Lost Farm Camp Part 8

"I think I'll walk," said David, springing from the seat.

"That settles it," thought Cameron. "He don't want to talk. He's afeared I'll find out somethin', but he don't know Jim Cameron."

The desolate outskirts of Tramworth, encroaching on the freshness of the summer forest, finally resolved themselves into a fairly level wagon-road. Cameron drew up and David mounted beside him.

"Reckon you want Sikes's hardware store first." said Jim.

"No. I think I'll go to the hotel. You can put up the horses. I'll get what I want and we'll call for it on the way back."

At the hotel Cameron accepted his dismissal silently. When he returned from stabling the team he noticed David was standing on the walk in front of the hotel, apparently in doubt as to where he wanted to go first.

"Do you know where there is a dressmaker's shop," he asked.

"Dressmaker's shop?" Cameron scratched his head. "Well-now-let's see.

Dressmaker's sh-They's Miss Wilkins's place round the corner," he said, pointing down the street.

"Thank you," said Ross, starting off in the opposite direction.

Cameron's curiosity was working at a pressure that only the sympathy of some equally interested person could relieve, and to that end he set out toward his brother's where Mrs. Cameron was visiting. There he had the satisfaction of immediate and attentive sympathy from his good wife, whose chief interest in life, beside "her Jim," and their daughter Jessie, was the receiving and promulgating of local gossip, to which she added a measure of speculative embellishment which was the real romance of her isolated existence.

After purchasing blankets, a rifle, ammunition, traps, and moccasins at the hardware store, David turned to more exacting duties. The book and the "specs" next occupied his attention. With considerable elation he discovered a shop-worn copy of "Robinson Crusoe," and paid a dollar for it with a cheerful disregard of the fact that he had once purchased that identical edition for fifty cents.

He found an appalling variety of "specs" at the drug store, and bought six pairs of various degrees of strength, much to the amazement of the proprietor, who was uncertain as to whether his customer was a purchasing agent for an Old Ladies' Home, or was merely "stocking-up"

for his old age.

"Haven't crossed the Rubicon yet," muttered David, as he left the drug store and proceeded to the dry-goods "emporium." Here he chose some mild-patterned ginghams, with Avery's whispered injunction in mind to get 'em plenty long enough anyhow.

With the bundle of cloth tucked under his arm, he strode valiantly to the dressmaker's. The bell on the door jingled a disconcerting length of time after he had entered. He felt as though his errand was being heralded to the skies. From an inner room came a pale, dark-haired little woman, threads and shreds of cloth clinging to her black ap.r.o.n.

"This is Miss-er-"

"Wilkins," she snapped.

"I understand you are the most competent dressmaker in Tramworth."

Which was unquestionably true. Tramworth supported but one establishment of the kind.

"I certainly am."

"Well, Miss Wilkins, I want to get two dresses made. Nothing elaborate.

Just plain sensible frocks for a little girl." He gained courage as he proceeded. An inspiration came. "You don't happen to have a-er-niece, or daughter, or"-Miss Wilkins's expression was not rea.s.suring-"or aunt, say about fourteen years old. That is, she is a big girl for fourteen-and I want them long enough. Her father says, that is-"

"Who are they for?" she asked frigidly.

"Why, Swickey, of course-"

"Of course!" replied Miss Wilkins.

David untied the bundle and disclosed the cloth.

"Here it is. I'm not-exactly experienced in this kind of thing." He smiled gravely. "I thought perhaps you could help me-"

Miss Wilkins was a woman before she became a dressmaker. She did what the real woman always does when appealed to, which is to help the male animal out of difficulties when the male animal sincerely needs a.s.sistance.

"Oh, I see! No, I haven't a niece or daughter, or even an aunt of fourteen years, but I have some patterns for fourteen-year-old sizes."

"Thank G.o.d!" said David, so fervently that they both laughed.

"And I think I know what you want," she continued.

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a bill.

"I'll pay you now," he said, proffering a five-dollar note, "and I'll call for them in about three hours. There's to be two of them, you know.

One from this pattern and one from this."

"Oh, but I couldn't make one in three hours! I really can't have them done before to-morrow night."

David did some mental arithmetic rapidly.

"What is your charge for making them?" he asked.

She hesitated, looking at him as he stood, hat in hand, waiting her reply.

"Two dollars each," she said, her eyes fixed on his hat.

The males of Tramworth were not always uncovered in her presence, when they did accompany their wives to her shop.

"I have to leave for Lost Farm at five o'clock, Miss Wilkins. If you can have one of the dresses done by that time, I'll gladly give you four dollars for it."

"I've got a hat to trim for Miss Smeaton, and a dress for Miss Sikes and she wants it to-morrow-but, I'll try."

"Thank you," replied David, depositing the cloth on the counter and opening the door; "I'll call for it at five."

From there he went toward the hotel, where he intended to write a letter or two. As he turned the corner some one called:-

"Ross! I say, Ross!"

Startled by the familiarity of the tone rather than by the suddenness of the call, he looked about him in every direction but the right one.

"h.e.l.lo, Davy!"

The round face and owlish, spectacled eyes of "Wallie" Bas...o...b.. son of _the_ Walter Bas...o...b.. of the Bernard, White & Bas...o...b..Construction Company of Boston, protruded from the second-story window of the hotel opposite.

"Come on up, Davy. I just fell out of bed."

The face withdrew, and David crossed the street, entered the hotel, and clattered up the uncarpeted stairs.

"Hey! where are you, Wallie?"