box which I never saw a logger pass without patronising if he noticed it. On the outside, it bore the words:—"Sick Children's Aid." I folded the notes and inserted them in the aperture on top.
Miss Grant watched me closely all the while.
When I got back behind the counter, she went over to the box and read the label. She opened her purse, with calm deliberation, and poured all it contained into her hand. She then inserted the coins, one by one, in the opening of the box and, with honours still even, if not in her favour, she sailed out of the store.
I was annoyed and chagrined at the turn of events, yet, when I came to consider her side of the argument, I could not blame her altogether for the stand she had taken.
I put up her order in no very pleasant frame of mind.
When I saw her and her chaperon row out from the wharf into the Bay, I carried over the groceries, piecemeal, and placed them in a shady place on their veranda. I then turned back to the house and prepared my evening meal.
When the sun had gone down and darkness had crept over Golden Crescent, I returned to my hammock and my reading, setting a small oil lamp on the window ledge behind me. It was agreeably cool then and all was peace and harmony.
From where I lay, I could cast my eyes over the land and seascapes now and again. I commanded a good view of the house across the creek. The kitchen lamp was alight there and I could see figures passing backward and forward.
Suddenly an extra light travelled from the kitchen to the front parlour and, soon after, a ripple of music floated on the evening air.
I listened. How I listened!—like a famished cougar at the sound of a deer.
The music was sweet, delicious, full of fantastic melody. It was the light, airy music of Sullivan; and not a halt, not even a falter did the player make as she tripped and waltzed through the opera. One picture after another rose before me and dissolved into still others, as the old, haunting tunes caught my ears, floating from that open window.
I could see the lady under the soft glow of the lamp, sitting at the piano, smiling and all absorbed,—the light gleaming gold on her coils of luxuriant hair.
After a time the mood of the pianist changed. She drifted into the deeper, the more sombre, more impressive "Kamennoi-Ostrow" of Rubinstein. She played it softly, so softly, yet so expressively sadly, that I was drawn by its alluring to leave my veranda and cross over the wooden bridge, in order to be nearer and to hear better.
Quietly, but quite openly, I took the path by the house, on to the edge of the cliffs, where I could hear every note, every shade of expression; where I could follow the story:—the Russian setting, the summer evening, the beautiful lady, the pealing of the bells calling the worshippers to the chapel for midnight mass; the whispered conversations, the organ in solemn chant, the priests intoning the service, the farewell, and, lastly, the lingering chords of the organ fading into the deep silence of slumber.
Just as I was about to sit down, I descried the solitary, shadowy outline of a figure seated a few yards away.
It was Jake,—poor, old, lonely, battle-scarred Jake. His head was in his hands and he was gazing out to sea as if he were dreaming.
I walked over to him and sat by his side. His blue eyes were filled with tears, tears that had not dimmed his eyes for years and years; tears in the eyes of that old Klondike tough, calloused by privation and leather-hided by hard drinking; tears, and at music which he did not understand any more than that it was something outside of his body altogether, outside of the material world, something that spoke only to the soul of him.
I did not speak,—I dared not speak, for the moment was too sacred.
So we two sat thus, knowing of each other's presence, yet ignoring it, and listening, all absorbed, entranced, almost hypnotised by the subtleties of the most charming of all gifts, the perfect interpretation of a work of art.
We listened on and on,—after the chilly night wind had come up from the sea, for we did not know of its coming until the music ceased and the light faded away from the parlour of the house behind us.
"Gee!" exclaimed Jake at last, spitting his mouthful of tobacco over into the water and wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve, "but that dope pulls a gink's socks off,—you bet.
"Guess, if a no-gooder like me had of heard that stuff oftener when he was a kid, he wouldn't be such a no-gooder;—eh! George."
I followed Jake to his boat and, somewhere out of the darkness, Mike the dog appeared and tailed off behind us.
I accompanied the old fellow to his shack, for this love of music in him was a new phase of his temperament to me and somehow my heart went out to him in his loneliness, in his apparent heart-hunger for something he could hardly hope to find.
We talked together for a long time, and as we talked I noticed that Jake made no effort to start his usual drinking bout, although Mike the dog reminded him of his neglect as plainly as dog could, by tugging at his trousers and going over to the whisky keg and whimpering.
This sudden temperance in Jake surprised me more than a little.
I noticed also that the brass-bound chest still lay under Jake's bunk. Several times I had been going to speak to him about that trunk and its contents, and the questionable security of a shack like his, but I had always evaded the subject at the last minute as being one in which I was not concerned.
But that night everything was different somehow.
"Look here, Jake," I said, in one of the quiet spells, "don't you think this old shack of yours isn't a very safe place to keep your money in?"
"How do you mean?" he asked suspiciously.
"There are lots of strange boats put in here of a night; some of them containing beach-combers who do not care who they rob or what they do so long as they get a haul. Besides, the loggers are not all angels and they generally pay you a visit every time they come in. Some of the worst of them might get wind that you keep all your savings here and might take a fancy to some of it."
"Guess all I got wouldn't pay the cost of panning," grunted Jake. "They ain't goin' to butt in on me. Anyway,—I got a pair of good mits left yet."
"Yes!—that is all right, Jake, but nowadays a man does not require to run the risk. The banks are ready and willing to take that responsibility, and to pay for the privilege, too. The few dollars I have are safely banked in Vancouver."
"Banks be damned!" growled Jake. "I ain't got no faith in banks,—no siree. First stake I made went into a bank, Goodall-Towser Trust Co. of 'Frisco. 'Four per cent interest guaranteed,' it said on the front of the bank book they gave me. That book was all they ever gave me; all I ever saw of my five thousand bucks. I thought because it said 'Trust' on the window, it was right as rain. I ain't trustin' 'Trust' any more.
"I raised Cain in that Trust outfit. Started shootin' up. Didn't kill anything, but got three months in the coop. Lost my five thousand plunks and got three months in the pen, all because I put my dough in the bank.
"Banks be damned, George. Not for mine,—no siree."
Jake puffed his pipe reflectively, after his long tirade.
"That's all very well, but there are good banks nowadays and good Trust Companies, too, although I prefer regular chartered banks every time. Those banks are practically guaranteed by the country and the wealthiest men in Canada use them. Why!—Mr. Horsfal has thousands in the Commercial Bank of Canada now. Here is the bank book,—see for yourself! I send in a deposit every week for him."
Jake was impressed, but not unduly. He suddenly switched.
"Say, George,—who told you I had any dough?"
"Oh! I knew you had, Jake. Everybody in Golden Crescent knows. But, to be honest, the minister told me,—in the hope that I would be able to induce you to place it in safety somewhere."
Jake became confident, a most unusual condition for him.
"Well, George,—I can trust you,—you're straight. I got something near ten thousand bucks in that brass chest. I don't need it, but still I ain't givin' it away. I had to grub damned hard to get it. It's kind o' good to know you ain't ever likely to be a candidate for some Old Men's Home."
"It is indeed," I replied, "and I admire you for having saved so much. But won't you put it into the bank, where it is absolutely safe for you? It is a positive temptation to some men, lying around here.
"The bank will give you a receipt for the money; you can draw on it when you wish and it will be earning three per cent or three hundred dollars a year for you all the time it is there."
He pondered for a while, then he dismissed the subject.
"No! Guess I'll keep it by me. No more banks for mine. I ain't so strong as I used to be and I guess three months in the coop would just about make me cash in. I ain't takin' no more chances."
Jake's method of reasoning was amusing. After all, it was no affair of mine and, now that I had unburdened myself, I felt conscience clear.
As I rose to leave, he started to talk again.
"George,—guess you'll think I'm batty,—but I'm goin' to cut out the booze."
"You are!" I exclaimed in astonishment.
"Ya! Guess maybe you think I'll make a hell of a saint, but I ain't goin' to try to be no saint; just goin' to cut out the booze, that's all."
"What has given you this notion?" I could not help inquiring.
"Oh! maybe one thing, maybe another. Anyhow, I ain't had a lick to-night. My stomach's on fire and my head's givin' me Hail Columbia, but—I ain't had a drink to-night."
"Go easy with it, Jake," I cautioned. "You know a hard drinker like you have been can't stop all at once without hurting himself."
"I can. You just watch me," he said with determination.
"Well, then,—I think the best thing you can do in these circumstances is to take that keg in the corner there, roll it outside, pull out the stop-cock and pour the contents on to the beach."
"No! I ain't spoilin' any booze,—George. If I can't stop it because a keg of whisky is sittin' under my nose, then I can't stop boozin' nohow. And, if I can't stop boozin' nohow, what's the good of throwin' away the good booze I already got, when I'd just have to order another keg and maybe have to go thirsty waitin' for it to come up."
"All right, old man," I laughed, slapping him between the shoulders, "please yourself and good luck to your attempt, anyway."
"Say!—George."
"Yes!"
"You won't say anything about this to the young lady that plays the pianner? Because, you see, I might fall down."
"I won't say a word, Jake."
"And—not to Rita, neither?" he asked plaintively, "because Rita's about the only gal cares two straws for me. She comes often when nobody knows about it. She brings cake and pie, and swell cooked meat sometimes. When I find anything on the table,—I know Rita's been. I've knowed Rita since she was a baby and I've always knowed her for a good gal."
"Well, Jake;—I will keep your secret as if I had never heard it. But don't allow that drunken chum of yours, Mike, to lead you astray."
"Guess nit! Mike's got to sign the pledge same's me," he laughed in his guttural way.
I stood at the door. "And you are not going to put that money of yours in the bank, Jake?"
He spat on the ground.
"To hell with banks," he grunted and turned inside.