Kitabı oku: «Stepsons of Light», sayfa 4
IV
“Money was so scarce in that country that the babies had to cut their teeth on certified checks.”
– Bluebeard for Happiness.
“The cauldrified and chittering truth.”
– The Ettrick Shepherd.
“As I was a-tellin’ you, when I got switched off,” said Adam, in the starlit road, “I found gold dust in ’Pache Cañon nigh onto a year ago. Not much – just a color – but it set me to thinkin’.”
“How queer!” said Charlie.
“Yes, ain’t it? You see, a long time ago, when the ’Paches were thick about here, they used to bring in gold to sell – coarse gold, big as rice, nearly. Never would tell where they got it; but when they wanted anything right bad they was right there with the stuff; coarse gold. All sorts of men tried all sorts of ways to find out where it came from. No go.”
“Indians are mighty curious about gold,” said Charlie. “Over in the Fort Stanton country, the Mescaleros used to bring in gold that same way – only it was fine gold, there. Along about 1880, Llewellyn, he was the agent; and Steve Utter, chief of police; and Dave Easton, he was chief clerk; and Dave Pelman and Dave Sutherland – three Daves – and old Pat Coghlan – them six, they yammered away at one old buck till at last he agreed to show them. He was to get a four-horse team, harness and wagon, and his pick of stuff from the commissary to load up the wagon with. They was to go by night, and no other Indian was ever to know who told ’em, before or after – though how he proposed to account for that wagonload of plunder I don’t know. I’ll say he was a short-sighted Injun, anyway.
“Well, they started from the agency soon after midnight. They had to go downstream about a quarter, round a fishhook bend, on account of a mess of wire fence; and then they turned up through a ciénaga on a corduroy road, sort of a lane cut straight through the swamp, with the tules– cat-tail flags, you know – eight or ten feet high on each side. They was going single file, mighty quiet, Mister Mescalero-man in the lead. They heard just a little faint stir in the tules, and a sound like bees humming. Mister Redskin he keels over, shot full of arrows. Not one leaf moving in the tules; all mighty still; they could hear the Injun pumping up blood, glug – glug – glug! The white men went back home pretty punctual. Come daylight they go back, police and everything. There lays their guide with nine arrows through his midst. And that was the end of him.
“But that wasn’t the end of the gobbling gold. Fifteen years after, Pat Coghlan and Dave Sutherland – the others having passed on or away, up, down, across or between – they throwed in with a lad called Durbin or something, and between them they honey-swoggled an old Mescalero named Falling Pine, and led him astray. It took nigh two months, but they made a fetch of it. Old Falling Pine, he allowed to lead ’em to the gold.
“Now as the years passed slowly by, Lorena, the Mescaleros had got quite some civilized; this old rooster, he held out for two thousand plunks, half in his grimy clutch, half on delivery. He got it. And they left Tularosa, eighteen miles below the agency, and ten miles off the reservation, about nine o’clock of a fine Saturday night.
“Well, sir, four miles above Tularosa the wagon road drops off the mesa down to a little swale between a sandstone cliff and Tularosa Creek. They turned a corner, and there was nine big bucks, wrapped up in blankets, heads and all! There wasn’t no arrows, and there wasn’t nothing said. Not a word. Those nine bucks moved up beside Falling Pine, real slow, one at a time. Each one leaned close, pulled up a flap of the blanket, and looked old Falling Pine in the eye, nose to nose. Then he wrapped his blanket back over his face and faded away. That was all.
“It was a great plenty. The plot thinned right there. Falling Pine, he handed back that thousand dollars advance money, like it was hot, and he beat it for Tularosa. They wanted him to try again, to tell ’em where the stuff was, anyhow; they doubled the price on him. He said no – not —nunca– nixy —neinte– he guessed not —nada– not much – never! He added that he was going to lead a better life from then on, and wouldn’t they please hush? And what I say unto you is this: How did them Indians know – hey?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Adam. “I’ve heard your story before, Charles – only your dead Injun had thirty-five arrows for souvenirs, ’stead of nine. The big idea was, of course, that where gold is found the white man comes along, and the Indian he has to move. But all this is neither here nor there, especially here, though heaven only knows what might have been under happier circumstances not under our control, as perhaps it was, though we are all liable to make mistakes in the best regulated families; yet perhaps I could find it in my heart to wish it were not otherwise, as the case may be.”
“Nine arrows!” said Charlie firmly.
“Young fellow!” said Adam severely. “Be I telling this story or be I not? I been tryin’ to relate about this may-be-so gold of mine, ever since you come – and dad burn it, you cut me off every time. I do wish you’d hush! Listen now! Of course there’s placer gold all round Hillsboro; most anywheres west of the river, for that matter. But it’s all fine dust – never coarse gold beyond the river – and it runs so seldom to the ton that no Injun would ever get it. So, thinks I, why not look in at Apache Cañon? It’s the plumb lonesomest place I know, and I don’t believe anybody ever had the heart to prospect it good. So I went up to Worden’s and worked up from the lower end.
“That was last year, and I have been prognosticatin’ round, off and on, ever since, whenever I could get away from my farmin’. I found a trace, mostly. You can always get a color round here, and no one place better than another. But when the rains begun this year, so I could find water to pan with, I tried it again, higher up. And in a little flat side draw, leadin’ from between two miserable little snubby hills off all alone, too low to send much flood water down – there I begun to find float, plumb promisin’. I started to follow it up. You know how – pan to right and left till the stuff fails to show, mark the edge of the pay dirt, go on up the hill and do the like again. If the gold you’re followin’ has been carried down by water the streak gets narrower as you go up a hillside, and pay dirt gets richer as it gets narrower. If the hill has been tossed about by the hell fires down below, all bets is off and no rule works, not even the exceptions. That’s why they say gold is where you find it. But any time you find a fan-shaped strip of color on a hill that looks like it might have stayed put, or nearly so, it’s worth while to follow it up. If you find the apex of that triangle you’re apt to strike a pocket that will land you right side up with the great and good. Sometimes the apex has done been washed away; these water courses have run quite elsewhere other times. Oh, quite! But there’s always a chance. Follow up a narrowing color and quit one that squanders round casual. Them’s the rules.
“Well, sir, my pay dirt took to the side of that least hill, and she was shaping right smart like a triangle. Then my water give out. I was usin’ a little tank in the rocks – no other without packing from MacCleod’s Tank, five mile. And I had to get in my last cuttin’ of alfalfa – pesky stuff! I cached my outfit and came on home.
“So there you are. It’s been rainin’ again; and I’m goin’ out and try another whirl to-morrow, hit or miss. Go snooks with you if you’re a mind to side me. What say?”
“Why, Big Chump, you’re not such a bad old hoss thief, are you? Well, I thank you just as much, and I sure hope you’ll make a ten-strike and everything like that; but, you see, I’m busy. Tell you what, Adam – you get Hob to go along, and I’ll think about it.”
“Oh, well, maybe it’s a false alarm anyway,” said Adam lightly. “I’ve known better things to fizzle. I get my fun, whatever happens. I can’t stay cooped up on that measly old farm all the time. I need a little fresh air every so often. I’m a lot like Thompson’s colt, that swum the river to get a drink.”
“Don’t like farmin’, eh?”
“Why, yes, I do. Beats hellin’ round, same as a stack of hay beats a stack of chips. They’re right nice people here, Charlie, mighty pleasant and friendly and plumb cheerful about the good time coming. And every last one of ’em is here because this is the very place he wants to be, and not because he happened to be here and didn’t know how to get away. That makes a power of difference. They’re plumb animated, these folks; if so be they ain’t just satisfied any place, they rise up and depart. So we have no grand old grouches. All the same, I’m free to admit that I haven’t quite the elbowroom I need.”
“I know just how you feel,” said Charlie; “I’ve leased a township and fenced it in. That’s why I’m not at some round-up; all my bossies right at home. And dog-gone if I don’t feel like I was in jail. But you people can’t be making much real money, Adam – hauling over such roads as these. It is forty miles from place to place, in here, while out in the open it is only thirty or maybe twenty-five. That’s on account of the sand and the curly places. And then you have nothing to do in the wintertime.”
“Well, now, it ain’t so bad as you’d think – not near. We raise plenty eggs, chickens, pork and such truck, and fruit and vegetables. Lots of milk and butter, too; not like when we didn’t have anything but cows. Some of us have our little bunch of cattle in the foothills yet, and fat the steers on alfalfa, and get money for ’em when we sell. But that won’t last long, I reckon. We’re beginning to grow hogs on alfalfa and fat ’em on corn, smoke ’em and salt ’em and cross ’em with T and ship ’em to El Paso. I judge that ham, bacon and pork will be the main crops presently.
“Then we hurled up a grist mill since you was here, coöperative. Hob, he got up that. And we got a good wagon road through the mountain, to Upham. Goes up Redgate and out by MacCleod’s Tank. Steepish, but no sand; when we get a car of stuff to ship we can haul twice as much as we can take to Rincon. We can’t buy nothing at Upham, sure enough, and sometimes have to wait for our cars. But we can have stuff shipped to Upham from El Paso, and it’s downhill coming back. Also, Hobby allows this Upham project will ably assist Rincon to wake up and build us a road up the valley.”
“Hobby invented this wagon road, did he?”
“Every bit. We all chipped in to do the work. But Hob furnished the idea. That ain’t all, either. From now on, we’re going to have plenty to do, wintertimes. Mr. See, we got a factory up and ready to start. Yessir!”
“Easy, Big Chump! You’ll strain yourself.”
“Straight goods – no joking.”
“Must be a hell of a factory!”
“She’s all right, son. A home-grown factory. You go look at her to-morrow. Broom factory. Yessir! Every man jack of us raised a patch of broom corn. We sell it to ourselves or buy it of ourselves, whichever way you like it best; and anybody that wants to make brooms does that little thing. We ship from Upham and divvy up surplus. Every dollar’s worth of broom corn draws down one dollar’s share of the net profit, and every dollar’s worth of labor does just that – no more, no less. It works out – with good faith and fair play.”
“Hob?” said Johnny.
“That’s the man.” Adam Forbes let his hand rest for a moment on the younger man’s shoulder. “Charlie, you and me are all right in our place – but there ain’t goin’ to be no such place much longer. I reckon we ain’t keepin’ up with the times. So now you know why I wanted you should go prospectin’ with me. Birds of a feather gather no moss.”
“I judge maybe you’re right. We both of us favor Thompson’s colt, and that’s a fact. Well, I am glad old Hob is making good. We had as good a chance as he did, only he had more sense.”
“Always did,” said Forbes heartily. “But he ain’t makin’ no big sight of money, if that’s what you mean. Just making good. He’s not working for Hob Lull especially. He’s working for all hands and the cook. Hob always tries to get us to work together, like on a ’cequia. There’s other things – a heap of ’em. We’ve bought a community threshing machine. Hob has coaxed a lot of ’em into keeping bees. And he’s ribbin’ us up to try a cannin’ factory in a year or two, for tomatoes and fruit. And a creamery, later. Hob is one long-headed young people. We aim to send him to represent for us sometime.”
Charlie See laughed. “Gosh! I wish you’d hurry up about it, then.”
But there was no bitterness in his mirth.
V
“Never pray for rain on a rising barometer.”
– Naval Regulations.
“Married men always make the worst husbands.”
– The Critic on the Hearth.
“Although, contrary to his custom, he had a lady on his knee, he instructed the young prince in his royal duties.”
– Anatole France.
Lyn Dyer lived with Uncle Dan in a little crowded house. Across the way stood a big lonesome house; there Edith Harkey lived with Daddy Pete.
Pete Harkey was a gentle, quiet and rather melancholy old man; Dan Fenderson was a fat, jolly and noisy youth of fifty. In relating other circumstances within the knowledge of the Border it would have been in no degree improper to have put the emphasis on the names of those two gentlemen. But this is “another story”; it is fitting that the youngsters take precedence; Lyn Dyer and Uncle Dan, Edith and her father.
Lyn Dyer – Carolyn, Lyn – had known no mother but Aunt Peg. The crowding of the little house was well performed by Lyn’s three young cousins, Danjunior, Tomtom and Peggy. The big house had been lonesome for ten years now. Edith’s sisters and her one brother were all her seniors, all married, and all living within eye flight; two at Hillsboro, a scant twenty-five miles beyond the river – but the big house was not less lonesome for that.
The little crowded house and the big lonesome house were half way between Garfield post office and Derry. Both homes were in Sierra County, but they were barely across the boundary; the county line made the southern limit of each farm. This was no chance but a choosing, and that a pointed one; having to do with that other story of those two old men.
In Dona Ana County taxes were high and life was cheap. Since the Civil War, Dona Ana had been bedeviled by the rule of professional politicians. Sierra – aside from Lake Valley and Hillsboro – had very little ruling and needed less; commonly enough there was only one ticket for county officers, and that was picked by a volunteer committee from both parties. Sierra was an American county, and took pride that she had kept free from feuds and had no bandits within her borders. Not that Mexicans were such evildoers. But where there was an overwhelming Mexican vote there was a large purchasable vote; which meant that purchasers took office. Unjust administration followed – oppression, lawsuits and lawlessness, revenge, bloodshed, feuds, anarchy. Result: More expense, more taxes, more bribing, more bribers, more oppression to recoup the cost of officeholding. Caveat pre-emptor– let the homesteader beware!
That unhappy time is now past and done with.
“Lyn! Lyn! Edith! Do come here and see what Adam Forbes has brought in,” grumbled Uncle Dan. “Another cowboy, and you just got rid of Tom Bourbonia. It does beat all!”
Mr. Fenderson, uttering the above complaint, stood on his porch in the light from his open door and struck hands with two men there; after which he slapped them violently on the back.
“Come in!” cried Lyn from the doorway. Her eyes were shining. She dropped a curtsy. “‘Come in, come in – ye shall fare most kind!’”
“Don’t you believe Uncle Dan,” said Edith. “We tried every way to make Tommy stay over – didn’t we, Lyn?”
The story is not able to give an exact record of the next minutes. Of the five young people – for Mr. Hobby Lull was there, as prophesied – of the five young people, five were talking at once; and Uncle Dan, above them all, boomed directions to Danjunior as to the horses of his visitors.
“Daniel! Stop that noise!” said Aunt Peg severely. “You boys come on in the house. Mr. Charlie, I’m glad to see you.”
“Now, here!” protested Forbes. “Isn’t anybody going to be glad to see me?”
“But, Adam, we can see you any time,” explained Edith. “While Mr. See – ”
“Her eyes went twinkle, twinkle, but her nose went ‘Sniff! Sniff!’” said Adam dolefully. “Excuse me if I seem to interrupt.”
“But Mr. See – ”
“Charlie,” said See.
“But Charlie makes himself a stranger. We haven’t seen you for six months, Mr. See.”
“Charlie,” said Mr. See again. “Six months and eight days.”
Mr. Hobby Lull sighed dreamily. “Dear me! It doesn’t seem over two weeks!”
A mesquite fire crackled in the friendly room. The night air bore no chill; it was the meaning of that fire to be cheerful; the wide old fireplace was the heart of the house. Adam Forbes spread his fingers to the blaze and sighed luxuriously.
“Charlie, when you build your house you want a fireplace like this in every room. Hob, who’s going to sell Charlie a farm?”
“What’s the matter with yours?”
Adam appeared a little disconcerted at this suggestion. “That idea hadn’t struck me, exactly,” he confessed. “But it may come to that yet. Lots of things may happen. I might find my placer gold, say. Didn’t know I was fixing to find a gold mine, did you? Well, I am. I wanted Charlie to go snooks with me, but he hasn’t got time. Me, I’ve been projectin’ and pirootin’ over the pinnacles after that gold for a year now, and I’ve just about got it tracked to its lair. To-morrow – ”
“Oh, gold!” said Lyn disdainfully, and wrinkled her nose.
“Ain’t I told you a hundred times —
Baby!
Ain’t I told you a hundred times,
There ain’t no money in the placer mines?
Baby!”
“Lyn! Wherever do you pick up such deplorable songs?” said Aunt Peg, highly scandalized. “But she’s right, Adam. The best gold is like that in the old fable – buried under your apple trees. You dig there faithfully and you will need no placer mines.”
White Edith turned to Charlie See.
“If you really intend to buy a farm here you ought to be getting about it. You might wait too long, Mr. See.”
“Charlie. Exactly what do you mean by that remark, my fair-haired child?”
“Here! This has gone far enough!” declared Hob. “We men have got to stand together – or else pull stakes and go where the women cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. Don’t you let her threats get you rattled, Charlie See. We’ll protect you.”
“Silly! I meant, of course, that the Mexicans are not selling their lands cheaply now, as they used to do.”
“Not so you could notice it,” said Uncle Dan. “Those that wanted to sell, they’ve sold and gone, just about all of them. What few are left are the solid ones. Not half-bad neighbors either. Pretty good sort. They’re apt to stick.”
“Not long,” said Hobby rather sadly. “They’ll go, and we’ll go too, most of us. The big dam will be built, some time or other; we’ll be offered some real money. We’ll grab it and drift. Strangers will take comfort where we’ve grubbed out stumps. We are the scene shifters. The play will take place later. ’Sall right; I hope the actors get a hand. But I hate to think of strangers living – well, in this old house. Say, we’ve had some happy times here.”
“Won’t you please hush?” said Adam. “Why so doleful? There’s more happy times in stock. This bunch don’t have to move away. Why, when I get my gold mine in action we can all live happy ever after. To-morrow – ”
“Hobby is right,” said Aunt Peg. “Pick your words as you please, bad luck or improvidence on the one side, thrift or greed on the other – yes, and as many more words of praise or blame as you care for; and the fact remains that the people who care for other things more than they do for money are slowly crowded out by the people who care more for money than for anything else.”
“Uncle Dan, is that why you grasping Scotchmen have crowded out the Irish round these parts?” inquired Charlie. “McClintock, MacCleod, Simpson, Forbes, Campbell, Monroe, Fenderson, Stewart, Buchanan – why, say, there’s a raft of you here; and across the river it is worse.”
“You touch there on a very singular thing, Mr. Charlie. Not that we crowded out the Irish. There were only a few families, and most of them are here yet. They happened to come first, and named the settlements – that’s all. But for the Scotch – you find more good Scots’ names to the hundred, once you strike the hills, than you will find to the thousand on the plain country. Love of the hills is in the blood of them; they followed the Rocky Mountains down from Canada.”
“But, Uncle Dan,” said Hobby, “how did so many of them happen to be in Canada?”
“Scotland was a poor country and a cold country, England was rich and warm, Canada was cold and hard. The English had no call to Canada, the Hudson Bay Company captained their outflung posts with Scotchmen; the easier that the Hanoverian kings, as a matter of policy, harried the Jacobite clans by fair means and foul. You were speaking of across the river. That is another curious matter. The California Company, now – ruling a dozen dukedoms – California lends the name of it and supplied the money; but the heads that first dreamed it were four long Scottish heads. And their brand is the John Cross. Any stranger cowman would read that brand as J Half Circle Cross. But we call it John Cross. And why, sirs?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Hobby. “It was always the John Cross and it never entered my head to ask why.”
“Look you there, now!” Uncle Dan held out an open palm and traced on it with a stubby and triumphant finger. “Their fathers had served John Company, the Hudson Bay Company! And there you are linked back with two hundred years! ‘John Company has a long arm,’ they said; ‘John Company lost a good man there!’ How the name began is beyond my sure knowing; but it is in my mind that it goes back farther still, to the East India Company, to Clive and to Madras. Lyn, you are the bookman, I’ll get you to look it up some of these – Lyn! Lyn! Charlie See! The young devils! Now wouldn’t that jar you?”
“A fool and his honey are soon started,” observed Adam.
“We’re out here, Uncle Dan; all nice and comfy. There’s a moon. And itty-bitsy stars,” answered a soothing voice – Charlie See’s – from the porch. “Oodles of stars. How I wonder what they are. G’wan, Uncle Dan – tell us about the East India Company now.”
Hobby Lull rose tragically and bestowed a withering glance upon Uncle Dan. “You old fat fallacy with an undistributed middle – see what you’ve done now! You and your John Company! Go to bed! Forbes, you brought this man See. You go home!”
“Overlook it this one time,” urged Forbes. “Don’t send us away – the girls are going to sing. Forgive us all both, and I’ll get rid of See to-morrow.”
“Be sure you do, then. Lyn! Come here to me.”
“Don’t shoot, colonel, I’ll come down,” said Lyn.
Her small face was downcast and demure. Charlie See came tiptoe after her and sidled furtively to the fire.
“Sing, then,” commanded Hobby. He brought the guitars and gave one to each girl.
The coals glowed on the hearth; side by side, the fair head and the brown bent at the task of tuning. That laughing circle was scattered long ago and it was written that never again should all those friendly faces gather by any hearthfire – never again. It has happened so many, many times; even to you and to me, so many, many times! But we learn nothing; we are still bitter, and hard, and unkind – with kindness so cheap and so priceless – as if there was no such thing as loss or change or death.
And because of some hours of your own, it is hoped you will not smile at the songs of that lost happy hour. They were old-fashioned songs; indeed, it is feared they might almost be called Victorian. Their bourgeois simplicity carried no suggestive double meaning.
“When other lips and other hearts” – that was what they sang, brown Lyn and white Edith. Kirkconnel Lea they sang, and Jeanie Morrison, and Rosamond:
Rose o’ the world, what man would wed
When he might dream of your face instead?
Folly? Perhaps. Perhaps, too, in a world where we can but love and where we must lose, it may be no unwisdom if only love and loss seem worth the singing.
The swift hour passed. The last song, even as the first, was poignant with the happy sadness of youth:
When my heart is sad and troubled,
Then my quivering lips shall say,
“Oh! by and by you will forget me,
By and by when far away!”
Good-bys were said at last; Forbes and See put foot to stirrup and rode jingling into the white moonlight; the others stood silent on the porch and watched them go. A hundred yards down the road, Adam Forbes drew rein. A guitar throbbed low behind them.
“Hark,” he said.
Edith Harkey stood in the shaft of golden light from the doorway; she bore herself like the Winged Victory; her voice thrilled across the quiet of the moonlit night:
“Never the nightingale,
Oh, my dear!
Never again the lark
Thou wilt hear;
Though dusk and the morning still
“Tap at thy window-sill,
Though ever love call and call
Thou wilt not hear at all,
My dear, my dear!”
The sad notes melted into the sweet pagan heartbreak of the enchanted night. They turned to go.
“A fine girl,” said Adam Forbes. “The only girl! To-morrow – ”
He fell silent; again in his heart that parting cadence knelled with keen and intolerable sorrow. The roots of his hair prickled, ants crawled on his spine. So tingles the pulsing blood, perhaps, when a man is fey, when the kisses of his mouth are numbered.
Edith went home to the big lonely house, but Lyn Dyer and Hobby Lull lingered by the low fire. Mr. Lull assumed a dignified pose before the fireplace, feet well apart and his hands clasped behind his back. He regarded Miss Dyer with a twinkling eye.
“Have you anything to say to the court before sentence is pronounced?” he inquired with lofty judicial calm.
Miss Dyer avoided his glance. She stood drooping before him; she looked to one side at the floor; she looked to the other side at the floor. The toe of her little shoe poked and twisted at a knot in the floor.
“Extenuating circumstances?” she suggested hopefully.
“Name them to the court.”
“The – the moon, I guess.” The inquisitive shoe traced crosses and circles upon the knot in the flooring. “And Charlie See,” she added desperately. “Charlie has such eloquent eyes, Hobby – don’t you think?”
She raised her little curly head for a tentative peep at the court; her own eyes were shining with mischief. The court unclasped its hands.
“I ought to shake you,” declared Hobby. But he did not shake her at all.
“You’re the only young man in Garfield who wears his face clean-shaven,” remarked Lyn reflectively, a little later. “Charlie would look much better without a mustache, I think.”
He pushed her away and tipped up her chin with a gentle hand so that he could look into her eyes. “Little brown lady with curly eyes and laughing hair – are you quite fair to Charlie See?”
“No,” said Lyn contritely, “I’m not. I suppose we ought to tell him.”
“We ought to tell everybody. So far as I am concerned, I would enjoy being a sandwich man placarded in big letters: ‘Property of Miss Lyn Dyer.’”
“Why, Hobbiest – I thought it was rather nice that we had such a great big secret all our own. But you’re right – I see that now. I should have met him at the door, I suppose, and said, ‘You are merely wasting your time, Mr. See. I will never desert my Wilkins!’ Only that might have been a little awkward, in a way, because, you see, ‘Nobody asked you to,’ he said – or might have said.”
“He never told you, then?”
“Not a word.”
“But you knew?”
“Yes,” said Lyn. “I knew.” She twisted a button on his coat and spoke with a little wistful catch in her voice. “I do like him, Hobby – I can’t help it. Only so much.” She indicated how much on the nail of a small finger. “Just a little teeny bit. But that little bit is – ”
“Strictly plutonic?”
“Yes,” she said in a small meek voice. “How did you know? He makes me like him, Hobbiest. It – it scares me sometimes.”
“Pretty cool, I’ll say, for a girl that has only been engaged a week, if you should happen to ask me.”
“Oh, but that’s not the same thing – not the same thing at all! You couldn’t keep me from liking you, not if you tried ever so hard. That is all settled. But Charlie makes me like him. You see, he is such a real people; I feel like the Griffin did about the Minor Cañon: ‘He was brave and good and honest, and I think I should have relished him.’”
Hobby held her at arm’s length and regarded her quizzically. “So young, and yet so tender?”
“‘So young, my lord, and true.’”
“Well,” said Hobby resignedly, “I suppose we’ll have to quarrel, of course. They all do. But I don’t know how to go about it. What do I say next?”
“I might as well tell you the worst, angelest pieface. You ought to know what a shocking horrid little creature your brown girl really is. You won’t ever tell – honest-to-goodness, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die?”
“Never.”
“Say it, then.”
“Honest-to-goodness, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die.”
She buried her face on his breast. “I dreamed about him last night, Hobby. Wasn’t that queer? I hadn’t thought of him before for months – weeks, anyhow.”
“A week, maybe?” suggested Hobby.
“Oh, more than that! Two weeks, at the very least. I – I hate to tell you,” she whispered. “I – I dreamed I liked him almost as much as I do you!”
“Why, you brazen little bigamist!”
“Yes, I am – I mean, ain’t I?” she assented complacently, for his arms belied his words. “But that’s not the worst, Hobbiest – that’s not nearly the dreadfulest. When I woke up I – I wrote some – some verses about my dream. Are you awfully angry? We’ll burn them together after you read them.”
“Woman, produce those verses! I will take charge of them as ‘Exhibit A.’”
“And then you’ll beat me, please?”
“Oh, no,” said Hobby magnanimously. “That’s nothing! Pish, tush! Why, Linoleum, I feel that way about lots of girls. Molly Sullivan, now – ”
“Hobby!”
“I always like to dream of Molly. One of the best companions to take along in a dream – ”
