CHAPTER XXIITOM ORKNEY CHANGES HIS INTENTION
There are three ways in which one may travel from Plainville to the woods about Payne Stream. One is partly by rail, involving a jolting journey over the branch line to a flag-station, and then a trip over roads which quickly dwindle to trails. The other routes are by highways, neither being direct. Mr. Parker, choosing the more promising of the two, brought his party in sight of the No. 1 camp in mid-afternoon.
The pace had been very moderate, but rather because Mr. Parker spared his horses than because of hard going. In the more thickly settled districts the sleighing was excellent, while the last lap of the journey was over a “tote road,” worn smooth by the passage of sledges carrying supplies to the lumbermen. Midway there had been a stretch, over which travel evidently had been very light. Here, as Lonexplained to the boys, was a district of abandoned farms, some of whose houses, fast falling into ruin, he pointed out to them. Then he indicated groves of flourishing young trees, growing on land which within his memory had been under cultivation, and philosophized a little on the “hard grubbin’” on the hill farms.
Wrapped in their fur coats, Mr. Parker and Mr. Warren shared the front seat, and afforded shelter for the other passengers. The rear seats had been removed from the sleigh, and Lon and the boys filled the bottom of the vehicle, with plenty of straw and robes to keep them warm. On the whole they did very well; though it is not to be denied that they were quite willing to alight and stretch their legs when the sleigh drew up at the door of a big log hut, low but long and with an ell at the rear. Smoke was curling from two chimneys, one in the middle of the main building and the other in the ell, but nobody was in evidence. When Mr. Parker raised a shout, however, the door opened, and out came a thick-set, ruddy, middle-aged man, in sweater, corduroys and heavy boots.
“Hullo there!” he sang out cheerfully. “Glad to see ye, Mr. Parker! Wasn’t lookin’ for ye quite so early. And this is Mr. Warren, ain’t it? Proud and happy, sir, to make your acquaintance. Wha’je think of this, now? Kinder remind ye of Fifth Avenue, eh?”
“Well, I’ve seen snow on the avenue—when it was very new snow—that looked like that you have here,” said Mr. Warren.
The thick-set man chuckled, and shook hands with Mr. Parker. Then he repeated the ceremony with Mr. Warren, being duly presented as Mr. Kane, foreman, or “boss” of No. 1 camp. Then for the first time he seemed to observe Lon and the club.
“Hullo some more—a whole lot more!” he exclaimed. “Wha’je got in behind, Mr. Parker? New crew of lumberjacks?”
Mr. Parker briefly explained, and there were more introductions.
“Kinder wedged in, ain’t they?” inquired Mr. Kane. “Guess I’d better play block and tackle.”
With that he put out an arm, caught Step by the collar, and fairly swung him to theground. Whereupon Step’s friends swarmed over the side of the sleigh, and fell to stamping their feet vigorously, in an effort to quicken sluggish circulation.
“Go in, boys, go in,” Mr. Kane urged hospitably. “Go in and warm up. Goin’ to let these fellers stay with me, ain’t ye?” he added.
“Yes,” said Mr. Parker. “Hope you can put ’em up, and put up with them, for a day or two, while Warren and I go farther on.”
“Sartain sure! Plenty o’ room, and grub, and blankets. Only ain’t ye goin’ to stop at the Hotel de Kane?”
“On the way out we will. Just now I’m anxious to get in touch with Wells——”
“Wal, now, if he didn’t go through to No. 2, not half an hour ahead of ye!”
Mr. Parker cast a weatherwise look at the sky, and gathered up the reins.
“Then I think Warren and I will push on,” said he. “There’s a feel of more snow in the air, Kane. So, if you’ll just keep a sharp eye on these young scamps and show them what a lumber camp is like——”
“Trust me!” chuckled the cheery foreman.
Sam had drawn a little apart from his friends and was glancing keenly about him. At that hour, of course, the choppers were at work, probably at some distance from the camp, but other employees might be in or near the cabin. Already he had observed a fat man peering from the door of the ell. That would be the cook, no doubt. The jingle of bells told him that his father was resuming the journey, and his ears warned him that Mr. Kane was shepherding his flock of guests indoors.
Sam was as chilled and stiff from the long ride as were his friends, but he still lingered at his post of observation. It was no more than a chance, at the best, that Orkney, if he had come to the woods, was at this especial camp; but Sam was making the most of the chance. In full session of the club it had been decided that, if the runaway were discovered, Sam should first reason with him in private, falling back, if necessary, upon the support of the others.
Except where a clearing had been made for the camp, and where ran the narrow tote road, towered tall pines, doomed to fall as the choppers worked their way from the bordersof the tract to its center. Here the snow had fallen deep and without drifts, such as the travelers had seen in the more open country. Sam shivered a little. The cheerful and vociferous boss had followed his charges into the cabin, and, of a sudden, the watcher was oppressed by the silence and the loneliness of the woods. Instinctively he took a step toward the main door of the camp; halted; listened intently. Then he heard again, and with certainty, the sound which he had half believed a trick of imagination. It was the crunch of dry snow under a hurrying foot.
Sam strode forward. As he turned the corner of the building, he caught sight of a figure moving obliquely toward the runner tracks leading to No. 2 camp. In spite of the low-drawn cap and the rough Mackinaw he recognized Orkney.
“Slipped out of a back door, and around the other side of the camp and started for another get-away,” he reflected. “Bound not to be seen, if he can help it. Thunder, but he is as stubborn as they make ’em!”
Orkney was in haste, but Sam pursued still more rapidly. The tote road bent sharply toavoid a great boulder. Orkney vanished around the bend, without giving evidence that he suspected he was followed; but when Sam passed the big rock, and thus shut himself from view from the camp, he beheld Orkney, faced about and standing defiantly in the middle of the road.
Sam, too, pulled up. For a moment neither boy spoke. Sam advanced a pace. Orkney contented himself with holding his ground.
“Well, what do you want?” he growled.
“You,” was Sam’s terse response.
“Cut out the guff! I’m in a hurry.”
Sam took another step forward. “See here, Orkney! I’ve got things to tell you. You made a mistake when you bolted.”
“That’s my own lookout. I’m satisfied.”
“I’m not.”
“Huh! It’s no affair of yours.”
“I tell you it is,” Sam insisted. “Helped drive you out of town, didn’t I?”
“What’s that? ‘Drive me out?’” snorted Orkney. “Not much! Nobody drove me—least of all you and your gang of swelled heads!”
Sam kept his temper. “Might as well facethings as they are. You ran away because everybody was down on you, because everybody cut you, because——”
“Not on your life!” Orkney broke in fiercely. “I don’t care a rap for the whole school or the whole town!”
“All the same you couldn’t stand the gaff. So you turned tail and bolted. And here I find you a wood-chopper and——”
“No siree! Can’t you get anything straight? I’m cookee. Know what that is? Cook’s helper. Or, rather, I was. I’ve quit the job. I’m moving on.”
“You’re running again—from us!”
“I’m running from nobody. But I don’t choose to stay where a lot of prying sneaks are butting in.”
Sam took another step. This proffering of the amende honorable was proving to be even more difficult than he had feared, but he kept himself in hand.
“Orkney,” he said earnestly, “you’ve got to hear me. The other day I charged you with a lot of rascality. I was mistaken. I take back what I said. Then, like everybody else, I thought you as good as shoved LittlePerrine into the pond. That was another mistake; I’m sorry for it.”
Orkney was more puzzled than pleased. “Eh? Sorry, are you? Well, if you want to apologize——”
“Apologize” is a word which, sometimes, grates on the ear. Sam flushed.
“Go slow there!” he said sharply; then, with a change of tone, went on: “If I’m apologizing, it’s for the things I did because I was fooled, deceived. And the club are with me in this. But I’m not apologizing, and they’re not apologizing for thinking you a grouchy sorehead. You’ve made your own troubles, mostly. We’ll let that pass, though. I’m not here to call you names; I’m here to tell you that, if you’d stuck it out and not run away, things would have cleared up for you. As it is, we’re ready to do what we can for you if you’ll come back. We’ll spread the truth. You can make a fresh start.”
“With the help of your bunch! I see myself doing it!”
“Look at the case fairly. We came here in the hope of finding you. We came to make the offer.”
“Got a tip where I was, eh? Well, I know who gave it. Fellow from Plainville, who’d been hanging around the camp, disappeared for a couple of days, and then came back.”
“Groche—Peter Groche? Is he here now?”
“Was this morning. It was none of his business, and it’s none of yours, Parker—mixing up in my affairs this way.”
“But it is our business!”
Orkney’s jaw was thrust forward obstinately. “See here, Mr. Sam Parker, you’re going too far. You’re banking on a notion that on account of what you did for me at the pond I’ve got to come when you whistle. Get that out of your head! I told you I couldn’t very well fight you—you know why—but there’s a limit. You don’t own me!”
Sam had not thoroughly mastered the rôle of bearer of the olive branch. “Mighty glad I don’t own you! If I did, I’d get rid of you very quick!” he rapped out. “And if you want to fight—why, the slate’s clean; you don’t owe me anything.”
Orkney dropped a bundle he had been carryingunder one arm. Sam, observing this readiness to clear for action, struggled between zest for the fray and duty, as he saw it.
“Listen, you—you chump! Show common sense, can’t you? Come home with us. We want you to have a square deal. We’ll back you up—so far as we can. Little Perrine swears by you—we’ll spread his story. And there’s another thing—maybe you don’t guess how awfully broken up your aunt is. She’s almost crazy. She’s done everything she could to trace you. She’s offered a reward——”
“What’s that? A reward?”
“Yes—hundred dollars for news of you.”
“Oh-ho!” Orkney’s cynical grin was a taunt in itself. “Oh-ho! So that’s your lay, eh? You’re after me because you and your gang are after the hundred? Well, you don’t get either—see?”
Orkney had passed the limits of endurance. Rage seized Sam. To be charged with mercenary motives was more than he could bear. He sprang at Tom, and at the same instant that vigilant youth leaped to meet the attack. There was a furious exchange of blows, eachcombatant seeking to inflict punishment and making no effort to avoid it. Then the pair grappled, and swayed back and forth, struggling desperately for the mastery.
It was a fight, and a real fight; but one carried on under unusual conditions. Both boys were in heavy winter clothes; there had been no time to discard overcoats or jackets, or even the thick gloves they wore. So they were, in some degree, like armored knights of old, come to grips in full panoply, by which they were at once hampered and protected; while the yielding snow offered most uncertain footing. Now they were in the tracks of the tote road; now they had reeled into snow that rose above their plunging knees; now they were floundering back to the path. Sam, slipping, went to his knees. Orkney, over-eager to press his advantage, lost it; for though he landed a blow on his opponent’s forehead, it was at cost of the precious “under hold.” Sam’s arms were locked about Tom’s waist; his chin was pressing hard against the other’s shoulder. Orkney swayed backward under the pressure. He made a frantic effort to break free; failed; lost footing.Down he went into the deep snow, Sam falling upon him and still holding him fast.
But the battle was far from ended. Orkney writhed and twisted. He struck at Sam, raining ineffective blows upon his head and shoulders. He kicked furiously, sending the snow flying in showers. Indeed, he fought determinedly but vainly, until at last Sam, keeping his wits, had slowly shifted position, and was astride his prostrate foe’s body. Then, with one of Sam’s hands at his throat, and the other hand clenched and poised above his unprotected face, Orkney sullenly accepted defeat and ceased to struggle.
“You—you had enough?” Sam panted.
“Y-Yes!” gasped Orkney with all imaginable reluctance.
“Give up?”
“Yes.” It was barely a whisper, but Sam caught the word.
“All—all right!” he said, breathlessly but cheerfully, and got upon his feet.
Orkney sat up, but did not attempt to rise. His expression betrayed intense chagrin.
“I—I won’t admit you—you licked me, but—but you got me down,” he said brokenly.“And—and I gave up. But that—that doesn’t settle anything.”
To his surprise Sam laughed.
“Sure settles one thing, Orkney! You said you—you wanted to fight me, but couldn’t—’member? Well, somehow, we seem to have dodged the difficulty.”
Tom seemed to find a certain grim consolation in this aspect of the case.
“That’s so. But—but what do you want me to do now?”
“Stand up!” said Sam promptly. “We’ll brush the snow off each other. Then we’ll go back to the camp. You’d better slip in the way you slipped out. I’ll go in at the front door, and tell the fellows you’re working here, and I’ve had a talk with you. Then you’ll happen along naturally. The crowd will be decent.”
Orkney made a grimace. “S’pose I’ll have to see ’em—might as well have it over. But see here, Parker! Mind you, I haven’t promised to go back to Plainville.”
“But you’ll think it over?”
“Well,” said Orkney reluctantly, “I’ll agree to that. Yes; I’ll stay a day or two, anyway, and think it over.”