Lost Farm Camp Part 30

"Well," replied the dressmaker, smiling at her guest's enthusiasm, "I can never thank you enough, and Nanette has been a great help to me."

Avery felt for his tobacco, then changed his mind abruptly as he realized where he was. Conversation with Miss Wilkins was becoming embarra.s.sing. He was afraid of doing what his daughter called simply "saying things" under stress of the emotion which was rapidly filling the void left by his late unburdening of his heart to the little dressmaker. The soothing influence of tobacco would have steadied him.

She noticed his uneasiness and promptly invited him to smoke "all he wanted to."

Avery's appreciation of her courtesy was soon filling the room with curls and shreds of smoke, and, in keeping with his nature, it was a strong appreciation.

"There was one thing I wanted to speak about, Mr. Avery." Miss Wilkins's tone became more serious than heretofore. "Nanette is an attractive girl, and she's seventeen."

Avery nodded.

"And one or two of the young men have been seeing her home from school lately. I don't mind that, of course,-Nanette is sensible,-but I thought I would speak about it. Young Andy Sloc.u.m seems quite interested in Nanette, and he's wild at times, although he's nice enough when he wants to be."

"He's a pow'ful good man on the drive-fur a young one," replied Avery.

"Got a heap of nerve, and cool fur a kid. Last spring he was hangin'

round my camp consid'able, makin' hisself pleasant-like when the drive went through. Thought it was kind of queer that he should be int'rested in ole Hoss Avery. So it was Swickey he was thinkin' of?"

"Oh, I don't know how serious he is about it. You know young men-There's Nanette now!"

Avery stood up as the shop doorbell clinked and jangled, and Swickey, breathless from her run across the street, cheeks rosy and brown eyes glowing, rushed to her father and flung her arms about him, kissing him again and again.

"Oh, Pop, I'm so glad you came to take me home. I couldn't bear to think of you up there alone at Christmas-time."

She stood looking up into his face, her hands on his shoulders, and her neat, blue-gowned figure tense with happiness.

"My! but you're growing every day-and you ain't growin' thin nuther.

Your ma was jest such a gal when I married her. Wal, I reckon we'll have to git started. It gits dark purty quick nowadays, and Jim's waitin'-"

"What beautiful furs. Oh, Pop, they're for-"

"Miss Wilkins's Christmas present from Swickey and her Pa. They's a bundle in the sleigh fur you, too. Jim says it's from Boston,-like 'nuff he knows,-seein' he called at the station fur it,-and mebby you kin guess who sent it."

Swickey's face flushed slightly, but she said nothing.

"If you git ready now, Swickey, we kin go."

"All right, Pop. Shall I bring my snowshoes?"

"You might fetch 'em. No tellin' how things'll be gettin' home to-night.

Bundle up good-it's nippy."

"Nippy? Huh!" exclaimed Swickey, as she hurried to her little bedroom upstairs. "It's just grand and I love it."

She took off her shoes, drew on an extra pair of heavy stockings, and going to her trunk brought out her small moosehide moccasins which she laced up snugly about her trim ankles. Then she bowed to herself in the small mirror, and, gathering up her skirts, danced to and fro across the room with girlish exuberance and happiness. Panting, she dropped to her knees before her trunk and found her "best" fur cap and gloves.

"Going home with Pop!" she kept repeating. "Going to see Smoke and Beelzebub and-Pop and I'll go hunting and get that moose."

"That moose" was a huge bull that had been haunting the outskirts of Lost Farm, seen by Avery on his rounds to and from the traps, and mentioned to Swickey in the letter which had preceded his arrival in Tramworth to take her home for Christmas.

With snowshoes slung over her shoulder, she reappeared in the sewing-room, laughing happily at Miss Wilkins's expression of pleased surprise.

"You look like a regular-exploress, Nanette."

"I'm Swickey, now, till I come back," she replied. "And I'm ready, Pop."

Avery donned his coat and m.u.f.fler and shook hands with Miss Wilkins. She followed them to the door, beaming with the reflection of their happiness.

"Good-bye. Don't catch cold. And do be careful, dear."

Cameron drove over from the hotel and they climbed into the sleigh, Avery on the seat with the teamster, and Swickey, bundled in blankets, sitting back to them in the rustling straw. The horses plunged through the roadside drift and paced slowly down the main street of Tramworth.

Swickey reached under the seat and found the parcel her father had spoken of. "It's from Dave, but I wonder what's in it?" She drew off her glove and picked a small hole in the paper. Another layer of paper was beneath it. She broke a hole in this and disclosed a wooden box. It was long and narrow and its weight suggested metal. "I know!" she exclaimed.

"It's the rifle Dave wrote about." She hugged the package childishly, whispering, "My Dave! and just for my own self."

Through the silent outskirts they went, the team trotting at times, then walking as the town road merged imperceptibly into the forest trail. The big horses arched their necks and threw their shoulders into the harness as the deep snow clogged the runners of the sleigh. Sometimes the momentum of the load carried them down a short pitch, the sleigh close on the horses' heels. Cameron talked almost constantly to his team, helping them with his voice, and at each "spell" he would jump down, lift their feet and break out the acc.u.mulated clogs of snow. Avery swung his arms and slapped his hands, turning frequently to ask Swickey if she were warm enough.

The long, gloomy aisle winding past the hardwoods in their stiff, black nakedness, and the rough-barked conifers planted smoothly in the deep snow, their cold brown trunks disappearing in a canopy of still colder green, crept past them tediously. The sleigh creaked and crunched over snow-covered roots, the breathing of the horses keenly audible in the solemn silence, as their broad feet sunk in the snow, and came up again, the frozen fetlocks gleaming white in the gloom of the winter forest.

"Smoke's keepin' house, Swickey. Reckon he'll be jumpin' glad to see you."

"Of course. Poor old Smoke. When we get rich, he's going to stay with me all the time."

"If he lives long enough, I reckon he will, eh, Jim?"

"No tellin'," replied Cameron, with profound solemnity; "no tellin'.

I've knowed worse things than thet to happen."

"Worse things than what?" said Swickey, "getting rich?"

"Egg-sackly," replied Curious Jim. "Gettin' rich ain't the worst. It takes a heap of money to keep on _bein'_ rich; thet's the worst of it.

Kind of a bad habit to git into. Ain't worried 'bout it myself," he added. "I got a plenty of other business to think of."

Avery did not ask Jim what his "other business" was beside teaming and doing odd jobs for the Lumber Company, for he realized the teamster's chief concern in life was to see what "other folks" were doing, although, speaking "by and large," Cameron's inquisitiveness was prompted by a solicitude for the welfare of his friends. Upon his lean shoulders Curious Jim carried the self-imposed burden of an Atlas.

Slowly the horses toiled over the corduroy stretch, and presently Cameron's camp became visible through the trees.

"Here we be at the Knoll. Now, you and Swickey come in and have suthin'

hot. It's gettin' dark and colder than a steel trap in January."

"You go in yourself, Jim. Me and Swickey'll wait. We be kind of anxious to git home. Smoke's been in the house sence mornin' and I reckon the fire's out and he ain't had nuthin' to eat."

"All right. I'll take these here things in to the missus."

From the doorway Mrs. Cameron shouted an invitation, but Swickey and her father were firm. Once in the house, they knew that she would not accept their refusal to stay for the night.

Curious Jim returned to the sleigh in a few minutes and they creaked along toward Lost Farm. The early winter night, which surrounded them with m.u.f.fling cold, pierced the heavy blankets round Swickey and nipped the cheeks and fingers of the two men. The trail found its way through the stark trees, a winding white path of uniform width that gleamed dimly ahead through the dusk of the overhanging branches. Slowly they topped the knoll on which the three cabins stood, banked window-high with snow. The camp looked cheerless in the frosty glimmer of its unlighted windows.

As the traces clacked, Smoke heard and barked his welcome.

"'T warn't as heavy goin' as I thought it would be," remarked Cameron, as he swung the sleigh close to the cabin, his head nearly level with the snow-filled eaves. "Hear thet dog whoopin' to git out. Guess he smells you, Swickey."