King Spruce Part 38

an ignorant man the contents of the book--the juice of it, as you might say---in a way that won't hurt, they are so anxious to have him know that it's book-learnin' they've got, they'll bang him across the face with it, book-covers and all. I like your knowledge, because it's goin'

to help us in handlin' this thing we've bit off up here. But I'll be blamed if I don't like your modesty best of all."

He picked up his calipers, stuck them under his arm, and started for camp with a haste that showed full confidence in his partner's ability.

And the next morning he b.u.t.toned the camp letters in his coat, and started south for Castonia with the outgoing tote team.

"I don't worry about this end," he said, at parting, "and you needn't worry about mine. Don't be afraid of going hungry. There's nothin' like full stomachs to make axes and saws run well. It will have to be hand-to-mouth till snow flies, then I'll slip you in stores enough to fill that w.a.n.gan to the roof. Good heart, my boy! We're goin' to make some money."

Wade followed him to the edge of the clearing with his first sense of loneliness tugging within him.

"Safe home to you, Mr. Ide," he said, "and my respectful regards to Miss Nina, if you will take them. I suppose--she will--probably--the girl she took away--" he stammered.

"By thunder mighty!" cried the Castonia magnate, whirling on him, "I'd forgotten all about that Skeet girl, or Arden girl, or whatever they call her."

He eyed the young man with a dawning of his old curiosity, but Wade met his gaze frankly.

"The affair of the girl is not mine at all," he said. "Simply because she seemed superior to the tribe she was with, I hoped Mr. Barrett would do as he partly promised--use a few dollars of his money to help her from the muck. Such cases appeal to me, because I'm not accustomed to seeing them, perhaps."

"If my girl is interested in that poor little wildcat, you needn't think twice about her bein' taken good care of," cried the admiring father.

And gazing into the wholesome eyes and candid face of the little man, Wade reflected that perhaps Fate had handled a problem better for John Barrett's abandoned daughter than he himself, in his resentful zeal, had planned.

He shook Ide's hand hard, and, with the picture of John Barrett's other daughter in his dimming eyes and the love of John Barrett's other daughter burning in his lonely heart, he turned back towards the woods, whose fronded arms, tossing in the October wind, beckoned him to his duty.

CHAPTER XX

THE HA'NT OF THE UMCOLCUS

"For even in these days P. I.'s shake At word of the phantom of Bra.s.sua Lake; And all of us know of the witherlick That prowls by the sh.o.r.es of the Cup-sup-tic; Of the side-hill ranger whose eyeb.a.l.l.s gleam In the light of the moon at Abol stream."

--The Ha'nts.

A few days after the men of Enchanted were housed, those who gazed southeast from the mountain shoulder saw a smear of white on the horizon. It was the first snow on lofty Katahdin.

Tommy Eye greeted that sight most enthusiastically. Like a good teamster, he was anxious for "slippin'."

"Bless the saints, old Winter has pitched camp down there, and is mixin'

up a batch of our kind of weather," he said to Wade. "Injun Summer had better grab up what's left of her flounces and get out from under."

But Winter proceeded about his business with majestic deliberateness. He patted down the duff under the big trees with beating, sleety rains; and when the ground was ready for the sowing of the mighty crop, he piled his banks of clouds up from the south, and, though he gave the coast folk rain, he brought the men of the north woods what they were longing for--snow a-plenty; snow that heaped the arms of the spruces, filled all the air with smothering clouds, and blanketed the ground.

Wade, blinking the big flakes out of his eyes as he breasted the swirling storm, came across to the main camp from the w.a.n.gan, his pipe and tobacco-pouch in hand. He rejoiced in his heart to see the snow driving so thickly that the camp window was only a blur of yellow light smudging the whiteness. This first real storm of the winter promised two feet on a level, and guaranteed the slipping on ram-downs and twitch-roads.

The cheer of the storm permeated all the camp on Enchanted. The cook beamed on Wade with floury face. The bare ground had meant bare shelves.

He predicted the first supply-team for the morrow. He had been thriftily "making a mitten out of a mouse's ear" for several weeks. Tommy Eye, ploughing back from his good-night visit to the horse-hovel, proclaimed his general pleasure for two reasons: No more bare-ground dragging for the bob-sleds; no more too liberal dosing of bread dough with soap to make the flour "spend" in lighter loaves. "Eats like wind and tastes like a laundry," Tommy had grumbled.

The boss of the choppers moved along to give Wade the end of the "deacon seat," and grinned amiably.

"That's a cheerful old song she's singing overhead to-night," he remarked.

It needed a lumberman's interpretation to give it cheer.

There were far groanings, there were near sighs; there were silences, when the soft rustle of the snow against the window-gla.s.s made all the sound; there were sudden, tempestuous descents of the wind that rattled the panes and made the throat of the open stove "whummle" like a neighing horse.

Wade lighted his pipe with deep content. He enjoyed the rude fraternity of the big camp. There was but little garrulity. Those who talked did so in a drawling monotone that was keyed properly to the monotone of the soughing trees outside--elbows on knees and eyes on the pole floor.

Clamor would not have suited that little patch of light niched in the black, brooding night of the forest. But there was comfort within. The blue smoke from pipe bowls curled up and mingled with the shadows dancing against the low roof. The woollens, hung to dry on the long poles, draped the dim openings of the bunks. The "spruce feathers"

within were still fresh, and resinous odors struggled against the more athletic fragrance of the pipes.

Most of the men loafed along the "deacon seat," relaxed in the luxury of laziness for that precious three hours between supper and nine o'clock.

A few, bending forward to catch the light from the bracket-lamp, whittled patiently at what lumbermen call "doodahs"--odd little toys destined for some best girl or admiring youngster at home. "Windy"

McPheters regaled those with an ear for music by cheerful efforts on his mouth-harp, coming out strong on the tremolo, and jigging the heel of his moccasined foot for time. And when "Windy" had no more breath left, "Hitchbiddy" Wagg sang, after protracted persuasion, the only song he knew--though one song of that character ought to suffice for any man's musical attainments.

Its length may be understood when it is stated that it detailed all the campaigns of the first Napoleon, and "Hitchbiddy" sang it doubled forward, his elbows on his crossed knees, and the toe of his moccasin flapping for the beat. He came down "the stretch" on the last verse with vigor and expression:

"Next at Waterloo those Frenchmen fought, Commanded by brave Bonaparte [p.r.o.nounced 'paught'], a.s.sisted by Field Marshal Ney-- He never was bribed by gold.

But when Grouchy let the Prussians in It broke Napoleon's heart within.

'Where are my thirty thousand men?

Alas, stranger, for I am sold.'

He led one gallant charge across, Saying, 'Alas, brave boys, I fear 'tis lost.'

The field was in confusion with dead and dying woes.

When the bunch of roses did advance, The English entered into France-- The grand Conversation [_sic_] of Napoleon arose."

To signal that the song was done, "Hitchbiddy" dropped the tune on the last line, and in calm, direct, matter-of-fact recitative announced that "the grand Conversation of Napoleon arose." In the fifty years during which that song has been sung in the Maine lumber-camps, no one has ever displayed the least curiosity as to that last line. Away back, somewhere, a singer twisted a nice, fat word of the original song, and it has stayed twisted, and no one has tried to trouble it by idle questions.

"Hitchbiddy's" most rapt listener was Foolish Abe of the Skeets. The s.h.a.ggy giant squatted behind the stove beside the pile of shavings he was everlastingly whittling for the cook-fire. It was the only task that Abe's poor wits could master, and he toiled at it unceasingly, paying thus and by a sort of canine grat.i.tude for the food he received and the cast-off clothes tossed to him.

A mumbled chorus of commendation followed the song. But the chopping-boss, his humorous gaze on the witling, remarked:

"I reckon I'll have to rule that song out, after this, 'Hitchbiddy.'"

"What for?" demanded the amazed songster.

"It seems to have a damaging and cavascacious effect on the giant intellect of Perfessor Skeet," remarked the boss, with irony. "Look at him!"

Abe was on his knees, stretching up his neck and twitching his head from side to side with the air of an agitated fowl.

"We'll make it a rule after this to have only common songs, like Larry Gorman's," continued the boss, with a quizzical glance at the woodsman poet. "These high operas are too thrillin'."

But those who stared at Abe promptly saw that his attention was not fixed on matters within, but without.

"He heard something," muttered one of the men. "He's got ears like a cat, anyway."

If the giant had heard something it was plain that he heard it again, for he dropped his knife and scrambled to his feet.

"Me go! Yes!" he roared, gutturally; and, obeying some mysterious summons, his haste showing its authority, he ran out of the camp.