The Shagganappi Part 4

Then Shorty took the floor. "Boys," he yelled, "we won't stand for it.

No Indian's going to be head of this school, and s.h.a.g Larocque isn't even a decent Indian, he's a halfbreed, a French halfbreed, he's--"

The door burst open and Hal Bennington flung himself into the room; his trousers were dragged up over his nightshirt, his feet were in slippers without socks, his hair was unbrushed, his eyes were brilliant with fever, his face was pinched and grey; but his voice rang out powerfully, "Stop it, boys!" He had taken in the situation instantly--the crowd breaking from all rule, two masters endeavoring to restore order, and s.h.a.g, alone, terribly alone, his back to the wall, his face to the tumult, standing like a wild thing driven into a corner, but yet gloriously game. "Shorty, how dare you speak of s.h.a.g Larocque like that?" Hal cried furiously.

"And how dare you support him?" Shorty flung back. "How dare you ask us to have as our leader a halfbreed North-West Indian, who is the son of your father's cook?"

"Yes, he is the son of my father's cook, and if I ever get the chance I'll cook for him on my knees--cook for him and serve him; he saved my life and nearly lost his own--while you, Shorty, a far better swimmer, would have let me drown like a dog."

"He's nothing but a North-West halfbreed," sneered Shorty, hiding his cowardice behind ill words for others.

"So is my mother a North-West halfbreed, and she's the loveliest, the grandest woman in all Canada!" said Hal in a voice that rang clear, sharp, strong as a man's.

There was a dead silence. "Do you hear me, you fellows?" tormented Hal's even voice again, "you who have of your own free will placed me, a quarter blood, as the leading boy in this school, my mother is a halfbreed, if you wish to use that refined term, and my mother is proud of it. Her mother, my grandmother, wore a blanket and leggings and smoked a red stone pipe upon the Red River years ago, and I tell you my mother is proud of it, and so am I. I have never told you fellows this before--what was the use? I felt you would never understand, but you hear me now! Do you quite grasp what I am telling you--that _my mother is a halfbreed_?"

Shorty's hand went blindly to his head; he looked dazed, breathless.

"Lady Bennington a halfbreed!" was all he said.

"Yes, Lady Bennington," said Hal. "And now will you let s.h.a.g read that address?" But s.h.a.g was at his elbow.

"Hal, Hal, oh, why did you tell them?" he cried.

Hal whirled about like one shot. "_Tell them_--what do you mean by tell _them_? Did you know this all along?"

"Yes," said s.h.a.g regretfully. "I always knew that Lady Bennington was half Indian, but I thought that you didn't, and I promised father that I should never tell when I came down East." But softly as he spoke, the boys near by heard him. "Do you mean to say," Locke, gripping s.h.a.g's shoulders in vice-like fingers, "that all this time we have been ragging you and running on you, that you knew Hal's mother was a half Indian and you never said a word?"

"Why should I?" asked s.h.a.g, raising his eyebrows.

"Boys," said Locke, facing the room like a man, "we've been--well, just cads. And right here I propose that s.h.a.g Larocque read the address to His Excellency to-day."

"And I second the motion," said Shorty--"second it heartily"; then he walked over to s.h.a.g.

"I'm not going to ask you to shake hands with me, Larocque," he said; "I've been too much of a cad for that. You must despise me too much to forgive me, despise me for my cowardice in not going with you to help Hal when he was drowning, despise me for my mean prejudices, despise me for--oh, pshaw! I ain't fit to even ask you to forgive me. I ain't fit to even offer you my hand."

"Hold on! hold on!" smiled s.h.a.g. "There is nothing to despise in a chap who is big enough to offer an apology. Here's my hand, Shorty. Will you take it at last?"

And Shorty took it.

A few hours later, just before s.h.a.g stepped out on the platform to read the address to His Excellency, he paid a flying visit to Hal, who, feeling much better, in fact quite on the mend, was sitting up in bed devouring toast and broth.

"Luck to you, old s.h.a.g," he said between mouthfuls.

"Oh, Hal, you've been all the world to me," was all he could reply.

"And you'll be all the world to my dad and mother when they hear what you have done, fishing me out of the drink and saving my life." But Shorty shouting up the hall interrupted them.

"Come on, s.h.a.g," he called; then, as he appeared in the doorway, he said bravely, "I haven't been so happy for years; I've been a sneak and now that I say it I feel better. s.h.a.g, there isn't a boy living who I consider better fitted to represent this school than you. Do you believe me?"

"I do believe you, and I thank you, Shorty, old chap," said s.h.a.g happily, and linking arms they left Hal's room together, for cheers outside were announcing the approach of Lord Mortimer--and the feud was ended forever.

The King's Coin

I

Because the doctor had forbidden Jack Cornwall to read a single line except by daylight, the boy was spending a series of most miserable evenings. No books, no stories, no studies, for a severe cold had left him with an inflammation of the eyes; and, just as he was careering with all sorts of honors through the high school, he was ordered by the great oculist to drop everything, leave school, and--"loaf."

Young Cornwall hated "loafing." His brain and body loved activity. He would far sooner have taken a sound flogging than all the idle hours that had been forced on him to endure. To-night, particularly, time hung very heavy on his hands. He sat for a full hour, his eyes shaded from the lamp, his hands locked round his knee, doing nothing, and finding it most difficult. His father read the newspaper, his mother mended stockings, his little brother pored frowningly over his algebra.

Presently Jack's nerves seemed to break. He sprang up impetuously, then, controlling himself, sat down again, and said: "Oh, it is brutal, this sitting around! I don't believe I can stand it much longer. I wish I were out in the wilds, or on the sea, or somewhere where I could work with my hands, if I mustn't use my eyes."

His mother looked up, saying, sympathetically, that it _was_ hard. His father put down the paper, looked at him quizzically for a moment, then, extracting a letter from his pocket, and laying it on the table, said:

"John, did you ever know that your father was a stupid old numskull?

Here's news that I have had for three days, and I never thought of you in connection with it. Here's the chance of your life--the very thing you want--a letter from your Uncle Matt. He's going up North, to the end of civilization. Started at his old business of fur-trading again. He says here"--and Mr. Cornwall referred to the letter, reading--"'But there's something else taking me north besides otter and mink skins.

I'll tell it to you when I return, but just now the secret must be mine alone. I only wish I had some decent chap to go with me; but in this chasing-for-the-dollar age, no one seems to be able to leave their miserable little shops for mere adventures into the wilds. I suppose I'll have to hunt up some strapping boy as a partner, but the trouble is to get one who is strong enough to work and starve alternately; one who will sleep in the open, live on rabbits and beans, let his clothes dry on him when they get wet, and who will keep his mouth shut and his ears open. They aren't making young men like that now, I'm afraid.'"

"Yes, they are, father! Yes, they are!" cried Jack, springing to his feet, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Do you think Uncle Matt will take me?"

His father measured him carefully with a very keen eye. "You certainly have great shoulders, my son. Why, I never really noticed them before.

You're built like an ox! How old are you?"

"Seventeen next month, and I'm not only built like an ox, I'm as strong as one, and--I think I can keep my mouth shut and my ears open."

"Yes, you can do that if you are your mother's son," said his father, glancing slyly at his mother. Then they all laughed, for Mrs. Cornwall was renowned among her relatives as a silent little woman, who heard everything but who repeated nothing.

That night a telegram was sent to Uncle Matt, and, late the following day, came the reply:

"Sure! Will take Jack gladly. Expect me Sat.u.r.day. Be ready to start Tuesday. MATT."

When Matt Larson arrived he was not at all what Jack expected he would be. In the first place, he was not like one's uncle. Jack had forgotten that his mother had frequently told him that her little brother Matt was only six years old when she was married, and had acted "page" at the wedding. So to-day Matt, who was only twenty-five, looked more like a big brother than an uncle. His eyes, however, were as shrewd as those of a man of forty, and already a fine dusting of grey hairs swept away from each temple. His skin was swarthy from many winds and suns, his nose determined, and his mouth as kind and sweet as Jack's own mother's, but his hands and shoulders were what spoke of his pioneer life. There was something about those strong, clean fingers, those upright shoulders, that made Jack love him at sight.

Matt Larson never dressed like anyone else. Years of exploring the wilds had got him so accustomed to heavy boots and leather knee gaiters, that he never seemed to be able to discard them when he touched town life, which, truth to tell, was as seldom as possible. His suit of heavy, rough tweeds, blue flannel shirt and flowing black silk handkerchief for a tie, never seemed to leave his back, and no one recollected having ever seen him wear a hat. A small, checked cloth cap, flung on the very back of his head, was his only head covering, rain or shine.

"No, don't call me 'uncle,'" he laughed, as Jack greeted him with the respect the relationship demanded. "You and I are just going to be pals.

All hands up north call me Larry--I suppose it's short for Larson--so it's Larry to you, isn't it, old man?"

"Yes, Larry," replied Jack, with all his heart warming to this extraordinarily handsome, genial relative, "and I think we will be pals, all right," he continued.

"No 'think' about it; it's a dead sure fact!" a.s.serted Matt Larson, gripping Jack's hand with those splendid, st.u.r.dy fingers of his. Then, turning abruptly to his dunnage bags, gun cases, and the general duffle of the "up-norther," he extracted therefrom a most suspiciously-shaped russet leather case, and handing it to Jack, said: "That's yours, boy, never to be used except in emergency, but always to be kept in the pink of condition, ready for instant action."

Jack's poor, weak eyes fairly danced; it was a beautiful new revolver.

"But, unc--I mean, Larry--why do we take revolvers on a fur-trading expedition?" he asked.

Matt Larson shot a swift glance at him, answering quietly, "There are other things up north besides furs."

"Do you mean desperadoes?" questioned Jack.