CHAPTER XIV—CONSIDINE'S WORK IS ENDED
THE next morning Bruce was still in bed when Hunch went to work. McGuire did not appear with the other men, and at noon his brass check still hung on its nail in the timekeeper's shanty. Shortly after lunch Bruce and McGuire, both a little the worse for drink, appeared and went to work with the gang. Hunch had gone up to the mill, and did not see them until his return; When he came near they were dawdling over their work, chuckling together over some incident of the morning.
“What you two doing here?” Hunch asked.
Bruce started and moved away from McGuire.
“Speak up.”
McGuire muttered, “Guess we know what we're doing.”
“Look here,” said Hunch, “you go to the office and get your time.”
McGuire lowered his cant-hook. “What—what you say?”
“Go on. Don't talk to me.”
McGuire dropped his cant-hook and started away.
“Come back here, McGuire. Pick that up.”
McGuire muttered.
“What's that you're saying?”
“I ain't saying nothing.”
Hunch started toward him, but checked himself.
“Pick up that cant-hook, McGuire.” McGuire obeyed and walked slowly away. Hunch turned to Bruce, who stood looking on with his mouth open.
“What are you gaping there for, Considine. Go 'long.”
“Where?”
“Go and get your time. We're through with you.”
Bruce stood still looking stupidly at Hunch.
“What?” he said. “You ain't——”
“Get off the job. Understand? You're laid off. We don't want you.”
Bruce slowly lifted his cant-hook to his shoulder. He stared at Hunch until Hunch turned away, then he walked over to where McGuire was standing, and went away with him.
Late in the afternoon they came back and hung around, watching the gang at work. They had been drinking again, and McGuire had a bottle in his pocket which he pulled out frequently. They were talking loud and laughing.
Their actions drew the attention of the men and annoyed Badeau, though he said nothing for a long time. Finally, Bruce and McGuire began calling at the men, growing bolder in their remarks. At last McGuire called, “You fellows mus' like working for tha' dam' fool,” and Hunch walked toward them.
“You'll have to move away from here,” he said. “We can't have you disturbing the work.”
“Go 'way!” McGuire replied. “You can't touch us. We ain't on your job.”
“Stop that, McGuire! Get out, quick, or I'll throw you out!”
McGuire laughed. Hunch went to him and pulled him to his feet.
“Le' go o' me!” said McGuire. “Take your hand off o' me!”
Hunch began dragging him away. McGuire hung back protesting and threatening. Bruce walked slowly after them, shaking his head and talking to himself. McGuire braced his feet. Hunch gave him a wrench that nearly threw him, and McGuire struck at him. Bruce watched the struggle, the old drunken cunning in his eyes, then he ran forward and jumped on Hunch's back, pounding him about the face and head. Hunch staggered, but recovered and caught McGuire with his knuckles squarely on the side of the jaw. McGuire staggered back. Bruce had both arms around Hunch's neck and was trying to choke him. Hunch gripped Bruce's wrists, and slowly pulled them forward, until their hold was loosened; then he turned quickly, took hold of Bruce's shoulders, and threw him against a pile of cut timber. Bruce struck hard and seemed for a moment to be clinging to the pile, then he fell on his face.
Some of the men were running toward them. One was calling:
“I seen it, Hunch! It weren't your fault! I seen it!”
Hunch stood panting as the men gathered around.
“Better see if he's hurt,” he said.
They rolled Bruce over. His face was covered with blood. One of the men brought some water from the river in his hat, and washed it off.
McGuire stood at one side, rubbing his cheek. Hunch ordered him away, and he went without a word. The other men were crowding around Bruce. One of them looked up and said: “I guess he's done for, Hunch.”
CHAPTER XV—THE LETTER
IT was a cold day in Manistee. The snow lay in high banks on each side of the street-car tracks, with paths cut through at the crossings and in front of the larger stores; underfoot it creaked and crunched. Men walked briskly, keeping their hands in their pockets or holding them over ears or noses, and pausing at the drug store on the corner to look at the red thermometer.
It was close to noon, and a number of men were coming down a flight of stairs which reached the sidewalk a few doors beyond the drug store. The last one was Hunch Badeau, with his ulster collar turned up, his cap pulled down over his ears, and his fur mittens on.
When they reached the street two of the other men turned and shook hands with him; but he had nothing to say, and a moment later he was walking alone, slowly, up the bridge approach. The examination was over and he was free. His case had not reached a trial, for he had killed Considine plainly in self-defense.
A long row of schooners, steamers, and tugs lay along the docks on both sides of the river. On most of the schooners a length of stovepipe came out of a cabin window, and a few wisps of smoke, winding lazily out to be snatched away by the wind, showed that many a sailor was lying dormant during the winter months. Hunch lingered on the bridge. He had once spent such a winter in Chicago on a big schooner, locked up snugly in the North Branch near Goose Island, eating and sleeping, smoking and swapping yams, and helping to drink up somebody's summer profits. That was a long while ago; it seemed to Hunch a dim part of some past life, before he had ever met a woman other than the rough girls of the Chicago levee and the North Peninsula stockades.
Mr. Jackson had told Hunch that he need not go back to work that day, so he climbed to his room and sat on the chair by the window. Bruce's things were lying about the room; his razor on the bureau, his Sunday clothes over a chair in the closet, his shoes under the foot of the bed. Hunch got up and began to get them together, without knowing exactly why he was doing it. He packed what he could in the patent-leather valise, and made up the rest into bundles, borrowing paper and string from the landlady. Then he sat down again, but before long, too restless to stay alone, he put on his coat and walked out to the mill. Mr. Jackson was standing near the waste dump with a memorandum book in his hand.
“Well, Badeau, what's the matter?”
“Nothing. Guess I might's well get to work.”
“Just as you like.”
The men looked surprised when he joined them. He was nervous and he worked both himself and them at a pace that wore them out in a few hours. But at six o'clock, when the whistle blew, and he put on his coat and went back to the boarding-house, he felt refreshed.
On Sunday, after several days of hesitating over the best way to get Bruce's things to Mamie, Hunch gathered up the bundles and the valise, and took the noon train to Liddington. He sat for two hours in the station before he could make up his mind to take them to Joe Cartier's house. When he finally knocked at the door, Joe's wife opened it.
“How d'ye do, Mr. Badeau? Come in, won't you?”
“No, I can't,” said Hunch. “Hold on; yes, I will, too, just a minute. Where's Joe?”
“Here he is,” replied Joe himself, coming through the hall in his shirt-sleeves. “Come in, and set down.”
Hunch stepped in and dropped the bundles in the corner.
“Can I speak to you a minute, Joe?”
“Sure thing. Walk in the front room. Martha, I could swear Hunch ain't had his dinner. Fetch out some of the chicken and potatoes. It ain't so hot as it was, Hunch, but it's good, plain stuff—good enough for us, ain't it, Martha?”
“No, don't you, Mis' Cartier. I can't stay, honest. I had some grub, anyhow.”
But Joe's wife hurried out to the kitchen, leaving Joe and Hunch in the front room.
“Take off your coat, man,” said Joe. “What you getting so bashful about all of a sudden?”
Hunch unbuttoned his coat, nervously.
“Is she staying here yet, Joe?”
“Who's that you mean, Hunch? Bruce's wife? She's going up to her father's tomorrow.”
“How's that happen?”
“Well, I'll tell you, Hunch—you won't say anything about it, of course—but when Bruce—when he died, you know, and I knowed that girl didn't have a cent anywheres, and worse'n that, if you count his debts, I just thought—kind of—that the old man, he didn't know quite how things stood, or he wouldn't be so ugly. You see, don't you?”
Hunch nodded.
“And, of course, I couldn't say nothing to her, you know, 'cause she'd think first thing I meant about the rent—she's a touchy little thing, you know—so I says to Martha, 'Martha, you just take your work'-this was Thursday-'Martha,' I says, 'you just take your work and go up to Mis' Banks' and set down and have a good old jaw with the old lady. She'll let you talk to her,' I says, ''cause she used to be your Sunday-school teacher, and she's always took a shine to you. And you just lay out the whole thing, and tell her that if she ain't wanting to lose the respect of one grocer in this town, she'd better just leave go of one of those missionary societies of hers, and watch out a little for her own daughter.' Martha, she felt kind of delicate about going, but she went down just the same, and tackled the old lady, and when she come back, her eyes were like she'd been crying, so I know'd it was all right and I didn't say nothing. And, sure enough, that night old Banks himself come around and stood up stiff in the door and says, 'Is my daughter here, Cartier?'-He always calls me 'Joe,' you know, and I calls him 'George'; but that ain't no matter.-I says, 'Yes,' and he goes upstairs, and then Martha and I, we just keeps out of the way in the kitchen, so's he could go out without running into any of us. But 'long about half-past nine he comes out, and knocks on the kitchen door, and says, 'My daughter's coming to my house, Joe.' And I says, 'When?' and he says, 'Monday, and let me know what the board 'll amount to?' And you see, Hunch, I was kind of foolish myself, so I just says, 'All right, George,' and then he goes out. So the girl's going to keep alive, anyhow, and that's something.”
Hunch rose and slowly buttoned his ulster.
“You give her them things, won't you, Joe? I dunno as I'd say anything about my bringing them down.”
“Why, hold on, man; you ain't going now. Martha's out getting some dinner for you.”
“Sorry,” said Hunch. “I got to get back.”
“Oh, pshaw, Hunch; this ain't right. Wait a minute, anyhow. I guess Mis' Considine would like to see you. She's right upstairs.”
“No,” said Hunch, slowly, “she don't want to see me.” Cartier looked at him a little surprised, then suddenly grew embarrassed.
“I forgot,” he said; “I clean forgot. No, I don't s'pose she does.”
Hunch turned and felt for the doorknob. Mrs. Cartier was coming in from the kitchen, and she hurried forward.
“Don't let him go now, Joe. His dinner's all ready.”
“That's right,” Joe urged. “You see, you can't go, Hunch.”
“I'm sorry,” said Hunch. “Good day.” He hurried out, and left Joe and his wife looking at each other.
Hunch had been back in Manistee nearly a week, when one day he received a letter in a perfumed envelope, like the ones Bruce used to get, when they were together on the schooner. He carried it in his pocket all the afternoon, and at night, wondering what she could have to say, and yet not daring to open it and find out, he set it upon his bureau, taking it up every few minutes and turning it over in his hands. In the morning when he awoke and got out of bed to dress, it was there on the bureau staring at him. He held it tip to the light several times, then tore off the end of the envelope and drew out the letter. It was a stiffly worded little note, thanking him for bringing Bruce's things, and was signed, “Yours truly, Mary Considine.” Hunch could not tell why it made him happy. He read it over and over—the first letter she had ever written to him. He stood by the lamp, holding it in his hand.
Then, suddenly, he thought of Bruce, and the letter dropped to the table and lay there for a long time untouched, while he dressed with clumsy fingers. But before he went out to work he put it away in his inside pocket. It stayed there for a long time, and sometimes in the evenings, long afterward, he would take it out and read it.
CHAPTER XVI—POP-CORN BALLS
HUNCH worked hard during the rest of the winter, so hard that he was startled one day, after two weeks up country in the logging camp, to find that March was only a week away. He had been sent to take charge of the logging gang while the regular foreman was getting back on his legs after an ax cut. When he returned to the mill, and reported at the office, Mr. Jackson waved him to a chair.
“Sit down a minute, Badeau. I want to talk to you. How do you like your work, anyhow?”
“It's all right, sir.”
“How do you get along with the men? Have any trouble?”
“Not lately.”
“Would you like to go back on the lake?”
“Wouldn't mind.”
“You've had a good deal of experience, haven't you?”
“Guess so.”
“What have you done besides running that little schooner you had?”
“Well, I was mate two years on one of Peters's coal schooners, and before that I knocked around a good while getting on to the ropes.”
“Now, I'll tell you, Badeau, we're going to put on a big schooner this year. She's the Robert James.”
“I know,” said Hunch, “a three sticker. Belongs to the Wilsons. Stud Marble's been sailing her.”
“That's the boat. Well, we've bought her, and she's going out March eleventh with that Menominee bill. If you think you'd like to take her out, say so, and you can have her. We've named her the Lucy Jackson.”
Hunch looked down at his cap and then up at the yellow-and-red lithograph, that hung over Mr. Jackson's desk, of Maud S., rounding into the home stretch. He did not know what to say.
“Speak up, Badeau. Do you want it?”
“Yes, sir, I'll try it.”
“We don't want you to try it; we want you to do it. There mustn't be any doubt about it.”
“There ain't any. I can do it.”
“All right. Come in again some day this week, and we'll fix up the details. You might be picking up a crew. And you'd better go down and look her over. She's at Wilson's dock.”
Hunch spent the day in going over the schooner, setting things to right and taking an inventory of repairs. For the next two weeks he worked day and night, eating and sleeping when he could. Then exactly on time, the Lucy Jackson was ready, and she sailed for Menominee with Hunch at the wheel and a hundred and ten thousand feet of lumber on the deck.
The spring and summer months slipped by. Hunch was kept so busy delivering cargoes at nearly every port on the lake down to Chicago and Michigan City, and once going around through the straits to Alpena, that he kept little track of the time. He was usually at Liddington at least once a month, but he stayed only a day or so at a time, and then kept aboard the schooner as much as possible.
It was in October, nine months after his talk with Joe Cartier, that he met Mamie's father in the street in Liddington. Hunch had gone to the post-office, expecting orders from Mr. Jackson, and was hurrying back to the schooner to see about unloading her cargo. Banks was coming down the steps from the bank.
“Hello, Badeau,” he said, holding out his hand. “Where've you been all this time?”
“Busy,” said Hunch, taking the hand, and wishing that he could get away.
“Where are you now? Up to Manistee?”
“I s'pose I hail from there 's much as anywheres.”
“On the lake again, ain't you. One of the boys told me you was getting up in the world.”
“Oh, I ain't very much yet.”
“You're cap'n of a big schooner, I hear.”
“Yes. How's all your folks?”
“Pretty well. Mamie was sick for a while, but I guess she's all right now. Let's see, it's most a year since I saw you. Don't you ever get down here?”
“Not very often.”
“How long 're you here for?”
“Guess I can get away to-morrow some time.”
“You'll be around to-night, won't you? Mamie and the old lady 'll never forgive you if you go away without seeing us.”
“Why——”
“Look here, now, Badeau, I'm going to send Frank down with the rig, and fetch you up to supper.”
“No—I can't get away. Honest, I can't. I've got a big load here——”
“None of that now. You've got to come.”
“I can't do it, Mr. Banks. I would if I could.”
“Well, I s'pose you know. But Frank will be along for you right after supper, anyhow.”
Hunch walked quickly away. He was excited, and before returning to the schooner he strode a few blocks away from the river. He did not want his men to see him until he could get control of himself.
After supper he got out his good clothes and brushed them carefully. When young Banks drove down on the wharf and called to one of the men forward, Hunch was standing before his square tilted mirror, giving a last twist to his hair.
Mr. and Mrs. Banks were cordial. Mamie came in a little later, and Hunch was surprised to see how pretty she was. She had more flesh and color and her eyes were brighter. She acted as if nothing had happened, and before long Hunch was made to feel at home. When he rose to go, Mr. Banks took his hat and followed him out, and Mamie looked a little conscious when she said “Goodnight.”
“You won't mind my telling you something, will you, Badeau?” said Banks, when they were on the side-walk. “I couldn't help seeing to-day that you didn't want to come around, and I———”
“Oh, it ain't that———”
“Hold on, now. I know just what it is. I ain't lived longer 'n you have for nothing. I see how you feel, and I just want you to know that we feel different. Of course, there's some things does make a difference, some kind of things—there's no getting around that—but all the same, we ain't holding anything against you. I'll tell you, Badeau—and I ain't ashamed to say it—when I found out how you'd been keeping my girl alive when I weren't man enough to do it myself, I—why—dam' it, man, I want to shake hands with you, right now.”
“Why,” said Hunch, when Banks had released his hand, “that ain't so. I———”
“Now, you don't fool me. I know about it. Joe Cartier, he told me some of it, and Jim Bartlett and—by the way, there's a good friend of yours. He and Jess ain't never got over the way they treated you. Lord knows they'd be glad enough to crawl if you'd give 'em the chance. She's a good girl, too. Made a mistake when she threw you down, but she's suffered enough for that.”
They walked for more than a block in silence. Finally Banks said, “Look here, Badeau; you can't go to-morrow. You just can't do it. You plan to get away the next morning, and come up tomorrow and set around, and we'll try to have a good time. Just to show that there ain't no hard feelings anywheres, and you can forget us if you want to, but you've got to put in one more evening, anyhow. Sometimes—sometimes I wonder if 't ain't all just as well. Bruce, he wouldn't have—well, it wasn't your fault, anyhow.”
When they parted a block further down the street, Banks said, “Mebbe we'll have a little surprise for you when you come to-morrow night. I can't say for sure, but it's more'n likely. And mebbe you won't be sorry you come.”
Hunch had no doubts about staying. It would have taken more than the four Liddington tugs to have pulled him out of the harbor that next day. He went up to Bank's house early in the evening, and found the old gentleman alone in the front room in his shirt sleeves, popping com at the stove.
“Come right in, my boy. The women folks drove me out of the kitchen. We thought we'd have some old-fashioned pop-corn balls. Hope you like 'em.” Hunch grinned and sat on the sofa. “No setting around lazy. You've got to get to work along with the rest of us. Here, you shell them ears there, in the pan.”
Hunch drew up a chair, and held the pan between his knees.
“Where's all the folks?” he said, as he started on his second ear.
“They're out in the kitchen, the whole lot of 'em. I told 'em we'd be out as soon as the corn was popped.”
Mr. Banks spoke without looking around and in a nervous manner. He was watching the popper intently and he kept shaking it after the last yellow kernel had burst into white bloom. When Hunch grew a little impatient to go into the kitchen, Mr. Banks delayed and tried to keep up a conversation. At last, however, the corn was ready. Mr. Banks led the way to the kitchen door, opened it, and waited for Hunch to go through first. Mrs. Banks was greasing pans at the table; Mamie was in the pantry rattling the dishes. A tall girl stood at the stove stirring the candy, her back to the door. Hunch stopped a moment and looked at her. It was Jess Bartlett.
“Step lively, Badeau. This is our busy day.” Mr. Banks brushed by him, holding the pan of pop-corn high up on his hand like a negro waiter, and trying to appear unconcerned.
“Come on, Mr. Badeau,” called Mrs. Banks. “Just hold these pans a minute. We're going to make you work too.”
Mamie came out of the pantry, blushing, and looked saucily at Hunch. He had not seen her look like that for more than a year. Then he knew that Jess had turned around and was looking at him. He sat on the corner of the table, and said, “Hello, Jess.”
“Hello, John,” she replied, in a low voice.
The others had turned away, but now Mr. Banks called out, “Pull up some chairs, folks. This is where we all get busy. Move lively, my boy. We've got to make the balls before it gets hard.” Hunch did not know how it happened that he sat next to Jess at the table. He felt strange and uncomfortable. But the others were full of mischief, and they joked slyly and winked at each other, and misinterpreted Hunch's backward manner, so that it was, after all, a lively evening. When it came time to go, Jess said to Mrs. Banks, “Guess I'll have to go along,” and then lingered, not knowing whether she would have to go alone. Finally Mr. Banks said to Hunch, “I don't s'pose you'd mind just this once seeing that Jess gets home all safe and sound, would you, now?” So Hunch put on his coat, and he and Jess said “Good-night,” and when they got out on the street, she timidly took his arm, and they walked along together without a word.
The silence continued until Hunch felt that he must say something.
“How've you folks been all this time?” he asked.
“We've been pretty well. Jim sprained his wrist, but it's all right now.”
Again they were silent, and though Hunch tried, he could think of nothing more to say. They were on the last block of their walk, when Jess, her hand trembling a little on his arm, said:
“Haven't you ever forgiven me, John?”
It was a relief to him that she had broken the ice.
“Why, I dunno. I ain't got nothing special to forgive.”
“Are you mad now?”
“No, I ain't mad.”
“You didn't come around. It's been a long time.”
Hunch had no explanation. They stood at the gate, each waiting for the other to go on. Jess turned half away and picked at a broken corner of the gate-post. Hunch watched her. There was something attractive in the poise of her figure, and even with her big hat on, enough of her hair showed to give an impression of its richness. She looked up at him.
“Ain't we ever going to be—friends, John?”
“Yes, we're friends now, I reckon.” Hunch hesitated; he was making up his mind to tell the truth.
“What makes you act like you do?”
“'Cause, well, 'cause there ain't no use patching up an old hull and calling it a new boat, Jess. Things is changed. There's no good saying I feel like I did, when I don't, Jess; and couldn't if I tried. You're a fine girl, and you'll make some fellow happy, but I'm afraid I ain't him.”
She stood looking down.
“Don't you see how 'tis, Jess? I'm just telling you the truth.”
She nodded? He held out his hand, and she took it quickly, then ran into the house. That was all. Hunch looked after her for a few moments, then he walked slowly back to the schooner.
CHAPTER XVII—OLD TIES
THE next day Hunch was moody. The men were afraid of him, and it was after a long time of bracing his courage, that the mate came up to where Hunch was sitting on the rail.
“Cap'n,” he said, “she's all ready.”
“I know it.”
“Will we get under way? There's the tug coming in fifteen minutes.”
Hunch sat still, his fingers locked, looking out across the harbor.
“Mike,” he said, abruptly, “skip up to the office and telephone over for the tug to come to-morrow morning at seven o'clock.”
“Not till to-morrow——?”
“That's what I said.”
The mate walked away, shaking his head.
Hunch was in a bad temper all the afternoon. After supper he sat in the cabin alone until after seven o'clock. Finally he got up and walked swiftly across town to Mamie's house. Mr. Banks opened the door, his coat on and his hat in his hand.
“Hello, my boy. This is a big surprise. Step right in. We thought you was up to Manistee by now.”
“I thought I was going myself.”
“Take off your coat—here, let me have it. How'd you manage it?”
“I—I found I couldn't get away.”
“Ain't that fine, though. Mother, here's Mr. Badeau.” Mrs. Banks was in the front room straightening her bonnet.
“How d'ye do?” she said, coming into the hall and shaking hands. “Glad to see you. Father and I was just starting for prayer-meeting.”
“Go right along, Mis' Banks. Don't stay on my account.”
“All right, if you'll excuse us. We won't be gone long, and I guess Mamie 'll take care of you all right. We can have our visit when we get back. Mamie-! Where is that child?”
“Here I am, mother,” said Mamie, coming in from the kitchen. She greeted Hunch cordially.
“Good-by,” said Mrs. Banks, “we'll be back 'fore long.”
Mamie pulled up two chairs to the stove, Hunch helping her.
“How'd you happen to stay over?” she asked. “We weren't expecting you.”
“No, I just made up my mind this morning.”
“Well, I'm sure we're glad you did. It seems just like old times to have you back here.”
“Don't it, though? I ain't had much chance to see my friends in the last year. I have to keep a-going all the time, you know.”
“But I should think you'd kind of like it. Father told me how well you're doing. Isn't it fine.”
“I dunno,” said Hunch. “I ain't always sure I care much one way or the other.”
“You mean about getting on? Oh, you mustn't talk like that. Of course you care, and all your friends care, too. We like to see you get ahead. Jess's brother told me when you got to be captain, and I was kind of proud of you.”
The mention of Jess bothered Hunch, though he replied, “Was you really?” and tried to smile.
Mamie was looking at him with a friendly expression in her eyes that he did not quite understand. He thought at first that she was laughing at him. But then she smiled, and said with a little hesitation:
“I didn't know but what you mightn't like what—the little surprise we had last night, you know.”
“Oh, yes; I did all right.”
“Well, but I thought afterward that maybe we oughtn't to have done it. It was father's idea. He feels real bad about—about you and Jess. And she's an awfully nice girl.”
“Yes,” said Hunch, “there ain't no doubt about that.”
Mamie hesitated again, and then, when Hunch did not speak, they both became embarrassed.
“I've wondered sometimes, if you knew,” she said at length, “if you really thought Jess was the only one to blame. It was just as much her folks—her brother, you know—he was worried about it, and he tried to keep her from going on with you.”
“Yes, I know. He told me that.”
“And I—don't you see how it is? You've both of you been two of the best friends I ever had, and I didn't like to see it—well, you know, don't you?”
She was looking into the fire as she spoke, and Hunch was watching her. She was very much in earnest.
“Don't you see?” she went on. “I couldn't help feeling kind of bad about it. Why can't you make it all right?” She waited for him to answer, and at last looked up at him with a half smile. “Why?” She asked again.
Hunch looked at her, almost fiercely, until she lowered her eyes to the stove.
He got up, and walked to the window and back.
“Did you think it was her?” he asked, in a strange voice.
“Why—yes.”
“Well, it wasn't. It was you.”
Mamie lost a shade of her color and leaned back in her chair. Hunch stood looking down at her and he said again, “It was you, Mamie.”
Mamie spoke without looking up.
“Oh, John,” she said, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Then Hunch sat down and talked wildly, eagerly. And Mamie leaned back without a word, and looked at the brass ball on top of the stove and at the patterns on the wallpaper. Hunch was talking when a key rattled in the lock, and he sat stiff and constrained when Mamie's father and mother came into the room. He tried to stay and talk, but could not; and a few minutes later he said “Good-night,” and went out into the hall. Mamie followed him, and without a word took down his ulster and helped him to get it on.
“Good-by,” he said.
“Good-by, John. Don't be mad, will you? You know how much I care for you; and we'll be good friends, won't we, John?”
He bent down and whispered close to her ear, “I'm in for it now, Mamie. I ain't going to lose you now. Next time I come down I ain't going back without you.”
Mamie smiled sadly, and shook her head. But she stood in the doorway watching him until he had passed into the darkness beyond the lamp-post on the corner.
CHAPTER XVIII—THE HOUSE WITH THE SHINGLED FRONT
THE Fates kept Hunch from getting to Liddington again during the autumn, so he took to writing letters. He could not write what he would have said; his letters were stilted little notes, usually beginning with a phrase he had picked up from the office correspondence, “Yours of recent date is just at hand,” or “Replying to yours of recent date,” etc. Mamie wrote as impersonally, and through the autumn and on into the winter their letters told of nothing but incidental doings and happenings; but both were conscious of the sentiment that lay behind the effort of writing.
On the first day of December, when navigation on the lakes was closed, Hunch left the Lucy Jackson in her berth at the lumber wharf. For some weeks he had been thinking over a plan which he was now ready to carry out. He got Mr. Jackson to take a walk with him at noon, and they went up the river and looked at a piece of land. Mr. Jackson thought it would do, and on the next day it belonged to Hunch. He paid cash for it.
Through the winter months he was busy building a house. The plans came from an old copy of an architect's journal. Mr. Jackson sold him the lumber at inside rates, and Hunch rafted it up himself during a few days of open water. Bill Anderson, a carpenter whom he had known on the Liddington elevator, was hired, and together they built the house. Later, Hunch had to hire a plumber and a plasterer, but even after these expenses something was left of his year's earnings.
When January had come, and Hunch had not gone down to Liddington, Mamie could not help letting him see that she missed him. Once she wrote that she “guessed he didn't remember old friends very well.” Hunch sat up half of one night reading the letter, but gave her no hint except that maybe he had a “little surprise” of his own.
The house fronted on the river. It was a story-and-a-half high, with four rooms and a hall on the ground floor and two small rooms upstairs. There was a grate in the front room, big enough for chunks of wood. The veranda extended the full width of the house. It would be a good place to sit evenings, when it was not too cold. The big white sand-hill that looked down on one side of the house may have been bleak enough, but Hunch had been brought up among sand-hills, and he liked it. It had a round bald top, and every morning during the summer the sun would strike it early and make it glisten. Hunch thought that maybe he would set out a few peach trees in the side yard some day.
It was on the twenty-seventh of February, a Saturday, that Hunch and Bill put the last brush of paint on the house. They sat down to rest on a saw-buck in the front yard, where they could admire the wide veranda and the shingled front.
“Who's going to live here, now she's done?” asked Bill.
“I am.” Hunch grinned.
“All alone?”
Hunch grew serious. The sense of achievement that had come with the building of the house had overbalanced his doubt about Mamie. He grew more serious, and paid no attention to Bill's questions.
They were cleaning up the brushes out in the woodshed, when Hunch suddenly pulled out his watch.
“Bill,” he said, “you fix things up. I've got to go.”
He caught a trolley car. At his room he hurriedly put on his good suit and white shirt. Then he ran for the station. At six-thirty he was in Liddington.
After supper at the hotel he walked up to Mamie's house. He had started out coolly, but suddenly, as he opened the gate, his strength seemed to leave him. He had reached the great moment of his life, and he vaguely knew it. He was so nervous that his hand was shaking when he knocked, and the things about him looked unnatural.
Mamie was nervous too; and though she talked easily enough for a while, and scolded Hunch because he had not been to see her all winter, she hardly knew what she was saying. Then came a time when neither had anything to say, and they sat for a long time without a word. Hunch's eyebrows were drawn together, almost fiercely.
“Say,” he finally got out, “will you do something for me?”
“Why—I'll do anything I can.”
“Well, I guess you can, all right. I want you to come up to Manistee with me to-morrow morning.”
“Why—” she stammered, “I can't say now—it isn't——?”
“No,” said Hunch, “you don't have to say nothing. I just want to show you something. We can be back before night.”
Mamie looked relieved.
“What is it?” she asked slowly.
“Nothing much—I ain't going to tell just yet. You'll come, won't you?”
“Why, I don't know———”
“Won't you?”
Mamie looked at him, hesitated, then laughed nervously, and nodded. She was a little frightened. Hunch grew almost boisterous in a sudden flow of good spirits, and he went away without a word which would make her understand.
They took the morning train. Mamie was herself again, and they appeared as quite a sober pair. Hunch, however, grew nervous as they came into Manistee. He hurried her into a trolley car, and sat stiff and silent while they skirted the flat shore of the lake and river. Finally, they got out and walked across the sand to a newly painted cottage next to a sand-hill.
Hunch looked at the house, and then at Mamie. She was puzzled,
“Well,” he said, “how do you like it?”
“What?” she said, though her eyes showed that she was beginning to understand.
“That there—the house. It's yours. I made it for you.” He was so excited that he was raising his voice.
“S—sh,” said Mamie, “somebody'll hear you.”
Then she looked for a long time at the house. Hunch watched her, but she would not meet his eyes. She walked slowly up the yard, balancing on the planks that were laid on the sand. She rested a foot on the first step, and slowly looked around. There were tears in her eyes.
Hunch gripped her hand tightly.
“Oh, John,” she faltered; but this time she did not say that she was sorry.