Silas Strong 9
"Well, how are you?" Gordon asked.
"S-supple!" Strong answered, cheerfully.
The children got behind their father, peering from either side of him
as they saw this uncouth figure coming near. Sue pressed the hand of her
brother so tightly as to cause the boy to break her hold upon him.
"R-ride?" said the Emperor, putting his great hand on the head of
the boy and shaking it a little. Socky looked up at him with large,
wondering, timid eyes. Sue hid her face under the coat-tails of her
father.
"They'd rather walk; come on," said Gordon.
The men proceeded slowly over the hill and down into the valley of
Lost River. The children followed, some twenty paces behind, whispering
together. They were still in happy ignorance of the identity of the
strange man.
"S-sold out--eh?" said the hunter.
"Sold out! Sorry! They're going to shove a railroad in here and begin
cutting."
A smothered oath broke from the lips of the Emperor. Gordon came near to
him and whispered:
"Sile," said he, "don't swear before the kids. I'm bad enough, but I've
always been careful about that. Going to leave 'em here if you'll let
me."
"G-good--" The Emperor stopped short and his voice fell into thoughtful
silence.
As they came in sight of the little clearing and the tent and cabins of
Lost River camp, Sue and Socky ran ahead of the men.
"I'm in trouble," Gordon went on. "My account at the mill is overdrawn.
They've pushed me to the verge of madness. I must have a little help."
The woodsman stopped and put his hand on the shoulder of Gordon.
"Been f-foolish, Dick?" said he, kindly.
"I'm done with that. I want to begin new. I need a little money to throw
to the wolves."
"How m-much?"
"Four hundred dollars would do me."
Strong beckoned to him.
"C-come to my goosepen," said the hunter, as he led the way to an old
basswood some fifty paces from the camp. He removed a piece of bark
which fitted nicely over a hole in the tree-trunk. He put his hand in
the hole which he called a goosepen and took out a roll of bills.
"You save like a squirrel," said Gordon.
"Dunno no other w-way," Strong answered as he began to count the money.
"Three hundred an' s-seventy dollars," he said, presently, and gave it
to his brother-in-law. He felt in the hole again. "B-bank's failed!" he
added.
The kindness of the woodland was in the face of the hunter. He was like
an old hickory drawing its nourishment from the very bosom of the earth
and freely giving its crop. Where he fed there was plenty, and he had no
more thought of his own needs than a tree.
"Thank you' It's enough," said Gordon. "Better keep some of it."
"N-no good here," Strong answered, with his old reliance on the bounty
of nature.
"I'll go out to Pitkin in the morning. I'm going to get a new start in
the world. If you'll take care of the children I'll send you some money
every month. You've been a brother to me, and I'll not forget."
The Emperor sat upon a log and took a pencil and an old memorandum-book
from his pocket and wrote on a leaf this letter to Annette:
_"Deer frend--I am wel compny com today I dunno when I'll see you. woods
is hot and dry fish plenty Socks on feel splendid hopin for better times
"yours trewly
"S. Strong.
"P. S.--Strong's ahed."_
In truth, the whole purpose of the letter lay in that laconic
postscript, expressing, as it did, a sense of moral triumph under great
difficulties.
The Emperor stripped a piece of bark off a birch-tree, trimmed it with
his knife, and, enfolding it around the letter, bound it in the middle
with a long thorn which he drew out of the lapel of his "jacket." He
handed the missive to Gordon, saying, "F-for Ann Roice."
The children stood peering into an open door when the men came and flung
down their packs.
Sinth had gone to work in the garden, which was near the river-bank.
Silas Strong entered his cabin. The children came to their father, who
had seated himself on a chopping-block. Having forgotten the real Uncle
Silas, they had been looking for that splendid creature of whom they had
dreamed.
"Father," Socky whispered, "where is Uncle Silas?"
"That was Uncle Silas," said Gordon.
The eyes of the children were fixed upon his, while their faces began to
change color. The long, dark lashes of little Sue quivered for a second
as if she had received a blow. Socky's glance fell; his trembling hands,
which lay on the knee of Gordon, seemed to clutch at each other; then
his right thumb stood up straight and stiff; his lips parted. One might
have observed a little upward twitch of the muscles under either cheek.
It signalized the first touch of bitter disappointment.
"That man?" he whispered, looking up doubtfully as he pointed in the
direction of the door into which Strong had disappeared.
"That's Uncle Silas," said Gordon, with smiling amusement.
Socky turned and spat upon the ground.
Slowly he walked away, scuffing his feet. Sue followed with a look of
dejection. They went behind the camp and found the big potato-hole and
crawled into it. The bottom was covered with dry leaves. They sat down,
but neither spoke. Socky leaned forward, his chin upon his hands.
"Do you like Uncle Silas?" Sue whispered.
For a moment Socky did not change his attitude or make any reply.
"I wouldn't give him no twenty-five cents," Sue added.
"Don't speak to me," Socky answered, with a quick movement of his knee.
It was a time of sad discovery--that pathetic day when the first castle
of childhood falls upon its builder.
"I'm going home," said Sue.
"You won't be let," Socky answered, his under lip trembling as he
thought of the old lumberyard.
Suddenly he lay over on the leaves, his forehead on his elbow, and
wept in silence. Sue lay beside him, her cheek partly covered by golden
curls. She felt badly, but did not give way. They were both utterly
weary and cast down. Sue lay on her back and drew out her tiny doll
much as a man would light a cigarette in his moment of abstraction. She
flirted it in the air and brought it down upon her breast. The doll had
come out of her pocket just in time to save her. She lay yawning a few
moments, then fell asleep, and soon Socky joined her.
Gordon lay down upon a bed in one of the cabins. He, too, was weary and
soon forgot his troubles. The Emperor, having shifted his garments, went
behind the camp and stood looking down at his sorrowing people. A
smile spread over his countenance. It came and passed like a billow of
sunlight flooding over the hills. He shook his head with amusement.
Soon he turned away and sauntered slowly towards the river-bank. These,
children had been flung, as it were, upon the ruin of his hopes. What
should he do with them and with "Mis' Strong"? Suddenly a reflection of
unusual magnitude broke from his lips.
"They's g-got t' be tall contrivin'," he whispered, with a sigh.
Sinth, who had been sowing onions, heard him coming and rose to her
feet.
"G-Gordon!" said he, pointing towards camp. "Anybody with him?" she
asked..
"The childem," said he. "G-goin't' leave 'em."
Sinth turned with a look of alarm.
"C-can't swear, nuther," Strong added.
"He can take 'em back," said Miss Strong, with flashing eyes and a flirt
of her apron.
"R-roughlocks!" the Emperor demanded, in a low tone.
"Who'll tek care of 'em?"
"M-me."
"Heavens!" she exclaimed, her voice full of despair.
"C-come, Mis' Strong." So saying, Silas took the arm of his complaining
sister and led her up the hill.
When he had come to the potato-hole he pointed down at the children.
They had dressed with scrupulous care for the eye of him who, not an
hour since, had been the greatest of all men. The boy lay in his only wide, white collar and necktie, in his best coat and knee-breeches. The girl had on her beloved brown dress and pink sun-bonnet. It was a picture to fill one's eyes, and all the more if one could have seen the hearts of those little people. A new look came into the face of Sinth.
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