CHAPTER IV.MR. ENOS NORTON.
For a long time I sat on the box in the little village post-office. I could think of nothing but that my father was dead.
The shock of the news, coming as it did so unexpectedly, completely staggered me. The only parent that had been left to me was gone, and I was left to fight the battle of life alone.
“It’s too bad, Rube; that’s a fact,” said Mr. Sandon, laying his hand on my shoulder. “What ailed him?”
“Nothing. He met with an accident,” I replied, struggling hard with the lump that seemed bound to rise in my throat. “He fell over a ravine while looking for a place to locate a mill. You can read the letter if you wish.”
“I will.”
Mr. Sandon adjusted his spectacles, and read the letter carefully. While he did so I sat with my head buried in my hands, trying to hide the tears that would not stop flowing.
“This is from your Uncle Enos Norton, I see,”he went on. “I thought Enos Norton was dead long ago.”
“I have never seen him,” I replied.
“He used to be around these parts years ago when he was a young man; but he got a sudden notion to go West, and he went. He loaned your father some money, it appears.”
“So he says. I don’t know what for. Father took enough along to pay his expenses,” I returned despondently.
“Maybe he made a venture of some kind or another. A man is apt to risk more when he strikes a new country.”
I made no reply to this remark. My heart was too full for further talk, and leaving the post-office I walked slowly back to my boat.
If the prospect before had been gloomy it was now worse. The pang over the news of my father’s death overshadowed everything else; yet I could not help but remember that my uncle was soon to arrive, and that my father’s estate was indebted to him for money loaned.
Entering my sloop, I was soon on the way to Torrent Bend River. The wind was still fresh, and I skirted the shore rapidly, arriving in sight of the mill at sundown.
Ford stood at the door awaiting me.
“Been a little longer than you expected,” he said. “Anything wrong?”
“Yes, Dan; everything is wrong,” I replied. “Read that letter.”
He did so; and somehow it was a comfort to see his eyes grow moist.
“Dead!” he exclaimed, and then he caught me by the shoulder. “Rube, I can’t say how sorry I am for you; there ain’t words strong enough to tell it.” And without another word he led me into the mill.
We passed a rather silent evening. Ford was in the habit of leaving as soon as the day’s work was over, but that night he remained. He was the first up in the morning, and when I came down I found breakfast already prepared.
“Come, Rube, have a strong cup of coffee,” he said. “I know you haven’t slept a wink. I hardly got a nap myself, thinking matters over. Do you know anything about this uncle that’s coming?”
“Nothing but that he was my mother’s brother.”
“He seems to be mighty anxious about his money,” went on the mill-hand, who was always outspoken in his opinions.
“Well, I suppose he is entitled to what is due him.”
“He might have waited till he got here. Wonder when he will arrive?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
I was utterly cast down, and could not do a stroke of work. I took a walk up the river, and sat down on a rock to think the whole matter over.
It was two hours later before I rose to go back. The time had been a bitter one; but now I felt better, and was ready to face whatever was to come.
When I arrived at the mill I found Ford hard at work. Tom Darrow had just tied up at the pier, and my helper had told him the sad news.
“It’s hard, Rube, dreadful hard, and no mistake,” he said.
Later on he told me he had sailed around the lake, and into many of the coves, but had seen no trace of the Catch Me. I was sorry to hear this, but in the light of the greater calamity I hardly gave the matter any attention.
“I suppose you didn’t think to get them things you spoke on?” observed Ford when the fisherman was gone.
“What things?” I asked.
“The groceries you were going to get down to Jackson’s.”
“He wouldn’t let me have them. He said I would have to settle up in full before I could have anything more.”
“The miserly chump!” exclaimed Ford; “and after you paying him hundreds of dollars! I wouldn’t patronize him any more!”
“I don’t intend to.” I paused for a moment. “Dan, I am in a bad fix all around. I haven’t any money, and we need things. I don’t know how I am going to pay you your wages next Saturday.”
“Well, don’t let that worry you, Rube; I can get along.”
“But that’s not the point. It isn’t fair to ask you to wait,” I went on earnestly.
“I ain’t starving,” he laughed. “I’ve got some little saved. Besides, when you find the Catch Me, she’ll be worth at least a couple of hundred dollars to you.”
“That’s so; but I imagine finding her will be a bigger job than I thought it would be. I am satisfied that some one has towed her off, and has got her in hiding.”
There was quite a bit of grinding to do at the mill, and after a dinner of which I hardly ate a mouthful, I started in to help Ford do the work.
It was the best possible thing I could undertake; for it diverted my mind, and that eased my heart, which felt at times like a big lump of lead in my breast.
As I tended to the hoppers and helped fill the bags I began to speculate upon what kind of a man my uncle would prove to be. The tone of his letter, as I read it over again, did not exactly satisfyme. What did he mean by stating that he intended to take charge of affairs?
At five o’clock I heard the sound of a horn coming from the main road that ran from Harborport through the Bend to Kannassee, ten miles distant.
“There’s the horn of the stage-coach,” said Ford. “Bart Pollock must want to see you.”
“Perhaps he’s after some feed,” I replied. “I’ll go down and see.”
Brushing the flour from my face and hands, I left the mill on a run. The main road was fifteen rods away through the bushes. There was a rough path but little used, and this I followed.
When I arrived I found the stage-coach standing in the middle of the road, with Bart Pollock, the driver, sitting contentedly on the front seat along with a tall stranger.
“Here I am, Bart!” I sang out. “What’s wanted?”
“Hullo, Rube! Nothin’s wanted. Here’s a visitor to see you,—your uncle, all the way from Western parts.”
“Oh!”
I stopped short to look at the man as he hopped to the ground. He was slimly built, with a thin, sharp face, and cold gray eyes. He carried a hand-satchel, and this he swung from his right to his left hand as he came forward to greet me.
“So this is my nephew Reuben?” he said in a high voice, as we shook hands. “I suppose you’ve been expecting me?”
“Not quite so soon,” I replied. “I thought you’d come in a day or two, sir.”
“Well, I made first-class time. The train left half an hour after the funeral was over, and I didn’t see no use in hanging around any longer. I settled all the bills beforehand. They were mighty high too. A hundred and twenty-five dollars for the coffin and carriage, and fifty dollars for the ground, besides twenty-five for the undertaker, which brings the whole up to two hundred dollars.”
By this time the stage-coach was on its way again, and we were left standing alone.
“Tell me about my father,” I said. “I want to know all about how the awful thing happened.”
“Now, don’t be so fast, Reuben; there’s lots of time. Wait till I’ve had supper, and got rested up a bit. Traveling don’t seem to agree with me. How are things at the mill?”
“Rather slow, sir.”
“What! you must be fooling!”
“No, I am not. Trade all around has been slack this summer.”
“Humph! That must be because you are only a boy. Just you wait till I get to managing things, then I guess business will hum.”
“I do the best I can,” I replied, not liking to be talked to in this fashion.
“Of course, of course; but then you’re nothing but a boy, and a boy can’t do half as well as a man.”
“I am doing as well as any one in these parts. I go ’way over to Bayport for orders.”
Mr. Norton started slightly.
“Bayport?” he queried.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that ain’t very far.”
“It is farther than father used to go.”
“Well, your father wasn’t any great hand for business, I guess.”
“Father was always ready to do his best,” I returned warmly, not liking the manner in which my father’s character had been assailed. “He was not responsible for the dull times here.”
“Maybe; but business is just what a man makes it.”
“Are you a miller, sir?”
“No, I ain’t; but I guess it won’t take a man like me long to learn the business.”
I had my doubts concerning the truth of the last assertion. I had been around a mill all my life, and yet there was hardly a day passed but what some new difficulty presented itself.
“You see, I’m a self-made man,” went on Mr. Norton. “I left home long before my sister Mary hadmarried your father. I went out to Chicago, and all the money I have I made there without help from any one.”
“Are you rich?” I ventured.
“Oh, no; but I’m comfortable,—that is, I will be when I get back the money I loaned your father.”
“Father couldn’t have borrowed much.”
“What?” cried Mr. Norton. “That is all you know about it. He came to me pretty often; and that money, added to the funeral expenses, made a good round sum.”
“How much?” I asked faintly.
“All told, it’s just six hundred and fifty dollars,” was the reply.