The Spoilers of the Valley Part 62

They then went into the adjoining room to inspect the furnishings, which consisted solely of an iron bedstead with a fairly good spring on it; a cheap little bureau, two chairs and an oil lamp.

The walls of the place were of shiplap covering the logs, while the roof at the corners had holes in it big enough to put one's head through. Fortunately a loft of some kind separated the heavens from the occupants.

They spent the day making the house somewhat habitable, inspecting the barns and grooming and feeding their horses.

In a spirit of thankfulness for small mercies, as night drew down they got out their mattresses and bedding and prepared to make themselves as comfortable as possible. They partook of supper and went to bed early. Both were tired, and it was not long before they were sound asleep. They might have remained so until morning had not Phil wakened up with the fancy of something scampering over his face.

He sprang into a sitting posture.

"Get down, man! You're letting in the draught. It's all right. You were just dreaming," grunted Jim.

"Dreaming nothing!" cried Phil, brushing his face. "Something as big as a horse ran over my cheek."

"Lie down then and cover up your head. It'll be all right."

Phil was not so easily satisfied. He struck a match and looked about him.

"See that!" he whispered. As Jim jumped up in response, several shadowy forms scurried off in various directions. The match burned to Phil's fingers and spluttered out, as Phil swore and sucked his injured digits.

"Deevils!" whispered Jim eerily.

"Rats!" exclaimed Phil, striking another match and groping for the lamp.

"Better than bugs!" said Jim philosophically.

"Oh, you wait!" retorted Phil. "The bugs haven't found out yet that we're here. You'll make acquaintance with them later."

Jim shivered.

"Man,--I detest bugs, though! I wouldn't wonder if you are right too; the place had a musty smell; besides, that wily duck of a civilized c.h.i.n.k would be living here if there wasn't something wrong." He shivered again. "They give me the grue. I can feel the darned little brutes already."

"Oh, forget it!" said Phil. "Whoever heard of a calculating, sober-minded, creepy bug coming out on a night like this and scaring you away before you're right settled down. Bugs have more sense than that, Jim."

Langford curled himself up in small compa.s.s, covered his head over with the blankets and dozed off again.

Phil rose, took his twenty-two rifle from his pack and set it alongside the bed. He put a light to the lamp, got into bed again and turned the light down to a peep. He lay quietly watching the hole in the corner of the roof over by the foot of the bed.

The lamplight reflected suddenly from two tiny beads at the edge of the hole. Phil reached cautiously for his rifle, raised it, aimed carefully and fired. Something fell on the floor with a thud.

Jim sprang up in alarm.

"Good heavens, man!--what's up?" he cried.

"Oh, go to sleep!" answered Phil. "I've just shot one of your bugs."

"Shoot away then," retorted Jim, "but please remember they're not _my_ bugs."

In a few minutes more, Phil shot again, and another victim thumped to the floor. Half a dozen times this happened at intervals, until Jim--unable to get any sleep--grew faintly interested in the sport and volunteered to take a turn while Phil crept under the blankets for warmth.

It was only when morning began to dawn that the two got down to an honest hour's slumber.

When they rose, thirty-six dead bush rats lay in a heap directly under the hole in the roof.

"And they told us n.o.body lived here!" remarked Jim. "That's a great bag, though. Man,--if only they were rabbits!"

"How do you suppose they come to make this room their shelter?" asked Phil.

"Easy enough! They evidently come in from the outside between the logs and the shiplap to the loft above. They have made a run along by the beams there and down that board running from the roof to the floor and propping up the wall there; then they make over the floor to that hole, and into the stable where the litter and feed is."

"Great stuff!" commented Phil.

"Ay,--ay!" said Jim wearily, "but I can see where most of my time is going to be occupied in keeping the house to ourselves."

They were late in getting about that morning, but, fortunately, Ah Sing had been around and was putting the finishing touches to a breakfast for two.

Three ugly black cats were at the Chinaman's legs with erect tails, rubbing their backs against him in feline glee every moment he stopped shuffling over the floor.

"Hullo, Sing;--pretty early! Think maybe best you cook dinner night-time--one meal every day--no cookem breakfast. We makem breakfast," said Jim, as he picked up one cat after another by the neck and solemnly dropped them out at the front door.

"Ya,--I savvy!" said Ah Sing. "Me cookem supper every night--to-morrow--but no do'em this time to-day. My blother's wifee, she die and get buried one year to-day. Savvy! Me want to go and put'm chicken, piecee pork, punk stick, all on grave--see!"

Phil laughed as he sat down to the table. Ah Sing looked hurt.

"What you do that for?" asked Phil.

"You no savvy?" queried the Chinaman, leaning over with arched eyebrows. "Put'm on grave so devil come and eat'm up. Devil say, 'Ah Sing good boy;--Ah Sing blother Lee, he good boy too.' Devil, heap pleased. No hurt Ah Sing and Lee Sing."

Jim ventured a cautious look up from his oatmeal and milk, as if awaiting the outcome of the discussion.

"Gee!--but they're a crazy bunch," said Phil, addressing no one in particular. Ah Sing was of the knowing school of c.h.i.n.k and did not choose to let the remark slide by.

"You say 'heap crazy.' No crazy! White man just allee same crazy. He put'm flower on white girlie grave. You no think that crazy. Chinaman put'm chicken and pork on Chinee girlie grave,--Chinaman no crazy.

"White man look up--see angel; white man put'm flower, please angels.

Angels no hurt anybody.

"Chinaman look down--see devil. Devil he can hurt everybody. Chinaman put'm chicken for devil. Devil heap pleased:--no hurt Chinaman.

"Just allee same,--allee same! White man flower;--Chinaman chicken!"

Jim laughed. "Best forget it, Phil;--he's a dyed-in-the-wool Chinaman, fully Canadianised. You can't beat him. He has a pat answer for anything you like to put up to him. And, after all, when you come to a.n.a.lyse the darned thing,--there is about as much sense in the pork and punk-stick stuff as there is in the flowers. Give me my bouquets when I am alive,--that's what I say."

After breakfast, Phil saddled his horse and rode to town. It was still snowing softly, but a rift of blue and a shaft of sunlight overhead gave promise of a let-up, while a wind with a nip in it prophesied a drop in the barometer and a tightening up.

When he got back in the evening, he found the front door bolted on the inside. He rapped on the panel, and Jim opened it very slightly, making a scooping motion with his foot along the floor, as if helping something out of the kitchen or trying to prevent something from coming in.

"What's up, Jim? Scared for burglars?"