CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE LITTLE BEAR
“What was it that happened?” the listeners asked eagerly.
“Well, if ye’re not tired of the story,” the old fisherman said, “I’ll tell ye the rest of it. The men had decided that since the mother-bear had been so good to their Kid, they’d be good to her little cub, so they adopted him, and the bear and the Kid grew up together like two brothers.
“Little Bear was soon as tame as a puppy, and though he grew some, he never became as big as his mother. Little Bear he was always called, and how he did love the Kid! When the boy was seven years old, the men put together and bought him a small horse and a rifle, but wherever he went, Little Bear ambled after him.
“The men had built a log raft, which they pushed about with poles, and, when the lake was calm, often the Kid and the bear would sit on the raft, and the boy would fish. Sometimes the Kid would catch a fish that wasn’t good to eat. However, Little Bear wasn’t as particular as folks, but he wouldn’t touch a fish until the Kid tossed it over to him and called, ‘Little Bear, here’s a fish for ye!’ Then he would snap it and gobble it up in a hurry.
“Kiddie never had any other playmate except just Little Bear, and he never seemed to want any. Nights after grub, when the men were all sitting around, swapping yarns and smoking, Little Bear would curl up on the ground and the Kid would lie there with his head on the bear’s back. How the Kid loved to hear their yarns, and the men made them pretty exciting, just to amuse him.
“That winter a man came to the camp with a fiddle. Then ’twas that the fun began. The bear took to music like a duck to water, and he just couldn’t lie still while that fiddle was being played. He up on his hind-legs and galloped about like he was trying to dance. That gave the Kid the idea of teaching Little Bear to do tricks, and he learned them easy. Sometimes the Kid would take hold of Little Bear’s paws while the fiddle was being played, and they would both dance about, and how the men would shout to see them! Those were happy evenings in the lumber-camp, happy for the men and for the Kid and the Little Bear. A fine lad the boy had grown to be,—tall and slim, with frank blue eyes looking straight at you out of that handsome, weather-tanned face of his,—and not a bad word did he know, and that was saying a good deal, bein’ as he was raised in a lumber-camp with rough men. True, Kid hadn’t any learnin’ ’cept what he’d picked up watchin’ and studyin’ nature’s ways, that is, he didn’t have any till Fiddler Fritz came; he taught him to read out of a book which he always lugged around in his pocket. Poems, he called it,—stories of knights and ladies. Soon the Kid could read them aloud, but Jock never saw no sense in the story, but he was powerful proud because his Kid could read.
“One evening Fiddler Fritz sat smoking, thoughtful-like, and all of a sudden he said: ‘Jock Henderson, unless I miss my guess, that Kid of yourn comes of a mighty good family. Maybe ye ought to be looking them up. Maybe ye’re keeping the Kid from getting a good education and a start in life.’
“Jock Henderson’s heart turned cold inside of him. He’d thought the same plenty of times, but he couldn’t bear to part with the Kid. Jock saw that Fiddler Fritz was expecting an answer, and so he said: ‘The Kid’s mother was a lady; anybody could see that. She only lived a week after her man died, but she wrote a letter to some brother she had who was rich, she said. He’d been angry with her for marrying, and so, maybe, that’s why he never answered her letter. Anyhow, he never did. I mailed it myself the day after the woman died, and I wrote on the envelope that we’d keep the child till called for, so I guess nobody’s a better right to keep the Kid than I have.’
“Now, just as Jock Henderson finished speaking, there came a rap on the door, and Jock said, the minute he heard it, he as good as knew that it was somebody come to take his Kid away. It had to be a stranger anyhow, for nobody living in those parts stopped to rap.
“Jock could hardly open the door, his hand shook so. There stood a tall, gray-haired man, and by his clothes Jock knew he was from the city. Near by another man held the bridles of two horses.
“‘How do ye do, sir,’ the stranger said pleasantly. ‘I have been abroad for many years, and on my return, last week, I found this letter in my desk. Can ye explain it to me?’
“It was the letter Jock had mailed the day after the boy’s mother had died.
“‘Are ye the Kid’s uncle, then?’ Jock asked, and his voice trembled.
“‘I am the brother of the woman who wrote that letter,’ the man replied. ‘If she had a son, I would like to see him.’
“Jock looked down toward the lake. He knew that the Kid had gone walking along the shore, as he often did at sunset, with Little Bear close at his heels.
“‘There he comes now,’ Jock said, as he pointed. And the man, turning, saw a graceful, bare-headed and bare-legged boy leaping along just for the joy of it, while Little Bear, who was full-grown by then, was lumbering along, trying to keep up with him.
“‘I beat ye, Little Bear!’ the boy cried; and then, seeing that there were strangers in front of the shack, he stood still and put one arm about the bear’s neck.
“The strange man seemed to choke up like. Probably he had been powerful fond of his sister before he got angry at her. At any rate, he went toward the boy and said, ‘My lad, I am your mother’s brother; and so I am your uncle.’
“Jock feared that, since the boy wasn’t brought up to meet strangers, he might act shy-like, but blood tells, and the Kid stepped up with his frank smile and held out his hand as he said, ‘I thought, sir, that you might come to see me some day.’
“‘I’ve come to take you home with me, my lad,’ the stranger said. But the Kid looked up quickly, as he replied: ‘Why, sir, I don’t believe that Jock Henderson could spare me. He’s been all the father I’ve ever had, sir.’ And then, to Jock’s delight, the boy ran to the rough old man and caught hold of his hard knotted hand and held it tight.
“‘Then it’s you I have to thank for making my sister’s child into such a fine, manly lad, as I can see at one glance that he is,’ the stranger exclaimed. ‘I won’t take him away from ye, entirely, Jock Henderson, that I will not. He shall go to the city for his schooling, but it’s only ten miles away, and every weekend he can come riding back to visit ye. How would that do, my lad?’
“But it was Jock Henderson who answered. ‘That will be a first-rate plan, Kid,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wanting you to get an education, and all the week I’ll be waiting for Saturday to come, and so will Little Bear here. He’ll be as lonesome as I’ll be, won’t ye, Little Bear?’ Jock asked, trying to be cheerful-like.
“And that is what happened. The next day the Kid rode away on his own small horse, which had been his gift one Christmas from all the men. Lightning, the Kid called him, on account of his speed, and he loved him next to Little Bear.
“That was five year ago, and now every Saturday, as sure as the day dawns, the Kid comes riding down to Little Bear Lake toward evening, to spend Sunday with old Jock Henderson.
“The lumber-camp was moved north the year after the Kid left, and all the men went away except Jock Henderson. He had saved enough money to live on, and there was plenty of fish and game, and so he built him a little shack up the lake shore and he and Little Bear settled down to keep house together. Then the inn was built over where the lumber-camp had been, and summer people began coming. They all loved Little Bear, and many a sweetmeat he got there, but one day he ate poison, it seemed like. He moped about all day Saturday, and when the Kid came, Little Bear dragged over to him and put his head against the boy, and so he died. The Kid cried just like a child, and no wonder, for Little Bear had been his only playmate, just as Jock Henderson had been his only father.”
“Where is Jock Henderson now?” Madge asked, with tears in her eyes.
“He’s telling the story to ye,” the old man said simply.
“I thought so,” Madge replied.
Then the old man continued, “The Kid’s right name is Eric Brownley. He’s fifteen years old now and preparin’ for college.”
“What!” cried Everett Peterson, springing up. “You don’t mean to tell me that this is the life-story of our Eric Brownley! Why, he’s our champion in all the school-games.”
“Sure he is!” said the old man, with shining eyes. “To-day’s Saturday, you know, and I’ve been a-watching for him, and, unless I’m mistaken, here he comes now!”
The young people looked eagerly in the direction toward which the old man pointed, and they saw a horse and rider coming on a gallop.