CHAPTER VIII

“‘THEY THROW THE OTHER THINGS BACK’”

“‘THEY THROW THE OTHER THINGS BACK’”

“It was very good of you to offer to teach me to fish with flies,” she said, “and perhaps, if Uncle Archibald doesn’t want to be bothered, I may get you to show me how to do it.”

The young man’s face brightened, and he was about to express his pleasure with considerable warmth; but he checked himself, and merely remarked that whenever she was ready he would provide a rod and flies and show her how to use them.

Mrs. Archibald had gone into the cabin, and Margery went up to Matlack, who was on his way to the little tent in which the camp cooking was done.

“Did Mrs. Archibald tell you,” said she, “that we have invited Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold to supper to-night?”

The guide stopped and smiled. “She told me,” said he, “but I don’t know that it was altogether necessary.”

“I suppose you mean,” said Margery, “that they are here so much; but I don’t wonder; they must do awfully poor cooking for themselves. I don’t suppose they will bring anything back that is good to eat.”

“Not at this time of year,” said he, “but I shall be satisfied if they bring themselves home.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Margery, quickly.

“Well,” said Matlack, “I don’t doubt the bicycle fellow will always come back all right, but I’m afeard about the other one. That bicyclechap don’t know no more about a gun than he does about makin’ bread, and I wouldn’t go out huntin’ with him for a hundred dollars. He’s just as likely to take a crack at his pardner’s head as at anything else that’s movin’ in the woods.”

“That is dreadful!” exclaimed Margery.

“Yes, it is,” returned the guide; “and if I had charge of their camp he wouldn’t go out with a gun again. But it will be all right in a day or two. Peter will settle that.”

“Mr. Sadler, do you mean?” asked Margery. “What’s he got to do with it?”

“He’s got everything to do with it,” said Matlack. “He’s got everything to do with everything in this part of the country. He’s got his laws, and he sees to it that people stand by them. One of his rules is that people who don’t know how to use guns sha’n’t shoot in his camps.”

“But how can he know about the people out here in the woods?” asked Margery.

“I tell you, miss,” said Matlack, speaking slowly and decisively, “Peter Sadler’s ways of knowing things is like gas—the kind you burn, I mean. I was a-visitin’ once in a city house, and slept in a room on the top floor, and there was a leak in the pipe in the cellar, and that gas just went over the whole house, into every room and closet, and even under the beds, and I’ve often thought that that was just like Peter’s way of doin’ things and knowin’ things. You take my word for it, that bicycle-man won’t go out huntin’ many more days, even if he don’t shoot his pardner fust.”

“He won’t go to-morrow,” thought Margery;and then she said to Matlack: “I think we ought to know Mr. Sadler’s rules. Has he any more of them?”

“Oh, they ain’t very many,” said Matlack. “But there’s one I think of now, and that is that no woman shall go out in a boat by herself on this lake.”

“That is simply horrid!” exclaimed Margery. “Women can row as well as men.”

“I don’t say they can’t,” said Matlack. “I’m only tellin’ you what Peter’s rules are, and that’s one of them.”

Margery made no reply, but walked away, her head thrown back a little more than was usual with her.

“I’ve got to keep my eye on her,” said Matlack to himself, as he went to the cabin; “she’s never been broke to no harness.”

Mr. Raybold did not shoot Mr. Clyde, nor did he shoot anything else. Mr. Clyde did shoot a bird, but it fell into the water at a place where the shore was very marshy, and it was impossible for him to get it. He thought it was a heron, or a bittern, or perhaps a fish-hawk, but whatever it was, both ladies said that it was a great pity to kill it, as it was not good to eat, and must have been very happy in its life in the beautiful forest.

“It is very cruel to shoot them when they are not strictly game,” said Mr. Clyde, “and I don’t believe I will do it. If I had the things to stuff them with, that would be different, but I haven’t. I believe fishing is just as much fun, and more sensible.”

“I do not!” exclaimed Mr. Raybold. “I hold that hunting is a manly art, and that a forester’s life is as bold and free to him as it is to the birds in the air. I believe I have the blood of a hunter in me. My voice is for the woods.”

“I expect you will change your voice,” thought Margery, “when Mr. Sadler takes your gun away from you.” But she did not say so.

Mr. Archibald stood with his hands in his pockets reflecting. He had hoped that these two young men were inveterate hunters, and that they would spend their days in long tramps. He did not at all approve of their fishing. Fishing could be done anywhere—here, for instance, right at this very door.

Supper was over, and the five inhabitants of Camps Rob and Roy had seated themselves around the fire which Martin had carefully built, keeping in view a cheery blaze without too much heat. Pipes had been filled and preparations made for the usual evening smoke and talk, when a man was seen emerging from the woods at the point where the road opened into the clearing about the camp. It was still light, for these hungry campers supped early, and the man could be distinctly seen as he approached, and it was plain that he was not a messenger from Sadler’s.

He was rather a large man, dressed in black, and wearing a felt hat with a wide, straight brim. Hanging by a strap from his shoulder was a small leather bag, and in his hand he carried a closed umbrella. Advancing towards the fire, he took off his hat, bowed, and smiled. He wore no beard,his face was round and plump, and his smile was pleasant.

“Good-evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said he, and his voice was as pleasant as his smile.

“Good-evening,” said Mr. Archibald, and then for a moment there was a pause.

“I presume,” said the new-comer, looking about him, “that this is a camp.”

“It is a camp,” said Mr. Archibald.

“The fact is so obvious,” said the man in black, “that it was really unnecessary for me to allude to it. May I ask to be allowed to sit down for a few moments? I am fatigued.”

At this juncture Phil Matlack arrived on the scene. “Well, sir,” said he, “have you any business with anybody here? Who do you wish to see?”

“I have no business,” said the other, “and—”

“And you are a stranger to everybody here?” interrupted Matlack.

“Yes, but I hope—”

“Now then,” said the guide, quickly, “I’ve got to ask you to move on. This is one of Peter Sadler’s camps, and he has strict rules against strangers stoppin’ in any of them. If you’ve lost your way, I’ll tell you that this road, if you don’t turn to the right or the left, will take you straight to Sadler’s, and there’s time enough for you to get there before dark.”

“Mr. Matlack,” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, who had risen to her feet, “I want to speak to you! It’s a shame,” she said, when the guide had approached her, “to send that man away without even giving him a chance to rest himself. Hemay be a very respectable person on a walking tour.”

“I guess he is on a walkin’ tour,” said Matlack, “and I guess he’s a regular tramp, and there’s no orders we’ve got that’s stricter than them against tramps.”

“Well, I don’t care who he is,” said Mrs. Archibald, “or what your rules are, but when a perfectly good-mannered man comes to us and asks simply to be allowed to rest, I don’t want him to be driven away as if he were a stray pig on a lawn. Mr. Archibald, shouldn’t he be allowed to rest a while?”

Her husband rose and approached the stranger. “Where are you going, sir?” said he.

The man looked at Matlack, at Martin, who stood behind him, and then at the rest of the company, and after this comprehensive glance he smiled.

“From present appearances,” he said, “I think I am going to go.”

Mr. Archibald laughed. “When do you expect to get there?” he asked.

“It seems to me,” said the other, reflectively, “that I am always going there, and I suppose I shall have to keep on doing it.”

“Look here,” said Mr. Archibald, turning to Matlack, “give him some supper, and let him rest. There will be time enough for him to get to Sadler’s after that. If Sadler has anything to say against it, refer him to me.”

“All right, sir,” said Matlack, “if you say so. I’m no harder on my fellow-bein’s than other people, but rules is rules, and it isn’t for me to break them.”

“My dear sir,” said the stranger to Mr. Archibald, “your words are more grateful to me than the promise of food. I see that you consider me a tramp, but it is a mistake. I am not a tramp. If you will allow me, after I have eaten a little supper—a meal which I must admit I greatly need—I will explain to you how I happen to be here.” And with a bow he walked towards the table where Matlack and Martin had been eating their supper.

“Do you know what I think he is?” said Mr. Clyde, when Mr. Archibald had resumed his seat and his pipe. “I believe he is a wandering actor. Actors always have smoothly shaven faces, and he looks like one.”

“Actor!” exclaimed Arthur Raybold. “That’s nonsense. He’s not in the least like an actor. Anybody could see by his tread and his air that he’s never been on the stage. He’s more like a travelling salesman. The next thing he’ll do will be to pull out of that bag some samples of spool thread or patent thimbles.”

“You are both wrong,” said Margery—“entirely wrong. I have been looking at him, and I believe he is a Methodist minister with a dead horse. They ride circuits, and of course when their horses die they walk. Just wait a little, and see if I am not right.”

They waited a little, and then they waited a little longer, and they had begun to be tired of waiting before the stranger finished his meal and approached the fire. His face was brighter, his smile was more pleasant, and his step had a certain jauntiness in it.

“I thank you all,” he said, “for the very good meal I have just enjoyed. I am now going to go, but before I start I would like very much—indeed, I crave it as a favor—to place myself before you in my proper light. May I have permission to do so, madam and sir?” he said, addressing Mrs. and Mr. Archibald, but with a respectful glance at the others, as if he would not ignore any one of them.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Archibald. “Sit down and tell us about yourself.”

The stranger seated himself with alacrity a little back from the circle, and nearer to the young men than to the Archibald party.

CHAPTER VIIITHE BISHOP’S TALE

The stranger placed his broad-brimmed hat on the ground beside him, exposing a large round head somewhat bald in front, but not from age, and the rest of it covered with close-cut brown hair. His black clothes fitted him very closely, their extreme tightness suggesting that they had shrunken in the course of wearing, or that he had grown much plumper since he had come into possession of them; and their general worn and dull appearance gave considerable distance to the period of their first possession. But there was nothing worn or dull about the countenance of the man, upon which was an expression of mellow geniality which would have been suitably consequent upon a good dinner with plenty of wine. But his only beverage had been coffee, and in his clear bright eye there was no trace of any exhilaration, except that caused by the action of a hearty meal upon a good digestion and an optimistic disposition.

“I am very glad,” he said, looking about him at the company, and then glancing with a friendly air towards the two guides, who stood a little back of Mr. Archibald, “to have this opportunity to explain my appearance here. In the first place,I must tell you that I am a bishop whose diocese has been inundated, and who consequently has been obliged to leave it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Archibald; and Margery looked at Mr. Clyde, with the remark:

“There! You see I was very near to it.”

“I presume this statement will require some explanation,” continued the man in black, “and I will make it presently. I am going to be exceedingly frank and open in all that I say to you, and as frankness and openness are so extremely rare in this world, it may be that I shall obtain favor in your eyes from the fact of my possessing those unusual qualities. Originally I was a teacher, and for a year or two I had a very good country school; but my employment at last became so repugnant to me that I could no longer endure it, and this repugnance was due entirely to my intense dislike for children.”

“That is not at all to your credit,” observed Mrs. Archibald; “and I do not see how you became a bishop, or why you should have been made one.”

“Was your diocese entirely meadow-land?” inquired Mr. Archibald.

“I am coming to all that,” said the stranger, with a smile of polite consideration towards Mrs. Archibald. “I know very well that it is not at all to my credit to dislike children, but I said I would be honest, and I am. I do dislike them—not their bodies, but their minds. Children, considered physically, are often pleasant to the view, and even interesting as companions, providing their innate juvenility is undisturbed; but whentheir personalities are rudely thrown open by a teacher, and the innate juvenility prematurely exposed to the air, it is something so clammy, so chilly to the mental marrow, that I shrink from it as I would shrink from the touch of any cold, clammy thing.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald.

“I am not sure,” observed Margery, “that there is not some truth in that. I had a Sunday-school class for a little while, and although I can’t say there was a clamminess, there was—well, I don’t know what there was, but I gave it up.”

“I am glad,” said the man in black, “that my candor is not sinking me in the estimation of every one present; but even if it did, I am obliged to tell the truth. I do not know what would have become of me if I had not had the good-fortune to catch the measles from a family with whom I was spending Sunday in another town. As soon as the disease plainly showed itself upon me my school was broken up, and it was never gathered together again, at least under me.

“I must make my story brief, and can only say that not long after this I found myself in another town, where it became necessary for me to do something to support myself. This was difficult, for I am an indefinite man, and definiteness seems necessary to success in any line. Happening one day to pass a house with open lower windows, I heard the sound of children’s voices speaking in unison, and knowing that this must be a school, I looked in, compelled entirely by that curiosity which often urges us to gaze upon human suffering. I found, however, that this was a kindergartenconducted by a young woman. Unobserved by scholars or teacher, I watched the proceedings with great interest, and soon became convinced that kindergartening was a much less repellent system of tuition than any I had known; but I also perceived that the methods of the young woman could be greatly improved. I thought a good deal upon this subject after leaving the open window. Soon afterwards, becoming acquainted with the young person in charge of the children, I offered to teach her a much better system of kindergartening than she was using. My terms were very low, and she became my scholar. I soon learned that there were other kindergartens in the town, and some of the teachers of these joined my class. Moreover, there were young women in the place who were not kindergartners, but who would like to become such, and these I also taught, sometimes visiting them at their houses, and sometimes giving my lessons in a room loaned by one of my patrons. My system became very popular, because it was founded upon common-sense.”

“What was your system?” asked Mrs. Archibald. “I am interested in kindergartens myself.”

“My object,” he answered, “was to make the operation of teaching interesting to the teacher. It struck me very forcibly that a continuance of a few years in the present inane performances called kindergartening would infallibly send to our lunatic asylums a number of women, more or less young, with more or less depleted intellects. The various games and exercises I devised were very interesting, and I am sure I had scholarswho never intended to become kindergartners, and who studied with me solely for their own advantage. It was at this time that I adopted the clerical dress as being more suitable to my vocation than any other costume, and some one having called me the bishop, the name soon became popular, and I was generally known by it.”

“But what is your real name?” asked Mrs. Archibald.

“Madam,” said the man, “you must excuse me if I ask you to recall your question. I have a good name, and I belong to a very good family, but there are reasons why I do not at present wish to avow that name. Some of these reasons are connected with the report that I purposely visited the family with the measles in order to get rid of my school; others are connected with the inundation of my diocese, of which I shall speak; others refer to my present indefinite method of life. There is reason to suppose that the time is not far distant when my resumption of my family name will throw no discredit upon it, but that period has not yet arrived. Do you press your question, madam?”

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Archibald; “it really makes no difference; and out here in the woods a man may call himself a bishop or a cardinal or anything he likes.”

“Thank you very much,” said he, “and I will continue to speak in figures, and call myself a bishop.”

“Where I was brought up,” interpolated Phil Matlack, still standing behind Mr. Archibald, “I was taught that figures don’t lie.”

“My good sir,” said the speaker, with a smile, “in mathematics they don’t, in poetry and literature they often do. Well, as I was saying, my diocese extended itself, my revenues were satisfactory, and I had begun to believe that I had found my true work in life, when suddenly there was a misfortune. There arrived in our town three apostles of kindergartening—two of them were women, and one was a man. They had heard of my system, and had come to investigate it. They did so, with the result that in an astonishingly short time my diocese was inundated with a flood of Froebelism which absolutely swept me away. With this bag, this umbrella, and this costume, which has now become my wardrobe, I was cast out in all my indefiniteness upon a definite world.”

“And how did you get here?” asked Mrs. Archibald.

“I had heard of Sadler and his camps,” said he; “and in this beautiful month and in this beautiful weather I thought it would be well to investigate them. I accordingly went to Mr. Sadler’s, where I arrived yesterday afternoon. I found Mr. Sadler a very definite man, and, I am sorry to say, that as he immediately defined me as a tramp, he would listen to no other definition. ‘You have no money to pay for food and lodgings,’ said he, ‘and you come under my tramp laws. I don’t harbor tramps, but I don’t kick them out into the woods to starve. For labor on this place I pay one dollar and a half a day of ten hours. For meals to day-laborers I charge fifteen cents each. If you want your supper, youcan go out to that wood-shed and split wood for one hour.’ I was very hungry; I went out into the wood-shed; I split wood for one hour, and at the end of that time I had a sufficient meal. When I had finished, Mr. Sadler sent for me. ‘Do you want to stay here all night?’ he said. ‘I do,’ I answered. ‘Go, then, and split wood for another hour.’ I did so, and it was almost dark when I had finished. In the morning I split wood for my breakfast, and when I had finished I went to Mr. Sadler and asked him how much he would charge for a luncheon wrapped in a piece of paper. ‘Seven and a half cents,’ he said. I split wood for half an hour, and left Sadler’s ostensibly to return to the station by the way I had come; but while I had been at work, I found from the conversation of some of the people that one of the camps was occupied, and I also discovered in what direction it lay. Consequently, after I had passed out of the sight of the definite Peter Sadler, I changed my course, and took a path through the woods which I was told would lead to this road, and I came here because I might just as well pass this way as any other, and because, having set out to investigate camp life, I wished to do so, and I hope I may be allowed to say that although I have seen but little of it, I like it very much.”

“Now, then,” said Phil Matlack, walking around the circle and approaching the stranger, “you said, when you first came here, that you were going to go, and the time has come when you’ve got to go.”

“Very well,” said the other, looking up with a smile; “if I’ve got there I’d better stop.”

Mr. Archibald and the young men laughed, but Matlack and Martin, who had now joined him, did not laugh.

“You’ve barely time enough,” said the former, “to get to Sadler’s before it is pitch-dark, and—”

“Excuse me,” said the other, “but I am not going back to Sadler’s to-night. I would rather have no bed than split wood for an hour after dark in order to procure one. I would prefer a couch of dried leaves.”

“You come along into the road with this young man and me; I want to talk to you,” said Matlack.

“Now, Matlack,” said Mr. Archibald, “don’t be cruel.”

“I am not,” said the guide. “I am the tenderest-hearted person in the world; but even if you say so, sir, I can’t let a stranger stay all night in a camp that I’ve got charge of.”

“Look here, Matlack,” exclaimed Mr. Clyde, “you haven’t got charge of our camp!”

“No, I haven’t,” said the other.

“Well, then, this person can come over and stay with us. We have a little tent that we brought to put over the cooking-stove, and he can sleep in that.”

“Very well,” said Matlack; “if you take him out of this camp I haven’t anything to say—that is, to-night.”

“My dear sir,” said the stranger, rising, and approaching Mr. Clyde, “I accept your offer with pleasure, and thank you most heartily for it. If you had proffered me the hospitality of a palace, I could not be more grateful.”

“All right,” said Clyde; “and I suppose it is time for us to be off, so I will bid you all good-night. Come along, Arthur. Come along, bishop.”

The face of the last-named individual beamed with delight as he heard this appellation, and bidding everybody good-night, and thanking them for the kindness with which he had been treated, he followed the two young men.

The three walked some little distance towards Camp Roy, and then Clyde came running back to speak to Margery, who was now standing by herself watching the young moon descend among the trees. Then Mr. Raybold also stopped and came back to Margery, upon which the bishop stopped and waited for them. In about ten minutes he was joined by the two young men, and the three proceeded to Camp Roy.

“There is one thing, Harriet,” said Mr. Archibald, “which I wish you would speak to Margery about. I don’t want her to get up so early and go out for a morning walk. I find that those young men are also early risers.”

“I will speak to her,” said Mrs. Archibald; “where is she?”

“Over there, talking to young Martin,” said her husband. “It isn’t quite dark yet, but I think it is time we were all in bed.”

“Quite time,” said she. “Margery tells me that that young guide, who is a handsome fellow, is going to teach her how to fish with flies. I wish you would sometimes take her out in the boat with you, Mr. Archibald; I am sure that you could teach her how to fish.”

He smiled. “I suppose I could,” he said; “andI also suppose I could pull her out of the water the first time she hooked a big fish. It would be like resting a boat on a pivot to put her into it.”

“Then you don’t take her,” said Mrs. Archibald, decisively. “And you can’t take her with you up the stream, because, of course, she can’t wade. I don’t want her to get tired of camp-life, but—”

“Don’t be afraid of the young men,” interrupted her husband, with a laugh; “so long as there are three of them there is no danger.”

“Of course I will not, if you don’t wish it, Aunt Harriet,” said Margery, when Mrs. Archibald had spoken to her about the early morning walks; “and I will stay in my room until you call me.”

The next morning, when Mrs. Archibald was ready to leave the cabin, she did call Margery, but received no answer. Then she went to the little studio-room, and when she opened the door she found its occupant leaning out of the window talking to Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold, who stood outside.

“Good-morning, Aunt Harriet!” exclaimed Margery, gayly. “Mr. Clyde has brought me nearly an armful of birch-bark, all thin and smooth. I am going to make a birch-bark bedspread out of it. I’ll cover a sheet with these pieces, you see, and sew them on. Then I can have autographs on them, and mottoes, and when I cover myself up with it I shall really feel like a dryad.”

“And here is what I have brought,” said Mr. Raybold, holding up an armful of bark.

“Oh, thank you very much,” said Margery, taking the mass, but not without dropping a goodmany of the pieces. “Of course it was kind of him to bring it,” she said to Mrs. Archibald, as they left the room together, “but he needn’t have bothered himself: I don’t want to sleep under a wood-pile.”

CHAPTER IXMATLACK’S THREE TROUBLES

“Have you asked those two young men to breakfast again?” inquired Mr. Archibald, after examining, with a moderate interest, the specimen of birch-bark which Margery had shown him.

“Oh no, indeed,” said she, “they have had their breakfast. They have been telling me about it. The bishop got up very early in the morning and cooked it for them. He’s a splendid cook, and he found things in their hampers that they didn’t know they had. They said his coffee was delicious, and they have left him there in their camp now, washing the dishes and putting everything in order. And do you think, Uncle Archibald, that it is going to rain?”

“I do,” said he, “for it is sprinkling already.”

This proved to be the first bad day since the Archibald party had gone into camp, and the rain soon began to come down in a steady, practised way, as if the clouds above were used to that sort of thing and could easily keep it up all day.

As there was no place under roof to which company could be conveniently invited, Margery retired to her room and set herself diligently to work on her birch-bark quilt.

Mrs. Archibald established herself in the divisionof the cabin which was intended to be used as a sitting and dining room in bad weather, and applied herself to some sewing and darning, which had been reserved for just such a day as this. Mr. Archibald, in a water-proof suit, tried fishing for half an hour or so, but finding it both unpleasant and unprofitable, he joined his wife, made himself as comfortable as possible on two chairs, and began to read aloud one of the novels they had brought with them.

Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold had considerately gone to their own camp when it began to rain, hoping, however, that the shower would be over in a short time. But the rain was not a shower, and they spent the morning on their backs in their tent, talking and smoking. Of course they could not expect the bishop to depart in the rain, so they had told him to make himself as comfortable as he could in the little kitchen tent, and offered him a pipe and a book. The first he declined, as he never smoked, but the latter he accepted with delight.

After the mid-day dinner Phil Matlack, in a pair of high hunting-boots and an oil-skin coat, came to Mr. Archibald and said that as there was nothing he could do that afternoon, he would walk over to Sadler’s and attend to some business he had there.

“About the bishop?” asked Mr. Archibald.

“Partly,” said Matlack. “I understand the fellow is still over there with those two young men. I don’t suppose they’ll send him off in the rain, and as he isn’t in my camp, I can’t interfere. But it may rain for two or three days.”

“All right,” said Mr. Archibald, “and if we want anything we’ll ask Martin.”

“Just so,” said Matlack. “If there’s anything to do that you don’t want to do yourself, you can get him to do it; but if you want to know anything you don’t know yourself, you’d better wait until I come back.”

When Matlack presented himself before Peter Sadler he found that ponderous individual seated in his rolling-chair near the open door, enjoying the smell of the rain.

“Hello, Phil!” he cried. “What’s wrong at the camp?”

The guide left his wet coat and cap on the little piazza outside, and after carefully wiping his feet, seated himself on a chair near the door.

“There’s three things wrong,” said he. “In the first place, there’s a tramp out there, and it looks to me as if he was a-goin’ to stick, if he can get allowed to do it.”

“Is he too big for you to bounce?” roared Peter. “That’s a pretty story to come tell me!”

“No, he ain’t,” said the other; “but I haven’t got the bouncin’ of him. He’s not in my camp. The young men have took him in; but I expect he’ll come over with them as soon as it’s done rainin’, for when that happens they’re bound to come themselves.”

“Look here, Phil,” said Peter, “is he dressed in black?”

“Yes, he is,” said the guide.

Mr. Sadler slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “Phil Matlack,” he shouted, “that’s my favorite tramp. I never had a man here whopaid his bill in work as he did. It was cash down, and good money. Not a minute of wood-splitting more or less than the market-price for meals and bed. I’d like to have a tramp like that come along about twice a week. But I tell you, Phil, he ain’t no tramp. Couldn’t you see that? None of them loafers ever worked as he did.”

“He may not be a tramp,” said Matlack, “but he’s trampin’. What are you goin’ to do about him? Let him stay there?”

“What’s he doin’ now?” asked Sadler.

“He’s cookin’ for those two young men.”

“Well, they need some one to do it for them, and they didn’t want to go to the expense of a guide. Let the parson alone for a day or two, and if he does anything out of the way just you take him by one ear and Martin take him by the other and bring him to me. I’ll attend to him. What’s the next trouble?”

“That’s out of my camp, too,” said Matlack, “but I’m bound to report it. The bicycle fellow that you hired a gun to don’t know the fust thing about usin’ it, and the next thing you’ll hear will be that he’s shot his pardner, who’s worth six of him.”

Mr. Sadler sat up very straight in his chair and stared at the guide. “Phil Matlack,” he shouted, “what do you take me for? I hired that gun to that young man. Don’t you suppose I know what I’m about?”

“That’s all right,” said Matlack, “but the trouble is he don’t know what he’s about.”

“Get away man,” said Peter, with a contemptuous sniff, “he’ll never hurt anybody. Whatdo you take me for? When he came to me and wanted a gun, I handed him two or three, so that he might choose one that suited him, and by the way he handled them I could see that most likely he’d never handled one before, and so I set him up all right. He’s got a good gun, and all the cartridges he’ll be likely to want; and the cartridges are all like this. They’re a new kind I heard of last winter, and I got a case from Boston last week. I don’t see how I ever managed to run my camps without them. Do you see that shot?” said he, opening one end of a cartridge. “Well, take one in your hand and pinch it.”

Phil did so, and it crumbled to dust in his hand.

“When that load’s fired,” said Peter, “all the shot will crumble into dust. It wouldn’t do to give raw hands blank-cartridges, because they’d find that out; but with this kind they might sit all day and fire at a baby asleep in its cradle and never disturb it, provided the baby was deaf. And he can’t use his pardner’s cartridges, for I gave that fellow a twelve-bore gun and his is a ten-bore.”

Phil grinned. “Well, then,” said he, “I suppose I might as well make my mind easy, but if that bicycle man hunts much he’ll get the conviction borne in on him that he’s a dreadful bad shot.”

“Then he’ll give up shooting, which is what is wanted,” said Sadler. “What’s your third bother?”

“That young woman has made up her mind to go out in the boat by herself the very fust timeshe feels like it,” said Matlack; “she didn’t say so with her mouth, but she said it with the back of her head and her shoulders, and I want to know if that rule of yours is going to hold good this summer. Women is gettin’ to do so many things they didn’t use to that I didn’t know but what you’d consider they’d got far enough to take themselves out on the lake, and if you do think so, I don’t want to get myself in hot water with those people and then find you don’t back me up.”

“If you don’t want to get yourself into hot water with me, Phil Matlack, you’d better get it into your head just as soon as you can that when I make a rule it’s a rule, and I don’t want people comin’ to me and talkin’ about changes. Women in my camp don’t go out in boats by themselves, and it’s easy enough to have that rule kept if you’ve got backbone enough to do it. Keep the boat locked to the shore when it ain’t in use, and put the key in your pocket, and if anybody gets it that ’ain’t any right to it, that’s your lookout. Now that’s the end of your troubles, I hope. How’s things goin’ on generally in the camp?”

“Oh, well enough,” said Matlack. “I thought at fust the old lady’d give out in a day or two, but I’ve taught her parlor-fishin’, which she’s took to quite lively, and she’s got used to the woods. The boss, he sticks to fishin’, as if it was office-work, and as for the rest of them, I guess they’re all gettin’ more and more willin’ to stay.”

“Why?” asked Peter.

“Well, one of them is a gal and the others isn’t,” replied Matlack, “that’s about the p’int of it.”

During Matlack’s walk back the skies cleared,and when he reached the camp he found Mrs. Archibald seated in her chair near the edge of the lake, a dry board under her feet, and the bishop standing by her, putting bait on her hook, and taking the fish off of it when any happened to be there. Out in the boat sat Mr. Archibald, trusting that some fish might approach the surface in search of insects disabled by the rain. Farther on, at a place by the water’s edge that was clear of bushes and undergrowth, Martin was giving Miss Dearborn a lesson in fly-fishing.

“He’s a mighty good fisherman,” thought Matlack, looking at the young fellow as he brought his rod back from the water with a long graceful sweep, and then, with another sweep and an easy inclination of his body forward, sending the fly far out on the smooth surface of the lake, “although there ain’t no need to tell him so; and I don’t wonder she’d rather stand and watch him than try to do it herself.”

Walking up and down near the edge of the wood were Messrs. Clyde and Raybold.

Phil smiled. “They don’t seem to be happy,” he said to himself. “I guess they’re hankerin’ to take a share in her edication; but if you don’t know nothin’ yourself, you can’t edicate other people.”

Matlack directed his steps towards Mrs. Archibald; but before he reached her he was met by the bishop, who hurried towards him.

“I shall be obliged to surrender my post to you,” he said, “which will be greatly to the lady’s satisfaction, I imagine, for I must appear a poor attendant after you.”

“A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING”

“A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING”

“Goin’ to leave us?” said Matlack. “You look quite spruced up.”

The bishop smiled. “You allude, I suppose,” said he, “to the fact that my hat and clothes are brushed, and that I am freshly shaved and have on a clean collar. I like to be as neat as I can. This is a gutta-percha collar, and I can wash it whenever I please with a bit of damp rag, and it is my custom to shave every day, if I possibly can. But as to leaving you, I shall not do so this evening. I have promised those young gentlemen who so kindly invited me to their camp that I would prepare their supper for them, and I must now go to make the fire and get things in readiness.”

“Have they engaged you as cook and general help?” asked Matlack.

“Oh no,” said the bishop, with a smile, “they are kind and I am grateful, that is all.”

CHAPTER XA LADIES’ DAY IN CAMP

Two days after the rainy day in camp Mr. Archibald determined to take the direction of affairs into his own hands, so far as he should be able. Having no authority over the two young men at Camp Roy, he had hitherto contented himself with a disapproval of their methods of employing their time, which he communicated only to his wife. But now he considered that, as they were spending so much of their time in his camp and so little in their own, he would take charge of them exactly as if they belonged to his party. He would put an end, if possible, to the aimless strolls up and down the beach with Margery, and the long conversations of which that young woman had grown to be so fond, held sometimes with both young men, though more frequently with one. If Clyde and Raybold came into the woods to lounge in the shade and talk to a girl, they must go to some other camp to do it. But if they really cared to range the forest, either as sportsmen or lovers of nature, he would do his best to help them; so this day he organized an expedition to a low mountain about two miles away, taking Matlack with him as guide, and inviting the two young men to join him. Theyhad assented because no good reason for declining had presented itself, and because Phil Matlack earnestly urged them to come along and let him show them what a real forest tramp was like. Before his recent talk with Peter Sadler, Phil would not have dared to go out into the woods in company with the bicycle man.

The two ladies were perfectly willing to remain in camp under the charge of Martin, who was capable of defending them against any possible danger; and as the bishop had agreed to take charge of Camp Roy during the absence of its occupants, Mr. Archibald planned for a whole day’s tramp, the first he had taken since they went into camp.

When Martin’s morning work was done he approached the shady spot where the two ladies had established themselves, and offered to continue his lessons in fish-flying if Miss Dearborn so desired. But Miss Dearborn did not wish to take any lessons to-day. She would rest and stay with Mrs. Archibald. Even the elder lady did not care to fish that morning. The day was hot and the shade was grateful.

Martin walked away dissatisfied. In his opinion, there had never been a day more suitable for angling; this was a day which would be free from interruptions, either from two young fellows who knew nothing about real game-fishing, or from Matlack, who always called him away to do something when he was most interested in his piscatorial pedagogics. This was a day when he could stand by that lovely girl, give her the rod, show her how to raise it, wave it, and throw it,and sometimes even touch her hand as he took it from her or gave it back, watching her all the time with an admiration and delight which no speckled trout or gamy black bass had ever yet aroused in him, and all this without fear that a gentleman out on the lake might possibly be observing them with the idea that he was more interested in his work than the ordinary guide might be supposed to be. But luck was against him, and Martin, who did not in the least consider himself an ordinary guide, walked up and down in moody reflection, or grimly threw himself upon the ground, gazing upward at the sky—not half so blue as he was—but never walking or resting so far away that he could not hear the first cry from her should snake, bear, dragon-fly, or danger of any kind approach her.

To the ladies, about half an hour later, came the bishop, who, newly shaved and brushed, wished them good-morning, and offered his services in any manner which might be desired. If Mrs. Archibald wished to fish by the side of the lake, he was at her service; but Mrs. Archibald did not care to fish.

“This is a most charming day,” said the bishop, removing his hat, “but I suppose it is more charming to me because it is my last day here.”

“And so you are really going to go?” said Mrs. Archibald, smiling.

“I suppose you think I am not likely to get there,” said he, “but really I have stayed here long enough, and for several reasons.”

“Sit down,” said Margery, “and tell us whatthey are. There is a nice little rock with some moss on it.”

The bishop promptly accepted the invitation and seated himself. As he did so, Martin, at a little distance, scowled, folded his arms, and slightly increased the length of his sentinel-like walk.

“Yes,” said the bishop, brushing some pine leaves from his threadbare trousers, “during the time that I have accepted the hospitality of those young gentlemen I feel that I have in a great measure repaid them for their kindness, but now I see that I shall become a burden and an expense to them. In the first place, I eat a great deal more than both of them put together, so that the provisions they brought with them will be exhausted much sooner than they expected. I am also of the opinion that they are getting tired of eating in their own camp, but as I make a point of preparing the meals at stated hours, of course they feel obliged to partake of them.”

“By which you mean, I suppose,” said Mrs. Archibald, “that if they had not you to cook for them they would be apt to take a good many meals with us, as they did when they first came, and which would be cheaper and pleasanter.”

“I beg, madam,” said the bishop, quickly, “that you will not think that they have said anything of the sort. I simply inferred, from remarks I have heard, that one of them, at least, is very much of the opinion you have just stated; therefore I feel that I cannot be welcome much longer in Camp Roy. There is also another reason why I should go now. I have a business prospect before me.”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Mrs. Archibald. “Is it a good one?”

“I think it is,” said the bishop. “I have been considering it earnestly, and the more I fix my mind upon it the greater appear its advantages. I don’t mind in the least telling you what it is. A gentleman who is acquainted with my family and whom I have met two or three times, but not recently, possesses a very fine estate some thirty miles south of this place. He has been in Europe for some time, but is expected to return to his country mansion about the end of this week. It is my purpose to offer myself to him in the capacity of private librarian. I do not think it will be difficult to convince him that I have many qualifications for the situation.”

“Has he so many books that he needs a librarian?” asked Margery.

“No,” said the bishop, “I have no reason to suppose that he has any more books than the ordinary country gentleman possesses, but he ought to have. He has a very large income, and is now engaged in establishing for his family what is intended to become, in time, an ancestral mansion. It is obvious to any one of intelligence that such a grand mansion would not be complete without a well-selected library, and that such a library could not be selected or arranged by an ordinary man of affairs. Consequently, unless he has a competent person to perform this duty for him, his library, for a long time, will be insignificant. When I shall put the question before him, I have no doubt that he will see and appreciate the force and value of my statements. Such a positionwill suit me admirably. I shall ask but little salary, but it will give me something far better than money—an opportunity to select from the book marts of the whole world the literature in which I delight. Consequently, you will see that it is highly desirable that I should be on hand when this gentleman arrives upon his estate.”

With a look of gentle pity Mrs. Archibald gazed at the smooth round face of the bishop, flushed with the delights of anticipation and brightened by the cheery smile which nearly always accompanied his remarks. “And is that your only prospect?” she said. “I don’t want to discourage you, but it seems to me that if you had some regular business—and you are not too old to learn something of the sort—it would be far better for you than trying to obtain the mythical position you speak of. I see that you are a man of intelligence and education, and I believe that you would succeed in almost any calling to which you would apply yourself with earnestness and industry. You must excuse me for speaking so plainly, but I am much older than you are and I do it for your good.”

“Madam,” exclaimed the bishop, radiant with grateful emotion, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you have said. I thank you for your appreciation of me and for the generous motive of your words, but, to be frank with you, I am not suited to a calling such as you have mentioned. I have many qualities which I well know would promote my fortunes were they properly applied, but that application is difficult, for the reason that my principal mental characteristicis indefiniteness. When but a little child I was indefinite. Nobody knew what I was going to do, or how I would turn out; no one has since known, and no one knows now. In whatever way I have turned my attention in my endeavors to support myself, I have been obstructed and even appalled by the definiteness of the ordinary pursuits of life. Now the making of a private library is in itself an indefinite occupation. It has not its lines, its rules, its limitations. But do not think, kind lady, that I shall always depend upon such employment. Should I obtain it, I should hold it only so long as it would be necessary, and it may be necessary for but a little while. Do you care to hear of my permanent prospects?” said he, looking from one lady to the other.

“Certainly,” said Margery, “we would like to hear all you have to tell.”

“Well then,” said the bishop, folding his arms and smiling effusively, but with a gentle curbing of his ordinary cheerfulness, “I will inform you that I have an uncle who is a man of wealth and well on in years. Unfortunately, or fortunately it may be, this uncle greatly dislikes me. He objects so strongly to my methods of thought and action, and even to my physical presence, that he cannot bear to hear me speak or even to look at me, and the last time I was in his company, about four years ago, he told me that he would leave me a legacy on condition that he should never hear from me or see me again. He promised to make the proper provision in his will immediately, but declared, and I know he will keep his word, that if he ever received a letterfrom me or even saw me or heard my voice he would instantly strike out that clause. I appreciated and respected his feelings, and accepted the condition. From that moment I have not written to him, nor shall I ever write to him, and I shall never go near him so long as he is alive. As I said, he is of advanced age, and it is impossible that he can long survive. When his demise takes place my circumstances will, I believe, be satisfactory.”

“Did your uncle say how much he would leave you?” asked Mrs. Archibald.

“No, madam,” returned the other, “he did not, but I feel sure that the sum will be measured by his satisfaction in knowing that his existence is entirely freed from me.”

“Really,” said Mrs. Archibald, “there is nothing about you so indefinite as your prospects.”

“And it seems horrible to me,” said Margery, “to be hoping that some one may die in order that you may be better off, for, as you want money so much, you must hope that your uncle will die.”

The bishop smiled and rose. “And now,” said he, “I suppose I must go to prepare the dinner at Camp Roy. There is nobody but myself to eat it, but I have assumed the duty, and it must be performed. Good-morning. By your leave, I shall look in upon you again.”

Mrs. Archibald had a mind to ask him to stay and dine with them, but having noticed an unfriendly expression on the face of Martin when his gloomy walk brought him in her direction, she thought it would not be wise to do so.

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