“My bird with the shining head.My own dove with the tender eye. . . .Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,To the flowers, and be their sun.”
“My bird with the shining head.My own dove with the tender eye. . . .Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,To the flowers, and be their sun.”
“My bird with the shining head.My own dove with the tender eye. . . .Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,To the flowers, and be their sun.”
“My bird with the shining head.
My own dove with the tender eye. . . .
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.”
“A corner of dreamland,” murmured Donald.
A stronger breeze swept down the valley, causing the nest to rock with gentle undulations. “A novel idea,” he thought, “and what a restful spot to sleep and dream!”
Donald was tempted to finish his nap in the vacated dryad’s nest, but put the thought aside as being almost a sacrilege. He descended to the ground, picked up his basket and started down the mountain. As he neared the lake he saw the trapper with Douglas and Andy sitting outside the cabin door.
“Any luck, ol’ timer?”
Donald lifted the lid of the basket.
“Whew!” ejaculated the trapper. “Them’s wallopers, ain’t they?”
“John,” queried Donald as he sat down on the grass, “did you ever see a dryad?”
“A what?”
“A dryad.”
The trapper’s wrinkled face puckered. “Yeh,” he answered quizzically, “I seen lots of them fellers in Vancouver one time after I’d bin drinkin’ for a week.”
Donald told of his meeting with the strange child of the forest. “Who is she, John?” he asked.
“That was little Connie Wainwright. She an’ her father live in a little valley t’other side of that bluff,” pointing up the mountain. “She’s a great kid, too. She has a hoss that’s named after a hoss that had wings. I forgit the name she calls him.” The trapper pondered for a moment.
“Pegasus,” prompted Donald.
“That’s it. She rides that hoss like a Texas Ranger, an’ she’s a crack shot with the rifle. Funny thing, though, she ain’t ever shot anything to my knowledge ’cept a cougar that tried to get her pet deer. Her father’s jest the same, he won’t kill nothin’ an’ they’ve got all the birds ’round their cabin as tame as chickens. They are always studyin’ birds, flowers, an’ animals. He’s an Englishman of eddication, an’ he’s eddicated the kid, too. Was the ‘Breed’ with her?”
“No. Who is the Breed?”
“He’s a half-breed Indian with a lame leg. He came over the trail ’bout two years ago. Got one look at that shiny haired kid an’ thought she was an angel, I guess, an’ has been hantin’ her ever since. He built hisself a cabin up there. Works for Wainwright in the summer an’ traps in the winter. He follers that kid ’round like a dog follers its master.”
Donald was interested.
“I must call on them.”
“He’ll be glad to see ye, as ye can talk his lingo. His langwidge is too high-falutin’ for me. He sometimes comes to ask me ’bout the habits of animals, but I got a sneakin’ notion that he knows more ’bout it than I do.”
That evening Donald and Andy visited the recluse.
CHAPTER IX
Thetrail to Wainwright’s cabin was a mere path that followed the vagaries of a small mountain stream which at times flowed with a tranquil murmur, then suddenly plunged over ledges and shattered itself into creamy foam on the worn rocks below.
Out of breath from the steep climb, Donald and Andy sat down as they reached the bluff. Everywhere was the song of birds and the whispering of gentle zephyrs laden with the fragrance of the forest.
“Whit, whit, whit, ch’ wee-e-e-e,” sounded the shrill hunting call of an osprey, or “fish-hawk,” as he wheeled over the lake, then made his spectacular plunge and rose on high with a fish gripped in his long, powerful talons. Donald watched him carry it to his mate, who was standing guard over a big nest in the top of a dead pine. Again the male bird dropped like a bolt, struck the water with a loud splash, and disappeared below the surface for a few seconds, then rose to scatter spray in his struggles to lift himself clear of the water.
A bald eagle, from the vantage point of a tall fir, took instant note of the successful fisherman, and with a majestic swoop flew under the smaller bird. Higher and higher rose the osprey, the eagle relentlessly pursuing, until at last the intimidated bird released its hold on the prize. With a scream of triumph the eagle seized the glistening, wriggling fish in mid-air and bore it away.
From the woods in their rear came the lilt of a song mingled with the thud of flying hoofs, and around a tangle of low spruce came a piebald cayuse at full gallop. On his bare back the girl of the woods was standing with arms outstretched, pirouetting on her moccasined toes like a dancing dervish. Her heavy hair streaming about her face and shoulders, she seemed even more an elf than when poised for flight on the edge of her fairy nest. As she neared the bluff she settled to her seat and seized the reins.
Donald came to his feet. For a moment it seemed as if he were to be passed unnoticed. He ran to the trail and waved his arm with a welcoming shout. This brought him a flash of startled blue eyes, then the cayuse with a snort of fear went straight up into the air, spinning high on his hindlegs. A sharp word of command and a quick twist of the nut-brown hands caused the frightened beast to half turn and lower his forelegs gently to the ground. As he stepped to the cayuse’s head Donald noted the lean and sinewed flanks of the animal, the strong muscled shoulders, and the slender but powerful limbs. He stroked the shiny neck and Pegasus made answer to such advances by rubbing his moist nose against Donald’s shoulder.
“Nothing mythical about this steed,” observed Donald, gently prodding the bunched muscles on the horse’s chest. “And,” he added jestingly, “I do not see the golden bridle presented by the goddess to Bellerophon while he slept.”
A subtle flicker danced momentarily in the corners of the blue orbs of the rider. “I have clipped his wings, so I have no need of the magic bridle,” she said smilingly.
The voice was gentle and mellow. The pronunciation, clear and perfect, held a trace of English accent that was pleasing to Donald’s ears. One could not look upon Connie without thinking of flowers, birds and sunshine. Constant exercise had turned her muscles into cords of steel; mountain air and sunshine had darkened her face and hands to a deep bronze and brought to her cheeks a warm glow that showed richly through the coat of tan.
Connie looked on this stranger as a being infinitely beyond her ken, a part of a world of which she had no knowledge. His tall, well-knit body, his shining black hair, dark flashing eyes, his fine clothes and his deep resonant voice were a source of wonder and admiration to this girl, whose knowledge of men was limited to a few lone trappers and Indians. She was suddenly disconcerted and felt like running away.
“I was on my way to call on you. Is your father home?”
Surprised at her own boldness, Connie slipped lightly to the ground and stood beside him.
“Yes,” she rejoined awkwardly, “he is. I’ll go with you.”
Donald spoke again, with a playful smile that caused the girl to flush with a mixture of pleasure and confusion. “I thought when I saw you poised on Pegasus’s back that a close inspection would disclose a pair of transparent, gauzy wings, but,” peering at her shoulders, “evidently the rider is clipped as well.”
As they walked up the path, Andy following, it seemed to Connie that they were strolling through the fields of Elysium.
At first glance Donald saw that Wainwright’s log cabins had been built by a rank novice. The walls were rakishly askew, the corners out of plumb, and the joints showed big gaps filled with moss. The rough construction of the dissimilar, rambling cluster of houses served to enhance rather than mar the wild grandeur of this oasis on the rocky mountain-side.
Into this valley poured a mountain stream which had gouged out for itself a canyon, through which its waters swept and tumbled, as green as jade in the sunlight, like emerald in the shadow, and snowy white in the roaring rapids. On the other side, the towering profiles of the cliffs were edged with stunted growths of pine and spruce, while here and there were soft patches of green moss clinging to the damp places.
The few acres wrested from the wilderness were rich with a green carpet of clover and timothy, and in a pasture at the corner a sleek Jersey cow was feeding diligently. In the same enclosure a deer nibbled delicately at the tender shoots. A flock of pure white ducks, in single file, waddled down the hill and plunged with a subdued quacking into a small pond. Within a yard enclosed by a fence of split cedar the lusty crow of a rooster sounded above the cackling of his family.
The low walls of the main cabin were festooned with a mass of wild creepers in which the wild honeysuckle predominated. Wild flowers, each species separate, were growing in neat round plots bordered with carefully arranged stones. Scores of birds flitted through the low bushes, rested on fences and roofs, or hopped unafraid through the grass. Siskins and finches there were, in gold or olive; blue jays and their cousins, the camp-robbers; bluebirds; sparrows singing sweetly; waxwings “zeeping” through the garden; warblers gurgling softly; scolding grey flycatchers and numerous other species unknown to Donald.
A camp-robber flew to Connie’s outstretched arm. From the capacious pocket of her overalls she brought a crust of bread, at which the bird pecked hungrily. Another bird lighted on the brim of Andy’s wide hat. The little man attempted to peer up at it without moving his head, and the effort set his bushy eyebrows dancing. “Get off there, you blighter!” he growled. “I don’t want any bloomin’ trimmin’s on me ’ead gear.”
It was the first time Andy had spoken. Connie turned to him, her eyes wide with curiosity. His droll face, the strange dialect and the lively eyebrows caused a flock of dimples to chase each other about her pretty lips.
Connie’s father and the Breed, working in the vegetable garden below, glanced up and, seeing the strangers, laid down their tools and came up the hill, the Breed moving jerkily on his crippled limb.
Raleigh Wainwright was a man of rather striking appearance. He was slender, grey-haired, clean chiselled, and carried himself with a military bearing. There was a certain fineness in the slight figure, a symmetry of design, that suggested that indefinable something which is the hall-mark of good breeding. He had a way of carrying his well-shaped head that accentuated this aristocratic air. His grey eyes met Donald’s with a level gaze as they shook hands.
After a cursory glance, Joe Pardon, the Breed, settled himself on a seat against the wall of the cabin and rolled a cigarette. His face was swarthy and sombre; coarse black hair topped his head. In repose his features wore the impassive expression of the Indian, but when he smiled—which rarely happened—he showed the French strain in his blood and became almost handsome. He was of a sturdier build than the average Siwash Indian, and as he leaned against the logs, with muscular arms folded across his powerful chest, one would have thought him the embodiment of all that is strong and virile in man, until the eyes rested on the pitifully malformed leg, shrunken to one-half its normal size.
“Won’t you come inside?” asked Wainwright politely.
“Thank you,” answered Donald, “but if you don’t mind I’d rather look at your flower garden.”
It was quite evident that their host was pleased by this statement. “You are interested in flowers?” he questioned eagerly.
“I am,” admitted Donald, “but unfortunately I don’t know much about them.”
The dignified Englishman proved to be not only an intelligent, but a most willing teacher. From plot to plot they went, the botanist glad to talk on his hobby to an attentive audience. He gave the names of the plants, their mode of germination, growth, nature and uses. For half-an-hour his quiet voice went on until the lengthening shadows deepened. As they moved toward the cabin, the Breed passed them carrying a pail brimming with milk, at which Andy gazed with longing eyes.
“We always have a light lunch in the evening; won’t you stay?” begged their host.
Andy nodded his blond head vigorously in a silent signal to Donald for acceptance, and acceptance was instantly forthcoming.
The interior of the log cabin was rough in the extreme, but scrupulously clean, with chairs, tables and beds that had never issued from a furniture factory. The window-curtains were made of flour and sugar sacks, on which the names of the manufacturers could still be deciphered. On one wall were two bunks, set one above the other, on which were spread heavy Hudson Bay blankets. No sheets were in evidence, and the pillows were rough sacks stuffed with moss. The lower bunk showed the feminine touch in its drapery of cheap blue print, a pathetic attempt to brighten the coarse surroundings. Behind a small stove in the corner hung an array of cooking utensils, spotlessly clean, but of inferior quality. The one and only table, placed conveniently near the stove, was as white as a ship’s deck from constant scouring.
In direct antithesis to this seeming poverty, one end of the cabin was literally filled with books. These richly-bound volumes looked incongruous in conjunction with the rough tables, the uncomfortable chairs and the rude beds. Donald’s eyes roved over the books, arranged on the shelves standing and crosswise. Most of them were in English, but many were in German, French and Italian; some in what appeared to be Arabic, perhaps Sanskrit; and dozens were on botany, ornithology and natural history.
“A bookworm,” mused Donald, “a bookworm, and at the expense of his personal comfort.” He felt ashamed of his unwarranted criticism of their kind host.
“I built this cabin all alone,” informed Wainwright proudly.
Donald’s eyes rested on the speaker. Wainwright wore a shooting-jacket and riding-breeches of excellent cut and of rare material, but now worn threadbare and neatly patched. Donald knew that those rents had been mended by a woman’s hands. Wainwright’s æsthetic face was impressive. The marks of toil could not hide the delicacy of his thin hands with their long, tapering fingers. The hands of a dreamer or poet, thought Donald, not the hands to wield an axe. A quick admiration for this man’s gameness filled his heart. “A good job,” he lied, as he surveyed the sagging roof and bulging walls.
“As good an authority as Hillier told me that it was excellent work,” stated their host rather boastfully.
“Bless old John’s heart!” thought Donald fervently.
It was plain that Connie had anticipated their staying for lunch, as the table was set—with tin plates and cups—for four. She drew a pan of hot rolls from the tiny oven, and, her face a deep red from the heat and her exertions, she sat down to the table, using a canned goods box as a seat. Donald noticed that the two chairs had been given up to the guests, and he arose at once to offer his seat. Andy, not to be outdone in gallantry, successfully prevailed on Connie to make the change.
“Bit shorter ever day,” he grinned as he sank to the box. At this Connie lowered her head, her shoulders shaking with merriment.
Wainwright’s manner was that of the owner of a baronial estate entertaining guests under the most luxurious surroundings. His cheeks were flushed, and he seemed filled with a boyish happiness. “It no doubt will seem incomprehensible to you,” he remarked with a smile, “when I say that, with the exception of John Hillier, you are the first white men to break bread with me under this roof. We are quite a distance from the Pemberton trail, and therefore come in contact with but few travellers.”
Little wonder, Donald thought, at their host’s nervous gaiety and the child’s distress. What turn of Fate had caused this scholar to seek a home in so lonely a spot? Misanthropes fled to the wilderness to escape their fellow-men, but their welcome was proof that Wainwright was not of that class. Why, then, had he voluntarily become an anchorite? Was he obsessed by his hobby to such an extent that he had ostracized himself to carry on the study of Nature? Was he a criminal hiding from justice? Donald put the latter thought aside quickly. The Englishman’s delicate features, with wide forehead, clear eyes, and tender, sensitive mouth, were not the features of a man of criminal tendencies. At times, when in repose, Wainwright’s face held a deep and brooding sadness. Some tragedy had entered his life, Donald decided; some great calamity, that had seared his very soul, had driven him to the life of a recluse.
Connie strove to appear at ease, but without success. Hoping to relieve her embarrassment, Donald spoke to her. Although she ventured an upward glance, his voice seemed only to heighten her confusion.
Mr. Wainwright resumed the discussion of the wild flowers of British Columbia. With his head held sidewise, Andy listened intently to the flow of conversation. When their host used Latin words Andy’s face would assume a bewildered expression. With eyebrows raised inquiringly and a humorous smile playing about his lips, he would turn to Connie and slowly shake his head.
This odd little man, with his blithesome manner and the whimsical gleam in his blue eyes, was extremely amusing to Connie, and it was with difficulty that she controlled her mirth.
“I s’y,” observed Andy deferentially, “I’d like to learn about these flowers and things; but, strike me ’andsome, the big words you use, and some of them in the bohunk langwidge, puts more’n ’arf of it over me bloomin’ ’ead.”
Wainwright’s laugh had a pleasant ring. “I’ll do my best to help you, Mr. Pettray. You’ll find books here,” pointing to the shelves, “that will be of greater assistance.”
The keen mountain air made itself felt through the poorly chinked walls of the cabin, and the company moved their chairs nearer to the warmth of the crackling fire. Donald offered their host a cigar, which was accepted and smoked with evident relish.
“Start me at the beginnin’; put me in the kindergarten, where my size belongs,” chuckled Andy.
Wainwright leaned back in the rough chair, puffing luxuriously at his cigar, sending wreaths of fragrant smoke about his head. “I hardly know where to begin,” he said meditatively.
The room suddenly grew dark, and they heard the soft sighing of the wind in the branches of the trees nearby. These signs were precursors of one of the mountain showers so common in the coast Range of the Province. A moment later there came the intermittent patter of big raindrops on the roof, gradually increasing until it became a strumming roar that debarred conversation.
Connie lighted a candle, and using the neck of an empty vinegar bottle as a candlestick, she placed it on the table, then took a seat outside the radius of the dim light.
The door opened to admit the Breed. As he entered a rush of sweet rain-washed air, laden with the odour of fragrant buds, filled the room. Shaking a shower of glistening raindrops from his wide sombrero, the Breed hobbled silently on moccasined feet to a seat in the corner.
The pelting rain dwindled to a drizzle, then stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
For an hour Wainwright gave a disquisition of the value of plant life to mankind. Selecting two books from the shelves, he placed them on the table before Andy. “You will find no difficulty in understanding these volumes, as they are written for the novice. You will also find that there is no pursuit more conducive to health and happiness than the study of plants. It keeps one largely in the open air, and promotes pure and helpful thinking. For this reason parents should lead the minds of their children to the study of plant life.”
During her father’s discourse Connie’s eyes scarcely left Donald’s face. The Breed from the darkness of the corner noticed her rapt interest in the tall stranger, and his dusky eyes glittered with jealousy. He limped to the doorway, and, as he turned, Donald could not repress a start as he caught the malignant look of hate which shot from the half-breed’s glowing eyes.
“Constance, dear, will you play for us?” asked her father.
She moved obediently to her bunk, and from the floor beneath she drew out a much worn violin case.
The mellow radiance from the candle and the ever-changing lights from the open draft of the small stove cast long, wavering shadows within the cabin. From without came the wailing of the wind, the creaking of the trees, and the steady drip of water from the eaves.
As the bow touched the strings Connie forgot her shyness. The violin drifted into a melody as light as a bird singing through the trees, now joyous, anon sobbing in a deep rhythm of eerie sadness. As she played her body swayed, almost imperceptibly, as a blossoming tree sways under a soft spring breeze.
As the last note ascended and faded on the throbbing air, Connie’s embarrassment returned. At Donald’s words of praise a scarlet flush dyed her cheeks. She returned the instrument to its case, and, with eyes downcast, resumed her seat in the darkened corner. Wainwright’s eyes held a look of deep tenderness as he thanked her in a voice that was like a caress.
As they said good-night Donald saw that their host’s face was again shrouded in deep melancholy. The light of a waning moon threw ghost-like shadows as they stumbled down the narrow trail through the aromatic woods. Save for the drip of water, a brooding hush hung over the forest. The trail was soft with needles, on which their feet made only a softened beating. In the nave of huge conifers the solemnity of the forest made speech seem almost irreverent.
Near the centre of the tunnel-like trail, where the shadows deepened, Donald stopped short with every sense alert. Without knowing why, he suddenly felt a quick sense of danger. A dark form rose in front of them and slunk into the woods.
“The blinkin’ Indian,” whispered Andy.
In passing the spot where the Breed had disappeared, Donald had an uncanny feeling that the burning eyes of Connie’s devoted guardian were fixed on him and he felt a crinkly chill creep up his spine. It was with a feeling of relief that they emerged from the obscurity of the timber and caught the friendly gleam of light from their cabin window on the lake-shore far below.
CHAPTER X
Thefollowing day their work brought Donald and his companions to the top of the falls near Connie’s fairy nest. The melting snows from above had swelled the water until it filled the narrow gorge to the brim.
As Donald viewed the thundering river he was impressed by the potential power in the mighty surge of water that flung itself in a cascade of foam to the rocks below. “Good place for a dam!” he shouted to Gillis, as he pointed to the narrow canyon and then to the slanting walls that formed a natural basin.
That night, while Andy pursued his studies on flowers, Donald covered several sheets of notepaper with drawings and figures. He became so deeply engrossed in his work that he sat up long after the others had gone to bed. At breakfast he placed the result of his night’s work near Gillis’s plate. “Jack, I believe we could put in an electric mill that would be successful,” he said earnestly.
Gillis studied the papers carefully, then passed them to Douglas. “Might be done,” he said non-committally. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout electricity; do you?”
“I’ve had a little experience,” admitted Donald modestly.
Douglas, who had been poring over the drawings, spoke emphatically. “I’ll bet Dad would be interested in this. I’ve heard him say that all mills would be electrically driven sometime. He’s up-to-date—always willing to listen to new ideas.”
“But old ‘Moss-back’ ain’t,” growled Gillis.
“Who’s old ‘Moss-back’?”
“One of the office men by name of Renwick. He’s one of them narrow-’tween-the-eyes, psalm-singin’ old has-beens that sez ‘tut tut’ every time he hears a logger say ‘damn.’ His health is poor, so they’re goin’ to send him up here to take charge of this mill. Thanks be, I’m goin’ to have charge in the woods, so I won’t have nothin’ to do with him.”
They discussed the matter during the day, and that evening they again visited the falls. From the trapper Donald learned that the supply of water was unfailing. Owing to the natural formation, the cost of building the dam would be small. Donald’s friends became as enthusiastic as himself.
“We’ll be finished to-morrow night, Douglas,” announced Gillis that evening. “If you and Donald want to, you can go to town and put this proposition up to your father.”
The lines of steel were creeping north slowly but surely. As they left the cabin to start for the Coast, the first faint boom of a blast was brought to their ears by the southern breeze. Ten miles south of the lake they came to steel and rode to Squamish in the cab of a locomotive, reaching Vancouver that night.
Douglas informed Donald over the ’phone the next morning that his father would give him a hearing at two o’clock that afternoon.
As Donald thought of the impending meeting he experienced certain inward qualms. He felt that Renwick would oppose him, and wondered if Robert Rennie would consider him conceited and forward in suggesting such a radical innovation.
At the appointed hour Donald and Douglas entered the office of the R. C. & L. Co. Robert Rennie greeted Donald with a friendly smile and motioned to chairs near the desk. “You have some papers with you, I presume,” he said.
Donald placed the rough plans on the desk before him. For five minutes Robert Rennie studied them quietly while Donald fidgeted. Without comment, he leaned back in his chair for a moment, apparently in deep thought. Presently he pressed a button at the side of his desk.
“Send Renwick, Bolton and King here,” he said to the boy who answered the bell.
As the men entered the room Donald had no difficulty in recognizing Renwick from Gillis’s description. Robert Rennie rose to introduce Donald, then spoke in quick, flashing sentences, that went straight to the heart of things, as he spread the plans on the table before them.
As Donald had anticipated, Renwick, after a short scrutiny of the papers, objected strenuously, his chief objection being the initial cost, together with the fact that experience had demonstrated that only small mills had proved a success when electrically driven. Bolton was of the same opinion, but he admitted that if the supply of timber were sufficient to keep the mill in operation for years, the initial cost would be offset by the economy of operation.
King, the company’s chief engineer, vouchsafed no opinion, but sat with Donald’s plans before him, copying the figures in his note-book.
Robert Rennie glanced at Donald expectantly.
Donald spoke of the lessened cost of operation in an electrically-driven mill by the reduction of the number of millwrights, oilers and helpers, the lower insurance rates, the saving on line-shafting, belts and oil, of the advantage in speed over a steam-mill, etc. As he warmed to the subject he came to his feet and leaned over the desk.
“As you gentlemen know, the greatest enemy of the mill-owner is fire. With a steam-mill of the size you are to build, with donkey engines and locomotives operated by steam, you will have a battery of smokestacks that will be an hourly menace during the summer months in the dry air at that altitude. Electrify your mill and donkey engines and you will reduce the fire hazard by seventy-five per cent. I don’t ask you to accept my opinion. I advise you to investigate thoroughly before deciding. An electric mill with the enormous power available would be a credit, not only to this company, but to the Province as well.”
Robert Rennie’s brain functioned with a clear-cut precision. He would listen to the advice of his experts with an attentive ear, and his decision was usually made before the last one had ceased talking.
While Donald was talking Robert Rennie sat forward in his chair with a look of almost strained attention. As Donald finished he swung quickly to his chief engineer. “King, to-morrow you go to Summit Lake. Furnish a full report. If your figures correspond with McLean’s we will install an electric plant. Bolton, get quotations at once on electrical equipment. That’s all,” he finished tersely.
He turned to the two young men as the door closed. “Beginning with the first of next month, McLean, if you so wish, you will act as assistant manager at the Summit Lake Mill. And you,” he turned to Douglas, “will occupy a similar position at the Cheakamus plant.” He rang for his stenographer, who entered at once.
Donald muttered an embarrassed thanks, and as he passed through the door he heard Robert Rennie’s voice in rapid dictation.
They spent the remainder of the afternoon buying supplies from the list which Andy had furnished them. There were numerous delicacies in the items of foodstuffs that brought exclamations of surprise from Douglas. “There is everything here to serve a banquet; even tablecloths and napkins. What is the little beggar up to now, I wonder?” he said laughingly.
“His birthday,” explained Donald. “He is going to invite the Wainwrights and John Hillier. And besides,” he added, “I think he wants to show the old trapper that he can do a little fancy cooking himself.”
Janet Rennie could not interpret the inner urge that prompted her to arise at an early hour the next morning to drive her brother to the wharf. It rather bewildered her—made her ashamed of herself that she could not put Donald from her mind entirely. “Why can’t you forget him?” she asked herself in protest for the thousandth time. As the boat pulled away from the dock she waved an adieu and, with a troubled look in her eyes, swung her car cityward.
For two days after their return to the mountains, their little cabin was a hive of industry. Andy banished his fellow-lodgers to the outdoors at every opportunity while he performed mysterious rites over the small stove. “I’ll show that juggling old pirate what a real meal is like,” he chuckled to himself.
Their guest arrived late in the afternoon and sat outside in the warm sun while Andy busied himself behind the closed door.
Old John’s face shone from the vigorous application of soap and towel. His sole change in attire for the occasion was a clean buckskin coat from the breast pocket of which protruded the corner of a red silk handkerchief.
Connie’s abundant golden hair had been carefully brushed, and hung over her shoulders in glistening, billowy waves that reached to her waist-line. She seated herself a short distance from the party and took no part in the conversation. This was her first social affair and she felt ill at ease. Donald’s repeated attempts to break her reserve were answered in monosyllables.
The door opened to disclose a remarkable figure framed in the entrance. Andy stood before them in the most ridiculous make-up of a butler. An old black coat of Gillis’s, cut off at the sides to form a “claw-hammer,” hung loosely over his narrow shoulders; side-whiskers of tree moss were stuck to his cheeks, and his face was as stolid as a graven image.
“Dinner is now being served in the main dining-’all, me lord,” he intoned slowly.
They applauded Andy’s effort heartily, and as they laughingly entered the cabin a scene met their eyes that was remarkably incongruous amid such drab surroundings.
A snow-white cloth covered the rough board table. A huge turkey, with bulging breast browned to a crispness, graced the centre of the board. Oysters in the shell, celery, salads, several kinds of vegetables, pies, cookies and fancy cheeses were in tempting abundance; and in a place of honour near the turkey reposed Andy’s birthday cake, its frosted surface covered with tiny candles.
Connie’s blue eyes opened wide with wonder. “Oh, Dad!” she cried joyously, “it’s just like stories, isn’t it?”
John tossed his hat to the floor in the corner. “You can deliver the goods, ol’ timer, sure enough,” he commended in a tone of respect.
It was an odd party that gathered in the log hut in the wilderness to celebrate Andy’s birthday—a wilderness whose silence was soon to be broken by the crash of trees and the clang of steel. A late blast, so near that the cabin trembled, caused the old trapper to shiver slightly.
“Trains will soon be running through your backyard, John,” observed Douglas.
The old man shook his head sadly. “Yes,” he concurred, “an’ I’ll hev’ to be hittin’ the trail agin before long.”
Andy’s banquet proceeded merrily, and when the last course was finished Donald took a bundle from the shelf and placed it in Connie’s hands. “Something I brought from town for you,” he smiled.
Connie’s colour heightened. “For me?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes, some reading matter.”
“Thank you,” she murmured softly, as her quick fingers unwrapped the package. She cried aloud with delight as half a dozen novels and as many magazines were disclosed to view.
“And here, Andy, is a present for you,” said Donald as he dragged a box from the corner; “something to assist in passing away the time pleasantly.”
Andy’s joy knew no bounds when, opening the box, a superb Victrola was disclosed to view.
Suddenly the sweet strains of a full orchestra playing the “Barcarolle” filled the room. Connie was enraptured. She stood with bowed head and closed eyes, her hands pressed to her throbbing breast, as the music stirred her emotional soul to its depths. She sighed deeply and her cheeks were wet with tears as she moved to the machine when the music ceased.
They all sang the chorus to the “Old Oaken Bucket,” “Suwannee River” and “Annie Laurie.” Connie’s embarrassment had vanished and her clear voice rang in sweet harmony with the deeper tones of the men.
At the conclusion of “Home Sweet Home,” old John Hillier blew his nose vigorously and surreptitiously dabbed the big red handkerchief to his eyes.
The words of “A Dream,” sung in an impassioned tenor voice, came with surprising distinctness:
“I dreamed thou wert living, my darling, my darling,I dreamed that I pressed thee once more to my breast.Thy soft perfumed tresses and gentle caressesThrilled me and stilled me and lulled me to rest.”
“I dreamed thou wert living, my darling, my darling,I dreamed that I pressed thee once more to my breast.Thy soft perfumed tresses and gentle caressesThrilled me and stilled me and lulled me to rest.”
“I dreamed thou wert living, my darling, my darling,I dreamed that I pressed thee once more to my breast.Thy soft perfumed tresses and gentle caressesThrilled me and stilled me and lulled me to rest.”
“I dreamed thou wert living, my darling, my darling,
I dreamed that I pressed thee once more to my breast.
Thy soft perfumed tresses and gentle caresses
Thrilled me and stilled me and lulled me to rest.”
Donald saw that Wainwright was deeply moved. His throat was working convulsively, and he seemed to have difficulty in lighting his pipe. His shaking hands were cupped over his pipe-bowl in an attempt to hide his emotion. His face was pale and tears brimmed his clear grey eyes.
“Come on, John, let’s ’it up a jig!” cried Andy as he capered across the room and pulled the trapper to his feet. To the lilt of the “Irish Washerwoman” the odd pair smacked the floor with their feet, whirled in giddy circles, and whooped like wild men. They linked arms and spun like a top until John’s moccasined foot trod on Andy’s long coat and brought them to the floor in a heap.
The comedy helped Wainwright to regain his composure, and sent Connie into screams of happy laughter.
“I’ve had a most wonderful evening, Andy,” said Connie gratefully as they were leaving. “The most wonderful in my life,” she added softly.
“By the way, Mr. Pettray,” spoke Mr. Wainwright from the doorway, “how are you progressing with your studies?”
“Not ’arf bad,” answered Andy. “I ’ave learned about the sepals, calyx, corolla, pistil, filament, anther, pollen, style and stigma.” As he rattled off these words he glanced at Gillis and Douglas. He had been longing for this chance to air his newly-acquired knowledge.
“Fine,” complimented Wainwright smilingly. “You are having no difficulty, then?”
Andy wrinkled his brows. “I ’ave found it a bit difficult,” he began importantly; “just a bit, you know, to classify the flowers as to whether they are oxillary, confulate, peduncular, polyandrous, gynandrous, zygomorphic——”
“Holy mackerel!” roared Gillis, as he clapped his hands over his ears. “Stop him, somebody!”
Douglas caught Andy by the coat-tail and dragged him from the door. Connie’s cheerful laughter drifted back to them through the darkness.
The Breed crossed the outer edge of light thrown from the doorway and limped to the trail. Wherever Connie went her argus-eyed guardian flitted in the background.
CHAPTER XI
Inthe construction of the railroad to Summit Lake the speed and efficiency of the R. C. & L. Co’s organization excelled any past effort.
The land-clearing outfit arrived the evening after Andy’s party and began work on that portion of the right-of-way that skirted the west shore of the lake. Like a swath of destruction, the ground became covered with the litter and wreckage of blasted trees—noble trees that had stood for centuries like silent sentinels guarding the limpid blue lake lapping gently at their feet.
For two days Connie had been no nearer than the bluff. Seated astride her horse, she now gazed in startled awe on the invasion of her loved valley. On the third day, drawn by a horrible fascination, she ventured timidly into the valley and watched with wide eyes the advance of the pygmy army, who, with such tiny tools as the axe and saw, crashed to earth mammoth trees that seemed as enduring as the mountains on which they stood.
The steam-shovel roared and crashed in the distance as it ploughed deep gashes in the green hillside, men shouted, heavy wagons banged over the rough road, and fearful blasts shook the air. Through all this tumult the men worked in a frenzy of haste.
A giant fir—a veritable king of the forest, towering in regal glory high above its mates—stood near the water’s edge. Around the massive bole of this tree Connie had played since her earliest recollection. She had endowed this half-god with a living personality, to whom she had confided all her childish fancies and aspirations. The corrugated bark bore numerous bits of nursery rhymes, and her name was etched deep with a sharp knife in several places. With a lump in her throat she saw the “fallers” move to the foot of this great tree and gaze aloft with appraising eyes. Then sinewy arms sent shining axes through the thick bark to form the “scarf,” which to Connie appeared as a gaping white wound on the dark grey trunk.
As the cross-cut saw with its rasping clang ate its way slowly through the tough fibre of the great titan, Connie made inarticulate sounds in her throat and for a moment covered her eyes. As the wedge was applied, a great shudder passed through the tree. Connie held her breath. The tower of dark branches at the top nodded as if in fond farewell. There was a pause, then with a rending and tearing crash it fell to earth with a thunder of sound that filled the valley with a wild tumult of echoes. A whistle blew shrilly, and the men picked up their coats and walked toward their camp.
For a short space Connie stood motionless. Then, with a last long look at the fallen monarch, she sighed deeply and turned to the trail.
That night at dusk she came again. Donald came upon her as she crouched, a forlorn figure, by the prostrate tree. Pointing to her fallen friend, whose top was torn and splintered, she told Donald in halting sentences of the day’s disaster. As he noted the grave face and trembling lips, he wondered at the depth of feeling in one so young. His soft words of sympathy brought unseen tears to her eyes, and she dared not trust her voice in answer. He spoke to her cheerily on other subjects, but could not shake her melancholy mood.
Even the night calm was ravaged by the thunder of blasts. A lurid wall of flame shot high in the air as a rocky portion of the shoreline was rent asunder, and huge boulders plunged into the calm lake, sending up pyramids of water to break in noisy waves on the shore.
Donald enjoyed the unusual experience of witnessing the construction of a railroad, but he understood now why the old trapper had wagged his grey head sadly when he heard the clamour of striving men and machinery creeping up from the south.
The night work had ceased, and a welcome silence settled over the shattered forest. Lambent stars sparkled and twinkled in the high, clear air, with colours that changed from orange to blue and back again. The eastern sky brightened, the glow gradually spread through the heavens, then the moon came slowly over the towering snow-peaks, flooding the valley with light. The fallen tree took on a ghost-like appearance in the moon’s radiance.
Then an uncanny thing happened. Suddenly from a clear sky, without a moment’s warning, a dark and ominous cloud obscured the moon’s light. Connie came quickly to her feet and gazed with startled eyes at this strange phenomenon. The air took on a sudden chill. A quick, strong wind swept up the hill. From the swaying tree-tops there came a moaning like a wailing requiem for the dead—so much like the human voice that Donald shivered.
To Donald the darkening moon and the sighing trees were a coincidence, but to this child of nature, who had been reared in loneliness where rivers roared and mountains loomed, and who understood so intimately the wild things of the forest, it was a manifestation of sorrow by the God of Nature. With her breast heaving tumultuously, she leaned against the mammoth tree and pressed her cheek to its rough bark. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she whispered brokenly.
As if in answer to her words of compassion, the veil suddenly lifted from the moon and the wind ceased. Donald shook himself. “Rather weird,” he said, with a quick, nervous laugh. He turned to find that he was alone.
Events moved swiftly that week.
King’s report was favourable to Donald’s plan, and word came that electrical equipment for the Summit Mill had been ordered.
At Donald’s invitation Connie came to the station to witness the arrival of the first train. As the awesome black monster, with whistle screaming and bell clanging, roared through the rock cut at the south end of the lake and bore down upon them, Connie gasped in wonder. As the train came to a hissing stop she shrank against the walls of the building, a startled look in her eyes. She flushed at the men’s hearty laughter.
The train was loaded with working-men, who with their bundles of blankets overflowed the small platform. A kitchen-car and a sleeping-car were shunted to the side-track which would be their home until the erection of the big dining-hall.
Donald was given charge of constructing the dam, Gillis started the lumbering operations, while Douglas moved to the Cheakamus Mill. Andy was to be boss of the kitchen staff, and was kept busy overseeing the work of interior construction.
A portable mill was fast at work turning out timbers for the big plant, and carpenters and millwrights worked night and day. An American expert came with the machinery to superintend the installation.
With the new task set for him there descended on Donald a deep sense of responsibility. Unlike the others, he worked no regular hours. A feeling of gratitude toward Robert Rennie for the confidence displayed in him kept him at top speed; his energy and resource seemed inexhaustible. From the time his alarm clock—that harsh, brutal little destroyer of sleep—shrilled its call at daylight until darkness filled the valley, he stuck to his task.
One week earlier than the time allotted he reported the dam as finished.
Robert Rennie came with Renwick and King for a short trip of inspection, and as he was leaving he spoke a kindly word in commendation of Donald’s work.
The Summit Mill was to be modern in every respect, lighted with electricity and provided with modern plumbing and hot shower-baths. The white steel beds of the dormitory were clothed in clean white sheets and pillow-cases. There was no analogy in this perfection to the ordinary logging-camp.
For hours Donald followed the expert through the mill, while the latter explained and tested the different motors.
Once a week Robert Rennie came to the mill, taking a keen interest in all phases of its construction, and invariably he went away with a pleased smile on his face.
“Never saw the old man so worked up,” commented Gillis. “Guess he’d like to come up here and run her himself.”
Renwick was still sceptical. For no apparent reason he had taken a dislike to Donald. “It’s just ’cause you and I are such good friends,” explained Gillis. “Me and him get on like a couple of strange bull-dogs.”
When the huge three-storied mill, with its dry kiln, lumber skids, conveyor shed and railroad spurs, was ready for operation, and each machine had been tested, Robert Rennie arrived with other officials of the Company. Next morning Donald’s heart thumped as the mill’s big whistle sent out its first call to work and the men filed eagerly to their posts.
The logs were sprayed with huge water-jets as they came up the chain-haul to clean them of gravel and débris. The electric “nigger” spun them about and threw them into place with a thud that shook the mill. Then in a wild crescendo of sound there rose the harsh chorus of saws: the singing howl of the cut-off, the strident, slurring sound of the gang-saws, and the staccato snarl of the trimmer.
Smiling and rubbing his hands, Robert Rennie walked through the mill. “Running like a greased pig,” shouted Gillis above the clamour. The owner of the R. C. & L. Co. so far forgot his decorum as to slap the astonished Gillis heartily on the back.
Donald noticed an ever-increasing irritability on the part of the logging foreman during the next week. The ertswhile jocular Gillis became sulky and morose. Donald got an inkling as to the cause of his friend’s gloom when he heard Gillis in conversation with Andy.
“What the ’ell’s the matter, you big lunkus? You’re like a bear with a sore foot,” complained Andy.
“If my gang don’t get here pretty soon, and I have to put up with this crowd of bohunks much longer, I won’t be fit to live with,” growled Gillis.
Gillis’s gang of “redshirts” were known the length and breadth of British Columbia. Employers bid high for their services, but for many years they had stuck loyally with Gillis and the R. C. & L. Co. At present they were employed by the Company in one of their camps up the coast, but, at Gillis’s earnest request, Robert Rennie had promised to send them to Summit Lake.
Gillis’s “redshirts” had the well-earned reputation of being the wildest crew of lumber-jacks west of the Rockies. “They’re wild, all right,” Gillis had admitted; “a swearin’, drinkin’, fightin’ gang of roughnecks. But holy mackerel! How them boys can log!”
That night Gillis confided his troubles to Donald. “I don’t know what in tarnation’s to become of loggin’ in years to come if things keep on as they are now,” he began in a despondent tone. “It used to be that when you sent down town for loggers you got loggers. But now,” with a gesture of disgust, “you git a lot of silk-stockin’d, mandolin-playin’, gum-chewin’, smooth-haired guys, or else a bunch of snuff-chewin’, garlic-smellin’, macaroni-eatin’ bohunks, whose names sound like a war in Central Europe.”
Sighing reminiscently, he continued: “I often wonder if it’s because I’m gittin’ old; but, you know, when I look back on the days, when we logged with bull teams, it seems to me that the men at that timelikedto work. I can still see the old timers in their whiskers, and their big black hats and flannel shirts, as they sailed out on the oldComoxor theCassiar.” He shook his head sadly. “Ah! there was only one kind of logger in them days.”
Seeing that Donald was interested, he went on: “Yes, there’s two kinds of loggers nowadays, Donnie, the ‘single-breasted’ and the ‘double-breasted.’ And there’s a hell of a lot of difference between the two. The ‘single-breasted’ logger is a man that don’t speak anythin’ but English, an’ he don’t belong to the ‘I won’t works’ neither. He knows loggin’ from A to Z; don’t mind sleepin’ in a bunk, and always carries his own blankets. If he borrows a ten-spot off you, as soon as he earns it he comes lookin’ for you, slips you the money, grabs you by the hand, and lookin’ you straight in the eye, says: ‘Thanks, friend, come and have a drink.’ At night, when he is through work, he’ll smoke his pipe, grind his axe, talk about the next day’s work with the boss, read the paper and go to bed. In the mornin’ he’ll swallow a big load of prunes and ham and eggs and go to work a-singin’.
“But this ‘double-breaster’,” he snorted disgustedly, “he’s a mixture of a taxi-driver, bartender and soap-box orator, and just because he lives in B.C., he thinks he is a logger. He knows the difference between a fallin’ saw and a bucket’s saw, and that just about lets him out. If he borrows a dollar off you, the minute the bill slips out of your hand you can see a look in his eye that says, ‘You’re hooked.’ And the devil of it is that he won’t cross to the other side of the street when he sees you comin’, but he’ll walk right up to you a-smilin’ and ask you for another buck.
“When he gets through at night he cleans his finger-nails and picks on a mandolin while he tells how many Janes is stuck on him in Vancouver; gives an opinion that the shower-bath was not hot enough, and how we sufferin’ workers should rise against the capitalists. He’ll kick at the breakfast table because there is only oranges and no grape-fruit. When he goes in the woods he’ll throw a few tools away so’s to help the cause of the workers.
“Workers!” he exploded, as he came to his feet and walked the floor, “we’ve got too many ‘double-breasteds’ and ‘hunks’ in this camp right now, Donnie. A hunk will work if you show him a pick and shovel, but these other guys are trouble-breeders. Did you see that big brute that came in to-day?”
Donald remembered seeing an enormous man with narrow, piggish eyes, in the crowd of men sent by the employment agency.
“That’s ol’ Hand. He’s a bad egg. I s’pose I’d ought to fire him, but he’s a good logger, and they are mighty scarce ’round these diggin’s.” He yawned sleepily. “Got to fix a ‘spar-tree’ for a ‘high-lead’ to-morrow, so I better hit the hay.”
Preparing the “spar-tree” for “high-lead,” or “sky-line” rigging, is the most spectacular and thrilling performance in the logging industry. A standing tree is trimmed of top and branches, then strengthened with guys. With the pull coming from this altitude, the advantage over the straight ground pull is enormous as logs are lifted high in air over all impedimenta. The men who do this hazardous work are known as “high-riggers.”
Next morning, a man with a short-handled axe, wearing a wide belt to pass around the treetrunk, and a pair of lineman’s spurs, slowly climbed a big fir. As he ascended he trimmed the trunk clear of limbs. Quite a crowd gathered, among them the trapper, with his rifle on his arm.
“I ain’t got a ‘high-rigger’ in the outfit,” growled Gillis. “This feller agreed to trim her, but he says he never chopped the top off one, so I guess we’ll dynamite her.”
The explosive, with a detonating cap, was tied around the top of the tree and wires strung to the ground. For some reason the batteries would not act, and Gillis chafed under the delay.
“I kin set her off for ye,” said the old trapper.
Gillis turned to him. “How?”
The trapper tapped his gun. “Put a piece of paper on the cap so’ I kin see her and I’ll pop it.”
“That’s a new one on me,” laughed Gillis.
He sent the man aloft to place a square piece of pasteboard on the cap. The men moved back from the foot of the tree, and Gillis gave the signal that all was clear. The old man sprang briskly to the top of a stump, tipped his big hat to the back of his head, and raised his rifle slowly. For an instant the long barrel wavered slightly, then steadied. The report of the rifle was drowned by a splintering crash. The heavily-branched top lifted, then came hurtling through the air to strike the ground a mass of wreckage. For a moment the big spar swayed drunkenly from the shock, then stood stark and rigid. Deprived of its fronds of green, it appeared a ghastly relic of its former self.
That afternoon, as they waited the arrival of the train, Gillis talked again of his “redshirts.” “White men, every one of them,” he declared proudly, “and every one of them with a nickname that is known all over the Coast. Ye just ought to see my two ‘high-riggers,’ ‘Hoop-la’ McKenzie and ‘Blackie’ Anderson. ‘Blackie’ is as black as an Indian, and ‘Hoop-la’ got his name from standing on the top of a spar-tree, after he cuts her off, wavin’ his hat and yellin’ ‘Hoop-la’.
“I got five Jack McDonalds in the gang. Their names are ‘Sly’ Jack, ‘Fightin’ Jack, ‘Check-Book’ Jack, ‘Johnnie-On-The-Spot,’ and ‘Crazy’ Jack. An’ if they had all bin named ‘Crazy’ Jack it wouldn’t bin no mistake,” he finished with a laugh.
The train rumbled to the station and the usual crowd of workers came pouring from the cars, while a crowd stood waiting to board the train. It was the same every day—men coming and men going.
Gillis uttered the glad cry, “Here they are!”
A big, ostentatious man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, stepped to the platform. His dress was truly colourful and striking—wide hat, high boots, a vivid scarlet shirt, with a cloth belt of the same bright hue tied at the side, the ends dangling loosely.
“Get out of the way, hunkies, and make room for a logger!” he roared, as he elbowed his way through a crowd of scattering foreigners behind him, a line of men clad in the same brilliant attire.
“Hello, Hoop-la! you ornery ol’ skate!” bellowed Gillis.
The big man turned. “Here he is fellers!” he shouted.
In a moment Gillis was surrounded by this picturesque crew, howling tumultuous greetings.
“Hello, ol’ hoss!”
“Hello, you son-of-a-gun!”
“How the hell are ye?”
Donald was subjected to crushing hand-clasps as he was introduced to each and every one of this crowd of husky loggers.
As Donald studied them he did not wonder at Gillis’s pride in these men. With the exception of Blackie, there was none under six feet in height, and they carried themselves with a loose swing that was almost a swagger. Many of them were well past middle age, some quite grey about the temples. They were all filled with the sparkling health of the great outdoors, their skins the colour of mahogany.
“Where’s the bunk-house?” asked Blackie.
“We don’t call them bunk-houses any more, we have dormitories,” corrected Gillis as he nudged Donald slyly.
“A what?” questioned the puzzled Blackie.
“Dormitories,” repeated Gillis.
Blackie glowered at his boss. “What are you runnin’, a ladies’ seminary?” he questioned sarcastically.
“And another thing, you don’t need your blankets. Company furnishes ’em,” informed Gillis.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing right now,” declared ‘Crazy’ Jack, “I ain’t goin’ to sleep in a pair of blankets that forty smelly bohunks has wrapped themselves in. What kind of a joint you brought us to, Jack?”
“What I want to tell you fellers,” said Gillis, ignoring ‘Crazy’ Jack’s remarks, “is this: I want you to stay all summer. None of this running to town to get your teeth fixed, or a new suit, see the ball game, or to meet your sister who’s comin’ out from the East, and all that old bunk. We got more orders——”
“Can that chatter,” interrupted ‘Fighting’ Jack with a wide grin. “We’re all goin’ to town on Dominion Day, ain’t we, boys?”
“You bet!” they roared as one.
Gillis shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “Thought you fellers was gettin’ old enough to have a little sense,” he said.
“Too much kick in us yet, Jack,” demurred Blackie.
“Where is this door-mee-tory, Jack?” asked Hoop-la.
Gillis pointed to the long building, and the boisterous crowd moved noisily up the hill. The men dropped their packs to the ground outside the door, and, shouldering each other, peered in. The long rows of white beds stood immaculate against the walls, and two white-coated flunkeys were sweeping the glossy varnished floor.
“This ain’t the right place,” growled Hoop-la, “this is the hospital. They must expect to kill about a hundred men every day. Hi! Jack! Come here. Where’s the bunk-room?” he asked as Gillis approached.
“That’s it.”
“That!”
“Sure.”
“Say! what you givin’ us? I wouldn’t dare sit down on one of them beds; ’fraid of dirty’n it.”
The others gathered round.
“Jack, can we put up a log shack for ourselves?” asked Blackie.
“You sure can,” responded Gillis tolerantly.
“All right, we’ll sleep in this morgue ’till we get a decent place,” said Blackie.
He poked his head in the door just as Andy, clad in white coat, entered by the rear.
“Say, nurse,” shouted Blackie, “get ready for twenty-two cases of delirium tremens!”
“That’s easy,” was Andy’s quick retort; “I’ve ’ad more than that by myself.” His eyebrows lifted in quick surprise as he saw the brilliant shirts.
“When does the blinkin’ circus start?” he grinned.
That evening in their explorations Blackie and Hoop-la found the log shack on the lake-shore.
“Say, Jack, can me and Hoop-la have that cabin down there?”
“You bet you can, Blackie. You and Hoop-la can have anythin’ round here,” replied Gillis heartily.
Blackie had turned to go, but on hearing this broad statement he stopped quickly. “Say, Jack, me and Hoop-la came away from Vancouver owin’ a little money—an’ I promised to send——”
“Ye’ve got me when the gittin’ is good,” interrupted Gillis. “How much do you want?”
“Let me see,” reflected Blackie, “I owe for my room in town; and I owe at Old Joe’s, and—and——”
“How much? Spit it out, I can stand the shock,” commanded Gillis.
“ ’Bout a hundred, Jack.”
“Whew!” whistled Gillis as he reached for his purse.
With Donald’s assistance the hundred dollars was found and Blackie ran joyously down the hill.
“Little devil!” smiled Gillis as he gazed after him. “Good-hearted a feller as ever lived,” he added feelingly, “but he can’t take one drink without goin’ crazy.”
The “redshirts” had been up in the woods looking over the logging operations, and they now came swinging down the hill, their bright shirts flashing in the sun. They were loggers, “every inch of them,” as Gillis had said.