Lost Farm Camp Part 29

"But my father!" he exclaimed.

"That's for you to decide."

"Hang it, you old pirate, I'd like to at that if I can get the governor to see it. I'll put it up to him to-night. But, Great Scott, man, it's charity!"

"Not a bit of it. It may look that way to you, but I came here with the intention of making some such proposition. Don't you see it will mean less work for me in the end? The Northern Improvement money is as good as any. I'll take over your father's stock till he gets on his feet, or you can take it, and we'll cover any deficits with my money, and no one will be the wiser. The asbestos will be a paying thing in a year or two.

In the mean time we'll manage to get along."

"Well, for cool, canny head-work, Davy, you've got a Boston lawyer faded to a whisper. And for unadulterated decency you've got a vestal virgin-"

"Tush," said David, as they walked toward the vestibule. "It's one o'clock, and I promised Aunt Elizabeth I'd be home at twelve."

That afternoon, some hours later, Bas...o...b..was in his father's office, where they talked over Ross's proposition. Finally, the elder man, who had been gazing out of the window, turned in his chair and faced his son.

"All right, Walter. Go ahead. I'll have the stock transferred. Ross will make a go of it if any one will. I didn't expect this of him, though. It took more moral courage for him to do it than most men have. I didn't know he thought so much of you."

"Oh, it isn't altogether on my account, Dad. You might know that; and as for moral courage, I think it was a pretty cla.s.sy piece of Morganeering."

"Which one?" queried the elder Bas...o...b.. smiling.

"Does that make any difference?" asked Wallie. "But, say, Dad, you don't think I'm a deserter, do you? My going over to the enemy seems to be about the only way out of our trouble; besides, your stock will be in my name, and really, it's only Davy's way of being a friend. Bess, you know-"

"Yes," interrupted the elder man wearily, "I understand. I've worked for thirty years, and here I am practically accepting charity from a young fellow who wanted to marry my daughter and didn't because I objected to his sentimental idea about going into the woods to make his mark. Well, I've arranged to go away-for a rest. You go ahead and do what you can."

"What's the matter, Dad?" Bas...o...b..came to his father and laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder.

"The doctor says-"

"Doctor! Why, I didn't know there was anything wrong with you that way."

"The doctor says I need a rest," continued the elder man. "I'm going to Florida for the winter, with Bessie. Sorry you can't come, Wallie, but when things get straightened out-" He hesitated and glanced at his son.

"We'll straighten 'em," replied Wallie cheerfully. "But about that second survey?"

"That has been abandoned. It wasn't-practical, you know."

"Hum! Yes, I know. Well, I'm off to get Livingstone. See you at dinner, Dad."

As the younger man waited for the elevator, he muttered, "Poor old pater-down and out completely. Well, it's up to me to make good."

CHAPTER XX-HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

"Yes, mam, I come fur Swickey."

Avery, m.u.f.fled in winter clothing, his white beard powdered with snow, seemed to Miss Wilkins to embody in his huge proportions the spirit of the December storm that swept hissing by her door, striking fantastic forest silhouettes on the shop windows behind which stood a dejected-looking array of plumes and bonnets, only dimly visible to the pa.s.ser-by.

"Oh, Mr. Avery, I didn't know you at first. Come right in and sit down.

Nanette has gone over to the store for me. She'll be back right away."

The old man moved cautiously through the narrow doorway, to the sewing-room of the shop, allowing generous margins as he pa.s.sed tables and chairs, for his natural respect for "wimmen-folks" was augmented to a nervous self-consciousness, surrounded as he was by so many outward and visible signs of femininity in various stages of completion.

"You just make yourself to home. Take off your coat and scarf.

Here,"-she pushed a big rocking-chair toward him,-"draw right up to the stove and get warm."

"Thanks, Miss Wilkins, but I be tol'able warm. You said Swickey was comin' right back?"

"Yes; she just went over to the dry-goods store for me. You'll be surprised to see how much Nanette has grown."

"Do all the folks call her Nanette now?" asked Avery.

"I think so. You see 'Nanette' is so much prettier than 'Swickey.' I have always called her Nanette. She is getting used to it, and so are her friends. Of course; Jessie Cameron-" Miss Wilkins hesitated.

"Yes, of course. Thet's diff'runt. Jessie knowed her when she was Swickey and nothin' else."

Avery rocked slowly, working the chair away from the stove by gradations. Despite his long, cold ride from the Knoll, little beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Antic.i.p.ation and Miss Wilkins kept him warm.

"Nanette is doing well at school," said the little dressmaker, as she snipped busily with her scissors. "She is naturally bright. All she needed was other young girls about her as an incentive to study."

"Thet's right," Avery agreed promptly. "I allus said so. Swickey was allus incensive to studyin' if it was brung out. I sweat consid'able tryin' to bring it out, but Dave Ross was the man what got her started.

He was thet patient and pa'tic'lar, never gettin' riled, but settin'

thar learnin' her in the evenin's and she askin' questions as would swamp a goat. Them kind of questions as would jest nachally set me to argifyin' and fergittin' 'bout learnin' her. But he kep' on, pleasant-like, until she got curious to learn, jest to spite herself, I reckon. When he went to Boston, she jest couldn't keep still,-frettin'

and frettin' but sayin' nothin'. I seed they was suthin' comin', and when she said she wanted to come to Tramworth to school, I pertended to be supprised, but I wa'n't."

"Is Mr. Ross coming to Lost Farm again? You said you expected him last fall."

"I were. But things in Boston kep' him flyin' round thar. He's been organizin' and consolidatin', and he were a'most ready to come up last year when the snow come and it wa'n't no sense of his comin' til spring.

And he were a mighty sick man likewise. His aunt she writ me a letter sayin' how cl.u.s.t he come to pa.s.sin' on beyant, and fur me to go slow when I writ to him, account of stirrin' him up. But he's all right now, and he says he's a-comin' in the spring, sure as eggs. Reckon Swickey'll be glad. She sot a lot of store by her Dave. I reckon I done so, too, fur I was thet lonesome-like m'self. He was good comp'ny of the quiet kind, suthin' like a tree in the front yard what ain't attractin' much attention til it's gone. Of course Jim Cameron come up. But Jim he jest sets me itchin' all over-sorter feelin' like as if he was dyin' to see inside of everything in the house, includin' yourself. Mebby you have noticed thet about Jim. Howcome he's a good friend. Beats all how he took to Dave; always talkin' 'bout him and askin' when he's comin' back, and Jim don't hanker after most city-folks nuther. Thet's a pow'ful good stove you got."

"Is it too warm? I'll just check it." Which Miss Wilkins did with a deft hand wrapped in the corner of her ap.r.o.n.

"'Bout her board," said Avery, drawing a shiny wallet from his pocket.

"I reckon as it's comin' nigh on to Christmas I'll pay you fur the rest of the year and up to nex' spring." He counted out the sum and handed it to her. "Thet sets me thinkin'." He arose and successfully navigated the perils of the sewing-room and presently returned with a bundle. "Left this in the front when I come in, and a'most forgot it."

He untied the string and out rolled what seemed to be several glossy otter pelts.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Miss Wilkins, a trifle surprised.

"These here," continued Avery, "is me and Swickey's present to Miss Jane Wilkins fur Christmas, and takin' care of his gal. Thought mebby you'd like 'em. I sent 'em to Dave Ross in Boston and he had 'em made up in the latest style of fashion, howcome the m.u.f.f are big 'nough most fur a whole fambly-kind of small-sized sleepin'-bag, eh?"

"Oh, they're beautiful, Mr. Avery!" said Miss Wilkins, smoothing the silvery-brown fur and tucking her chin in its soft depth. "I just love them, but what will Nanette say?"

"Jest what I do, Miss Wilkins,-thet you took care of her, and made her dresses and showed her how to wear 'em, and learned her sewin', and mebby done more fur her than any pusson,-even Dave Ross,-and they's nothin' this side of murder Hoss Avery ain't willin' to do fur you!"