Copper Streak Trail Part 15

Mr. Thompson took a cigar and seated himself, expectant and happy.

"Boland, what did you come here for, anyhow?" demanded Ferdie explosively. "Do you play tennis? Do you squire the girls? Do you take a hand at bridge? Do you fish? Row? Swim? Motor? Golf? Booze? Not you!

Might as well have stayed in New York. Two weeks now you have perched oh a porch--perched and sat, and nothing more. Dawdle and dream and foozle over your musty old books. Yah! Highbrow!"

"Little do you wot; but I do more--ah, far more!--than perching on this porch."

"What do you do? Mope and mowl? If so, mowl for us. I never saw anybody mowl. Or does one hear people when they mowl?"

"Naturally it wouldn't occur to you--but I think. About things.

Mesopotamia. The spring-time of the world. Ur of the Chaldees.

Melchisedec. Arabia Felix. The Simple Life; and Why Men Leave Home."

"No go, Boland, old socks!" said Thompson. "Our young friend is right, you know. You are not practical. You are booky. You are a dreamer. Get into the game. Get busy! Get into business. Get a wad. Get! Found an estate. Be somebody!"

"As for me, I go for a stroll. You give little Frankie a pain in his feelings! For a crooked tuppence I'd get somebody to wire me to come to New York at once.--Uttering these intrepid words the brave youth rose gracefully and, without a glance at his detractors, sauntered nonchalantly to the gate.--Unless, of course, you meant it for my good?"

He bent his brows inquiringly.

"We meant it--" said Ferdie, and paused.

"--for your good," said Thompson.

"Oh, well, if you meant it for my good!" said Boland graciously. "All the same, if I ever decide to 'be somebody,' I'm going to be Francis Charles Boland, and not a dismal imitation of a copy of some celebrated poseur--I'll tell you those! Speaking as a man of liberal--or lax--morality, you surprise me. You are G.o.dly and cleanly men; yet, when you saw in me a gem of purest ray serene, did you appeal to my better nature? Nary! In a wild and topsy-turvy world, did you implore me to devote my splendid and unwasted energies in the service of Good, with a capital G? Nix! You appealed to ambition, egotism, and greed.... Fie! A fie upon each of you!"

"Don't do that! Have mercy! We appeal to your better nature. We repent."

"All the same, I am going for my stroll, rejoined the youth, striving to repress his righteous indignation out of consideration for his humiliated companions, who now--alas, too late!--saw their conduct in its true light. For, he continued, with a flas.h.i.+ng look from his intelligent eyes, I desire no pedestal; I am not avaricious. Be mine the short and simple flannels of the poor."

An hour later Francis Charles paused in his strolling, cap in hand, and turned back with Mary Selden.

"How fortunate!" he said.

"Isn't it?" said Miss Selden. "Odd, too, considering that I take this road home every evening after school is out. And when we reflect that you chanced this way last Thursday at half-past four--and again on Friday--it amounts to a coincidence."

"Direction of the subconscious mind," explained Francis Charles, unabashed. "Profound meditation--thirst for knowledge. What more natural than that my heedless foot should stray, instinctively as it were, toward the--the--"

"--old oaken schoolhouse that stood in a swamp. It is a shame, of the burning variety, that a State as wealthy as New York doesn't and won't provide country schools with playgrounds big enough for anything but tiddledy-winks!" declared Miss Selden. Her fine firm lip curled. Then she turned her clear gray eyes upon Mr. Boland. "Excuse me for interrupting you, please."

"Don't mention it! People always have to interrupt me when they want to say anything. And now may I put a question or two?

About--geography--history--that sort of thing?"

The eyes further considered Mr. Boland.

"You are not very complimentary to Mr. Thompson's house party, I think,"

said Mary in a cool, little, matter-of-fact voice.

Altogether a cool-headed and practical young lady, this midget schoolma'am, with her uncompromising directness of speech and her clear eyes--a merry, mirthful, frank, dainty, altogether delightful small person.

Francis Charles stole an appreciative glance at the trim and jaunty figure beside him and answered evasively:

"It was like this, you know: Was reading Mark Twain's 'Life on the Mississippi.' On the first page he observes of that river that it draws its water supply from twenty-eight States, all the way from Delaware to Idaho. I don't just see it. Delaware, you know--that's pretty steep!"

"If it were not for his reputation I should suspect Mr. Clemens of levity," said Mary. "Could it have been a slip?"

"No slip. It's repeated. At the end of the second chapter he says this--I think I have it nearly word for word: 'At the meeting of the waters from Delaware and from Itasca, and from the mountain ranges close upon the Pacific--' Now what did he mean by making this very extraordinary statement twice? Is there a catch about it? Ca.n.a.ls, or something?"

"I think, perhaps," said Mary, "he meant to poke fun at our habit of reading without attention and of accepting statement as proof."

"That's it, likely. But maybe there's a joker about ca.n.a.ls. Wasn't there a Baltimore and Ohio Ca.n.a.l? But again, if so, how did water from Delaware get to Baltimore? Anyhow, that's how it all began--studying about ca.n.a.ls.

For, how about this dry ca.n.a.l along here? It runs forty miles that I know of--I've seen that much of it, driving Thompson's car. It must have cost a nice bunch of money. Who built it? When did who build it? What did it cost? Where did it begin? Where did it start to? Was it ever finished?

Was it ever used? What was the name of it? n.o.body seems to know."

"I can't answer one of those questions, Mr. Boland."

"And you a schoolmistress! Come now! I'll give you one more chance. What are the princ.i.p.al exports of Abingdon?"

"That's easy. Let me see: potatoes, milk, eggs, b.u.t.ter, cheese. And hay, lumber, lath and bark--chickens and--and apples, apple cider--rye, buckwheat, buckwheat flour, maple sirup; pork and veal and beef; and--and that's all, I guess."

"Wrong! I'll mark you fifty per cent. You've omitted the most important item. Abingdon--and every country town, I suppose--s.h.i.+ps off her young people--to New York; to the factories; a few to the West. That is why Abingdon is the saddest place I've ever seen. Every farmhouse holds a tragedy. The young folk--

"They are all gone away; The house is shut and still.

There is nothing more to say."

Mary Selden stopped; she looked up at her companion thoughtfully.

Seash.e.l.l colors ebbed from her face and left it almost pale.

"Thank you for reminding me," she said. "There is another bit of information I think you should have. You'll probably think me bold, forward, and the rest of it; I can't help that; you need the knowledge."

Francis Charles groaned.

"For my good, of course. Funny how anything that's good for us is always disagreeable. Well, let's have it!"

"It may not be of the slightest consequence to you," began Mary, slightly confused. "And perhaps you know all about it--any old gossip could tell you. It's a wonder if they haven't; you've been here two weeks."

Boland made a wry face.

"I see! Exports?"

Mary nodded, and her brave eyes drooped a little.

"Abingdon's finest export--in my opinion, at least--went to Arizona.

And--and he's in trouble, Mr. Boland; else I might not have told you this. But it seemed so horrid of me--when he's in such dreadful trouble.

So, now you know."

"Arizona?" said Boland. "Why, there's where--Excuse me; I didn't mean to pry."

"Yes, Stanley Mitch.e.l.l. Only that you stick in your sh.e.l.l, like a turtle, you'd have heard before now that we were engaged. Are engaged. And you mustn't say a word. No one knows about the trouble--not even his uncle.

I've trusted you, Mr. Boland."