Lost Farm Camp Part 34

"h.e.l.l! there's nothin' to drivin' nowadays," replied Smeaton. "Any kid can turn the trick with a good man to tell him what to do. 'Sides, Andy's ole man is jobbin' fur the Comp'ny and Andy's got to work the same as any of us. He won't work fur the ole man, so he gits him a job with the Great Western to be shet of him."

"Pull?" queried Avery.

Smeaton winked suggestively.

"Wisht I knowed jest when they was goin' to run 'em through. My gal Swickey's got a camera what Dave Ross sent her and she's jest dyin' to take some pictures of the drive. She writ me about it, and I sent word by Jim thet I'd let her know in time so'st she could come along up with the picture-machine."

"I'm thinkin' of goin' over to 'Fifteen-Two,' to-morrow, and I'll find out what I kin 'bout the drive," said Smeaton.

"I'm obleeged to you, Joe. They ain't no rush about it, howcome I reckon you're gettin' lonesome-like fur the boys."

Smeaton leaned on the hoe he had been sc.r.a.ping clean with his foot. "No, I hain't. What I'm gettin' lonesome fur is a pay-check what's comin' and a chanct to make a leetle more drivin', and then I'm goin' to pay Hoss Avery what I owes him, includin' the skins I tuk, and put the rest in a piece of land and farm it. No more lumberin' fur mine."

"If you can hold your lady friend off a spell, mebby I kin give you a job on the asbestos. They's a expert and some city-folks comin' up in June and look around this here asbestos diggin's. When we git started it'll beat farmin' all to shavin's."

"Say, Hoss, you're whiter than a skunk's necktie, you are. By hokey, I'm haffen a mind to go you on thet."

Visions of a cabin and a gra.s.s-plot, with a certain dark-eyed young woman keeping house, fired Smeaton's inflammable imagination. He secretly vowed that Hoss would make the "all-firedest, plumb-squardest"

father-in-law this side of a place frequently mentioned in his daily conversation.

"Jest an idee fur you to chaw on, Joe," said Avery. "But if you'll quit huggin' thet hoe-handle and come inside we'll have suthin' more solid-like."

CHAPTER XXIII-A CONFESSION

Ridges of honeycombed snow lay in the cold, sunless hollows of the woods, slowly melting as each succeeding noon brought milder weather.

With the April rains the myriad inch-deep streams sprang to clamoring torrents that swelled and burst over the level of their gutted courses.

They lapped the soft loam from the tree-roots until the clear snow-water was stained with streaks of brown, in which floated mildewing patches of clotted leaves.

Moss-banked logs and boulders steamed as the sun found them through the dripping trees, and a faint, almost imperceptible mist softened the nakedness of beech and maple, while on the skyline the hills wavered in a blue opaqueness that veiled their rich dark-green pinnacles of spruce and pine.

On the skidways dotted along the North Branch, that swept eddying into Lost Lake, the lumbermen toiled from the first glimmer of dawn until dusk, running the logs to the river until its broad surface was one moving floor of crowding timbers. Day after day the logs swept down to the lake and rolled lazily in the slow wash of the waves, and day after day the lumbermen dogged them with grim persistence until the timbers, herded at the lower end of the lake, lay secure against adverse winds behind the booms.

From Lost Farm Camp, Avery could see the smoke of the w.a.n.gan below, as he stood on the cabin porch watching the distant figures on the lake sh.o.r.e; as they moved here and there, their actions, at that distance, suggesting the unintelligible scurrying of ants.

"They ain't wastin' no time!" he exclaimed. "Cook's on the job a'ready, and Swickey ain't here yit. Howcome they's goin' to be plenty of chances to take pictures afore they run _thet_ drive through. Water's turrible low fur this time of year." He shook his head. "Wal, when the railrud gits here, thet'll settle the drive. Reckon this is the last time the boys will run 'em through. Lumberin' ain't what it used to be." He shook his head again as the memory of his early days with the Great Western came to him.

Smoke, who squatted beside him, stood up and sniffed, nose high in air.

"What you smellin', Smoke? Injuns?"

The dog wagged his tail a very little, but kept his eyes fixed on the edge of the clearing where the Tramworth road entered.

"Yes, I hear 'em, too, Smoke. Guess it's Swickey and Jim. Reckoned she'd come purty quick now, seein' as Joe Smeaton's been to Tramworth three times to tell her."

As the wagon drew nearer, Avery peered beneath his hand. "If thet's Jim Cameron, he's changed some sence he was here last. It's Swickey sure 'nough, but who that feller is a-drivin'-why, it's Jim's hosses, but, bless my b.u.t.tins, if it ain't Joe Smeaton drivin' 'em. h.e.l.lo, Joe! What become of Jim?"

Smeaton pulled up the team and Swickey jumped down, and fondled Smoke.

Then she turned to greet her father.

"Sick," said Smeaton. "Took sick last Sat'day with ammonia-so Miss Cameron says. I knowed Swickey was sot on photygrafin' the drive, so I borried the team offen Jim and brung her."

"It was very kind of you, Joe," said Swickey, blushing.

"Thet's all right, Swickey. I ain't forgettin' what your Pa done fur me,-and I ain't a-goin' to. Guess I'll drive back to the Knoll, fur Jim's pow'ful oneasy 'bout this here team."

"Better stay and have dinner, Joe," said Avery, as Swickey, rollicking with Smoke, went into the cabin.

"Guess I'll jog along, Hoss. Say," he continued, "you got the finest, bulliest gal what ever growed up in these here woods, Hoss Avery." And then, as though ashamed of his enthusiasm, he turned and climbed to the wagon-seat, swung the horses with a jerk that threatened an upset, and careened down the hill at a pace that surprised Avery by its recklessness.

"Wal, Swickey, so you're here-and lookin' like a bunch of hollyhocks.

How's Miss Wilkins?"

"Just as nice as ever. My, Pop! but it's warm in here with the stove going."

"Wal, 't ain't so warm when the sun goes down," he replied, glancing at her flushed face. Her lids drooped. "What's the matter, Swickey?"

"Oh, nothing-I"-she hesitated and sat down by the window, her foot tapping the floor.

"Thought mebby you had suthin' to say. Ain't worried 'bout anything, be you?" He patted her head, gazing down at her with quiet tenderness.

She looked up and laughed, but there were tears in her eyes. "Oh, Pop, I just must tell you. Don't laugh at me, but I know it sounds foolish. Joe Smeaton asked me to marry him."

"Joe Smeaton-asked-ye-to marry him? Wal, jumpin' snakes, what's a-coming next?"

"He was very nice about it," she replied. "He said he wanted to settle down and go to farming-and that he knew I couldn't ever like him. Said he hadn't any right to ask, but he just couldn't help it. That he couldn't sleep until he heard me say 'Yes' or 'No,' and that he'd stop chewing tobacco forever if-Oh, dear! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he was so serious and so uncomfortable-and he was chewing tobacco when he asked me. I cried a little, I guess. Anyway, he said he knew I'd say 'No,' but that he felt better already. Then I laughed and so did he, and that made me cry again, it sounded so mournful. Poor Joe."

"Poor soapsuds!" exclaimed Avery. "The idee of him, thet red-headed, chiny-eyed-"

"Father!"

"Wal, I reckon Joe has feelin's the same as any human critter. He ain't the wust feller this side of 'Fifteen'-and I can't say as I blame him."

Swickey's color flooded to her brows. "That isn't all, Pop. There was another one-Andy Sloc.u.m."

Avery's chest swelled as he suppressed an exclamation. "I promised not to laugh, Swickey, but I'm feared I'll bust if I don't do suthin' else.

'Nother one! Andy Sloc.u.m? Jest wait a minute while I light up and smoke-it'll come easier."

He filled his pipe, lighted it, and puffed solemnly. "Go ahead, Swickey.

I'm bracin' up and waitin'."

"You aren't angry, are you, Pop?"

"Not the kind you mean. I ain't mad at n.o.body in pa'tic'ler. Jest bilin'

inside like when a feller steps on a bar'l-hoop in the gra.s.s. No sense in gettin' mad at the hoop, and no sense in gettin' mad at hisself fur steppin' on it-and no use gettin' mad anyhow-but thet ain't sayin' he don't get mad."