Toward dawn Peabody groped aft. “I dunno what to do about Duke, Hunch.”
“Hammer 'im.”
“That don't help much. See any signs of it's letting up?”
Badeau shook his head.
“Do you know where we are?”
“Must be pretty near the middle of the lake. I'm going to try to work back. Stand by to come about.”
For the twentieth time that night the Bean, under the jib and the ruins of a foresail, pointed northeast. At Hunch's command, Peabody climbed half-way up the shrouds and clung there. The dark began to fade, the snow-flurries ceased. “Ho there! Hunch!—Ho there!”
“Ho-o!”
“Bray-ay-kers! Duke—Tell Hunch!” Buckingham crawled aft. “Hunch! Bray-ay-kers!”
“Breakers be——!”
“Herm——” It was hard for Buckingham to hold his excitement, hard for him to hold to anything. “Herm, he says—-”
Badeau's eyes rested on the pitiable object before him, then peered into the dark ahead. A flash came into his drawn face. “Stand by to come about!” Buckingham gazed stupidly. Hunch plunged forward and gave him a kick that sent him stumbling forward. “Ready about!”-Peabody was sliding down a stay-“Ready about!—Hard a lee!”—The men up forward could not hear him, could hardly see him; but Buckingham was fumbling with the lee jib-sheet. She swung a little way, wavered, then, caught in the rush of the surf, missed stays and floundered broadside on a bar. And the waves came pounding in over the rail.
When the morning came they were lashed in the forerigging. The mainmast was gone, the after-cabin was razed off flush with the deck, and the seas flowed at will through the hold.
“Can you make out where we are, Hunch?”
“Off Clinton.”
“They'll see us here then?”
“The ——— they will. There ain't nobody lives there.”
“Not in Clinton?”
“Not a soul—. There's the Liddington piers, below.”
“But there ain't nobody on watch.”
“No—station's closed.”
“Hold on though—what's that?”
“Over the pier—little sails?”
“Yes.”
“That's the life-boat.”
“No.”
“Sure it is.”
“Well, I'll be———!” murmured Peabody fervently. “The fools—they'll never make it without a tug.”
“Couldn't never get a tug out there.”
“Here they come! Is it the surf-boat?”
“Not much. It's the big English boat. Surf-boat don't carry any sail.”
“They've cleared the piers! Must be a volunteer crew. What's the matter with 'em?”
“Too much sea—can't use the rudder. See there—rudder's up in the air.”
“Duke—Hi, wake up! They're coming, Duke!”
Buckingham groaned.
“See' em turning 'round—they can't manage her!”
Badeau shook his head. The life-boat, while they watched, was caught up on the foaming crest of a wave, whirled around and jammed against the end of the pier. She fell back with the wave, then, freed in some way from her short masts, she rolled completely over on her high round air-tanks, and righting, pitched about, buoyant as ever.
“See that? Did you see, Hunch? She went over!”
“Shut up, will you?”
“Look there—they're throwing ropes. My nephew—I've got a nephew on that crew, Hunch.”
“He'd better look out for his uncle, then.”
“See 'em bobbing around. Must be they've got cork jackets on.”
By some unseen agency the boat was got back between the piers, and the bobbing figures disappeared. The excitement passed; the beach, strewn with wreckage and driftwood, and backed by sand hills and stunted pines, looked bleaker than ever: the wind penetrated to their bones.
“What do you think o' that, Hunch? What do you think 'll become——”
“Oh, shut up!”
An hour—two hours—and nothing but the roar of the surf, the endless white beach, the low sky.
Then Badeau reached up and shook Peabody's leg. “Wake up there, Herm! Look down the beach.”
“Wha—what's that? I don't see anything.”
“What are your eyes for?”
“Oh—team o' horses, eh. What's the crowd doing?”
“Can't you see the beach cart?”
“No—is it? Coming right along, ain't they.”
The cart was hauled up at a spot opposite the Dean. Over the ice-cones Badeau and Peabody could see the crew bustling about, until suddenly the crowd fell back, and they caught the shine of a brass gun and saw a projectile leap into the air trailing a line behind it.
“Not by fifty yards! It'll take a bigger charge than that. There—they're getting out another.”
Another moment of preparation, and another projectile came spinning toward them, passing high over their heads and directly between the foremast and the stump of the mainmast.
“How're we going to get 'er, Hunch? The topmast stays are down; I couldn't ever get down to that deck. Couldn't trust my hands, you see—all right except for my hands.”
“You stay here, and keep still,” said Badeau. He drew out his knife and cut the rope that lashed him to the shrouds; then worked his way painfully down to the deck. Holding now to the rail, now to the loose end of a stay, he fought through the waves, picked up the line, mounted with it to the cross-trees, and unaided hauled the heavier line out through the surf, and made the tackle fast to the foremast. The men on shore fell to with a will and sent out the hawser; and in another moment it was fast and taut, and the breeches buoy was dancing out to the schooner.
“Easy now,” said Hunch, as they lowered Buckingham into the canvas breeches.
“Lash 'im in, Hunch; lash 'im in! I'd do it—but my hands——”
They watched him without a word as the buoy went shoreward. The line sagged so low under his weight that half a dozen waves passed over him.
“They'll drown 'im!” said Peabody. Badeau was silent.
Buckingham was lifted to the beach, and the empty buoy came back.
“You go next, Hunch.”
“Get in—don't stop to talk!”
“Well—you see how it is—I guess you're a little better off than I am. You stand it better.”
“For God's sake, get in!”
Peabody snivelled a little as he swung off and went swinging down the line, his legs dangling grotesquely. Hunch clung to the ratlines, looking after him with a wild gleam in his eyes. When the buoy came back for the last time he caught it with one hand, then hesitated. He glanced down at the schooner's hull. Why should he go ashore at all? What was the use now? He looked at the crowd. They were waving at him, probably they were shouting. Then he found himself getting in and sliding off toward the shore.
ALL the rest of the day Hunch paced up and down on the shore ice, watching the schooner until the foremast went over and the timber was strewn for a mile along the beach.
At dusk two of the crew men came up and made Hunch go home. He spent the evening stretched out on the bed, trying to think. Later he fell asleep, and in the morning, when he awoke, his clothes felt heavy and stiff. After breakfast he went up the beach. The Dean was battered out of shape. Two fragments of the foremast had been cast up on the ice, but the mainmast had disappeared. He stayed until he was sure that the schooner was a total loss, then he returned to his room.
A year earlier in Hunch's life such a catastrophe would have set him drinking; but now, while he thought of it for a moment, the idea of a bout in Herve's bar-room with the old crowd of loafers, who would know exactly why he had come, and would, before the night was over, probably know all about his state of mind, did not appeal to him. He could not bring himself to go to Bartlett's; he did not want Jess to see him when he was weak and unable to help himself. But on the second evening after the wreck, Jim Bartlett came up and found him lying on the bed with his clothes on.
“Good evening, Hunch,” he said. “Kind of hard luck; ain't it?”
“Sit down,” said Hunch.
“Thanks, can't stay but a minute. I just wanted to talk to you—you see I've been talking with Jess. She's all broke up about the schooner. 'Most as bad as you are. She thinks a lot of you, Hunch. She says you ain't been 'round.”
“No, I ain't yet.”
“She says she didn't know whether you was coming or not.”
“I dunno's there's much good in seeing her.”
“You mean things is different?”
“It don't make much difference what I mean.” Jim's face was not very sympathetic, and Hunch was not in a mood to open his heart.
“Well—I'll be square, Hunch—it's as much what I think as what she thinks—but she can't help thinking—well, you see how it is yourself, Hunch. You ain't in just the position you was in before. It's different—it can't help being different.”
“What's she want to do?”
“Now, don't take it mean, Hunch; but she don't see—and I must say I don't either—that things ought to be just as they was.”
“No, I don't s'pose so.”
“But you'll come around and see us anyhow, Hunch, won't you, and talk it over. Mebbe Jess won't feel this way.”
“No,” said Hunch, “that ain't no use.” Bartlett stood at the door. “I'm sorry you feel this way, Hunch, I—well, I guess there ain't much else to say.”
“No, I guess there ain't.”
Bartlett went out and closed the door. Hunch lay still for a long time, wondering over the turn of events. Now that it was settled, and in spite of the hurt a strong man feels when the control of his actions is taken away from him, he began to feel a slight sense of relief. Anyway, he had his strength left, and he was free to begin again.
BADEAU lost his schooner before Christmas. The day after New Year's he went to Manistee to see Mr. Jackson, whom he found sitting in his office.
“Well, Badeau,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I want a job.”
“What can you do?”
“Anything.”
“What's the matter? Up against it?”
“You know my schooner's gone.”
“Yes, I know.” And Mr. Jackson also knew that Hunch was a good man. “Tell you what I'll do, Badeau; I'll make a place for you. How are you on logs?”
“I was boss of Dempsey's gang up to Cadillac four years ago.”
“How much money do you want?”
“'Nough to keep me going. You'll find out what I'm worth fast enough.” Badeau went to work the next morning. He took a cheap room near the lumber-yard, and found before the week was out that he could live on two-thirds of his salary. At the beginning of the second week, Mr. Jackson put him in charge of the river gang, driving logs. Hunch took advantage of the mild weather to get all the logs in the river to the mill before the river should freeze up solid for the winter. He got along well with the men, excepting a fellow named McGuire, who was inclined to grumble at hard work. But one noon at the mill, when the men were matching their strength, Hunch lifted a six-hundred pound pile-driver weight and swung it easily clear of the ground. That quieted McGuire.
One day toward the close of his second week, Badeau found Bruce Considine hanging around, at closing time, outside the mill.
“Hello, Bruce,” he said. “What you doing up here?”
“Come up to see you, Hunch.”
“What's the matter?”
“The old man come down on me last week.”
“Fire you?”
“Yes. I'm sick of working for him anyhow. He'll never let a fellow alone.”
“What you going to do? You ain't likely to get another job like that.”
“I don't know. I thought mebbe you'd know of something up here, Hunch.”
“I just went on the job, myself.”
“I know it, but I can't starve, Hunch, I ain't had any money for a couple of days.”
“How about—your——”
“Marne? She's down at the house. I told her to go to the old man, but he's kind of ugly and she wont do it. Guess she'll get over being proud one of these days.”
“What's she living on?”
“I thought mebbe I could send her something, if I could get a job up here.”
“I dunno, Bruce. I'll ask the boss. Come around to-morrow noon.”
The following afternoon Bruce joined Hunch's gang as a day-laborer. His muscles were soft, and it was several days before he could do a man's work. One day the gang were carrying heavy timbers at the mill, and Hunch noticed that Bruce's partner on one of the double timber-hooks was muttering. He kept an eye on the pair, and saw that Bruce's hands sagged at every few steps. When the day's work was done he waited outside the mill for Bruce.
“Look here, Bruce,” he said, “I'm on to you.”
“What you talking about?”
“You know what I'm talking about. I seen you soldiering. I just want to tell you that it won't go.”
Bruce was silent for a moment. Then he said:
“Think you've got me down, don't you.”
“What I think ain't got nothing to do with it. I got you the job, but I can't keep you if you don't take a brace. The boss wouldn't stand for it. You got to earn your pay.”
“It's easy for you to talk. You're getting good money. I'm working hard enough for every cent I get.”
“None o' your talk now, Bruce. You can't bluff me. You just quit loafing and get down to business. You're going to do it, too, if I have to knock it into you. Understand?”
Bruce walked away in a surly mood, but for a few days Hunch saw a slight improvement in his work. Then there came a slump. Hunch said nothing until one noon he overheard Bruce and McGuire grumbling together. He called Bruce away.
“Look here, Bruce,” he said, “you know what I told you.”
“What you got to kick about?”
“None o' your lip. You just keep away from McGuire.”
“I don't see what you got to say about a friend of mine.”
“Friend of yours, eh? I s'pose you're bunking with him, too?”
“Well, whose business is it if——”
“You leave him tonight. Understand?”
Bruce sulked for the rest of the day and avoided Hunch. After supper Hunch went to McGuire's room in the square frame hotel by the tracks. No one was there, but Bruce's patent-leather valise lay in the corner. Hunch waited until they came in.
“Hello,” said Bruce, a little startled.
“Pack up your stuff and come along with me, Bruce.”
“Bruce is rooming with me,” said McGuire, looking at Hunch out of the corners of his eyes.
“No, he ain't,” said Hunch, “he's rooming with me. Step lively, Bruce. I been waiting half an hour.”
Bruce and McGuire looked at each other, and Hunch sat grimly on the bed. Then Bruce turned to the bureau and began nervously gathering his things and throwing them into the valise. McGuire helped him without a word. Then Bruce shook hands with McGuire, a little stiffly, and went away with Hunch.
Now, that he was directly under Hunch's eye, Bruce improved slightly. He fell into the habit of confiding in Hunch, and relying, as in the old days, upon his advice. But one day a letter came for Bruce, addressed in a hand which Hunch recognized. Bruce was quiet and serious for hours, and when Hunch asked him what was the matter, he tried to pass it over with a laugh. It was not until after supper, when they were up in the room together, that Bruce gave way. Hunch was shaving, and Bruce sat watching him for some time, before he said: “Hunch, I—got a letter from Marne.” Hunch could see him in the mirror leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees.
“She—she's coming down kind of hard on me. I ain't had a chance to earn anything yet. It's all I can do to take care of myself.”
“Ain't you sent her anything?”
“Why, how could I? You know what I'm getting, Hunch.”
“What's the matter?”
“She says they're sticking her for the house rent. I don't know what to do. I wish she'd go back to her old man.”
“How much are you stuck for?”
“I don't know. You read it. Mebbe you can tell me what to do. Seems if she ought to help a little, somehow.” Hunch leaned against the wall, under the bracket lamp, and read the letter. Then he laid it on the bureau and stood stropping his razor on the palm of his hand. Finally he turned to the mirror and went on shaving.
“What do you think, Hunch?” asked Bruce, after a long silence.
“I dunno.”
“Tell me something, Hunch. I got to do something.”
“Shut up a while. Lemme think.”
When he had finished shaving, Hunch said:
“To-day's Thursday, ain't it?”
“Guess so.”
“Look here, Bruce, you write her a letter. Tell her I'm coming down Sunday.”
“You, Hunch——?”
“Yes, I'm going down. Tell her, we'll see if we can't fix it up somehow.”
Bruce looked up at him.
“Seems to me you're kind of anxious to see my wife.”
Hunch turned on him.
“Look here, Bruce. Do you want to know why I'm going?”
Bruce nodded slowly.
“It's 'cause if I gave you any money to go down there you'd blow it in and make a fool of yourself. You ain't fit to have a wife, that's why. You owe me money now that I give you for your wife and you soaked it in on jags. Don't you talk to me. Understand?” Bruce stood by the window, looking out into the dark. Hunch was bending over the washbowl and splashing water on the floor. He groped for the towel. Bruce said: “What you got mad about all of a sudden?”
Hunch's face was buried in the towel. Bruce watched him.
“What you going to say to her, Hunch?”
“I dunno.”
“Say, you ain't going to say nothing about me, are you?”
Hunch glanced at him contemptuously, and began to hone his razor. Bruce stood around for a while, then moved slowly toward the door.
“Where're you going?”
“I dunno. Thought I might go up town. Guess there ain't much of anything going on.”
“You come back.”
Bruce laughed nervously.
“Ain't mad, are you, Hunch?”
“No, I ain't mad. Better write that letter, I guess.”
“That's so. I was going to do that, wasn't I. I kind of forgot it.” He sat at the table and took up the pen clumsily. “I don't know just what to say, Hunch.”
“That's your business.”
“Don't be mean, Hunch.”
“You shut up and write that letter. I don't care what you say.”
When he had written it, and before sealing the envelope, Bruce hesitated and looked around at Hunch. But Hunch had turned his back and was honing without a word, so Bruce sealed it.
“It's wrote, Hunch. I told her——”
“Give it to me. I'll mail it in a minute. You be here now when I get back.”
HUNCH went down to Liddington Sunday morning on the combination freight and passenger train. Bruce had come to the station with him, and stood looking after the train for a long time after it had pulled away. Hunch saw him through the rear window.
It was a crisp January morning. The snow had come and the train rattled through a flat, white country, cut into strips as far as one could see by the straight up and down lines of the black pine stumps. At Liddington Hunch went up to the white brick hotel on the main street and ate his dinner alone. He walked up and down for an hour after dinner, trying to think clearly about Mamie and Bruce. Now, that he was on the ground, he was not sure why he had come. But it drew near three o'clock, and he walked out to Bruce's cottage.
At first there was no answer to his knock. The curtains were down, and the snow had not been cleared away from the steps. He knocked again and rattled the knob. He heard some one moving. A little later an inside door opened, and then, after some fumbling with the lock, Mamie opened the door. She was pale and thin. A shawl was drawn over her head and shoulders.
“Oh!” she said, then smiled. “How do you do, Mister Badeau?”
Hunch stepped in and closed the door.
“What's the matter?” he said. “You ain't sick?”
“No, just a little under the weather. Come in and sit down.”
The front room was cold.
“Ain't you got no fire?” Hunch asked.
“Yes, I made a little fire in the kitchen this morning. I can sit out there, you know. I don't need any in here. Guess we'd better go out there anyhow, where it's warmer.”
“You go ahead,” said Hunch; then, “Where's your wood? I'll make a fire here.”
“Oh, no, you mustn't?”
“Now you just leave me be, Mis' Considine. You set down in the kitchen and lemme fix you up. Where's the wood?”
“It's out here in the box,” said Mamie, opening the kitchen door.
Hunch saw why she was sparing of wood. There were only a few armfuls. But he built a roaring fire in the front room, and then took the ax out into the back yard and split up a heap of boards and timber waste that lay under the snow. Mamie watched him through the window. After a few strokes he grew warm from the exercise, and taking off his coat he handed it through the door to Mamie, and said, “Warm weather, ain't it?” Mamie was smiling when she reappeared at the window. Hunch filled the wood box and laid a large pile on the floor at each end. Then he put on his coat.
“Well,” he said, “that's more like. Pull up a chair, Mis' Considine.”
“You must be hungry, Mr. Badeau, after all that work. I'm going to make you some coffee, anyway.”
“Now, don't you do nothing of the sort. That ain't work? That's just fun.” Unconsciously he expanded his chest as he spoke. In spite of his bent shoulders, it was a deep, rounded chest, different from Bruce's. Mamie did not know that there was admiration in her eyes as she watched him.
“Now, you've got to let me, Mr. Badeau. I don't have company very often. You just sit still and let me work awhile. I'm not doing my share.” So Hunch sat by the stove and watched her as she stepped about the kitchen. Her manner had brightened, and there was a flush on her cheeks. She took pains to keep the pantry door closed, but once Hunch caught a glimpse inside and saw that the shelves were nearly bare. While drinking the coffee they both felt a slight restraint. Occasionally when their eyes met, Mamie would lower hers and laugh nervously. They talked of old times, and Hunch recalled, somewhat awkwardly, the day he had first met her on the beach by the life-saving station.
Then there was a long pause, and Hunch said, “Look here, Mis' Considine, there ain't no use trying to make me think things that ain't so is so. I'm going down town and bring up something to eat.”
Mamie flushed.
“Now, don't say nothing. You just leave me be and we'll fix things up in great shape.”
Mamie tried to protest, but Hunch put on his ulster and started up the street, saying over his shoulder as he went down the steps, “I'll be back in no time.”
He found Joe Cartier, who kept the grocery and meat market across from the hotel, at his house, and made him open his store and put up a large bundle of provisions. When he returned, Mamie was at the front window. She hurried to open the door.
“Come on and we'll have a blowout,” said Hunch, as he cut the string and spread the packages over the kitchen table. “There's a good many of the things that don't have to be cooked at all. I got some preserve—thought you might like it. Do you? It's peach.”
Mamie's eyes were hesitating between laughter and tears, but she nodded quickly and the laugh triumphed. Then they both set to work. Hunch laid the table-cloth, and puttered about clumsily, while Mamie prepared the meal. Mamie laughed, at his awkwardness, and after a time grew so cheerful that she joked him and made him blush through the bronze on his face. And they sat facing each other across the table, with all the lively chatter of two foolish young people. Afterward she washed the dishes and he wiped them.
But when it was finished and they sat before the stove in the front room, the sense of restraint returned. For a long time neither spoke. They looked at the two cracked mica windows in the stove door, which glowed redly when the flames leaped up behind them. It was Mamie who finally broke the silence.
“Is—Bruce well?”
“He's—he's pretty well. He didn't feel quite able to come down to-day. You know we're bunking together. You see, I know about—now, you mustn't think I'm poking my nose into none of my business. I and Bruce was together a good while, and we come to know a good deal about each other, o' course.”
Mamie was looking at the stove windows. The wood in the stove had fallen, sending up sparks and shoots of flame that danced grotesquely on the mica.
“You see, if there's anything I can do, 't aint 's if I was doing a favor. It's just that mebbe I was lucky in getting a place that pays a little more'n Bruce's. And you see he'd do just the same by me if it come that I was kind of on my uppers.”
Mamie was still silent.
“Now, you just be sensible-'cause it's all sort of in the family, you know—and tell me how it is about the rent, and mebbe we can kind of patch things up, because three heads is better 'n two. Understand?”
Mamie leaned back in her chair and rested her face in her hands. When Hunch looked at her he saw that she was crying, and he waited till she should speak. Finally she said, “I don't know just what we're going to do. It—it's only that there's some one else wants the house and we—of course——”
“Yes, of course,” said Hunch.
“I thought, maybe I ought to take a room somewhere.”
“That's so. Something smaller. I dunno but what's like as not you'd feel better anyhow. This is a pretty big house for a little bit of a thing like you. Mebbe 's long as Bruce is working up to Manistee you could get a room and sort of keep house for yourself. Be kind of snug, don't you think so?”
“Tell you what,” he said, after they had sat for several minutes without talking, “I'll see what we can do.” He rose and put on his coat. Mamie watched him, but seemed unable to reply, and let him go out without a word.
He returned an hour later. Mamie was still sitting by the stove.
“It's all fixed up,” he said, shaking the snow from his coat. “You're going over to Cartier's. They've got a big room for you, and he's going to see that you get moved all right. You can take your meals right in the house. And 'twon't cost you hardly anything. Now, you just drop them blues and we'll see if we can't get you fatter 'n you ever was. You're a-going to have a good time yet this winter. And Bruce 'll come down Sundays. I've got to get the train. Guess I might's well start along.” She got up slowly and followed him to the door. Neither knew what to say. Hunch buttoned his ulster and drew on one of his big fur mittens. He looked at his hand, big and freckled, with hard, knotted fingers and broken nails. He held it out hurriedly and said, “Well—good-by.”
She took his hand shyly. Suddenly she bent down and kissed it, and a tear dropped on it. Hunch pulled his hand away.
“Oh, don't do that——”
She looked up into his face. She did not seem to care now if he saw her crying.
Hunch forgot that he had shaken hands and he took hers again, this time with his mitten on. Then he opened the door and hurried out. She stood at the window looking after him as he walked down the street, but he did not turn around.
BRUCE came down to the station in the evening, and was standing on the platform when Hunch stepped off the train. They walked up together and were half-way to the room, before Bruce said, “Say, Hunch, how about it?”
“It's bad. She didn't have enough to eat or keep her warm. She's going to live at Joe Cartier's place and take her meals there. It's a good deal cheaper'n the other. I told her you was coming down Sundays.”
“What'd you say to her, Hunch? What'd she say? Anything special? Tell me about it.”
“Guess there ain't nothing to tell.”
“Seems to me it's kind of funny if a man can't find out nothing about his own wife. You was down there and you see her all day. I don't see why I ain't got a right to know about it.”
“Oh, shut up. You ain't got a right to nothing from the way you've treated her.”
“Look here, Hunch Badeau, you've got to tell me.”
“How long you been saying what I got to do and what I ain't got to do?”
“That's all right, but——”
“Yes, it's dead right.”
Bruce stopped and took Hunch's arm. “Take your hand off me.”
Bruce's hand dropped.
“Now, don't get ugly, Hunch. I just wanted to know about her. I ain't seen her for a good while.”
“Well, do you think that's my fault? I'll tell you about her. She's fixed up where she's got enough to eat and drink, she's got people to talk to and chirp her up, and she's waiting for you to come down next Sunday. If you're man enough to keep straight and go down there and do the square thing, you won't find me in your way. If you ain't, you can go to hell for all I care.”
Bruce was silent, and they climbed to the room and went to bed.
A day or two later Mr. Jackson sent for Hunch.
“Badeau,” he said, “how about this man Considine?”
“How do you mean?”
“What kind of work is he doing?”
“All right as far's I can see.”
“He's a friend of yours, ain't he?”
“Yes, he used to work for me when I had the schooner.”
“I'll tell you, Badeau, I've had some complaints about him. You know I don't want any man that can't do the work.”
“I think he's doing pretty good, sir.”
“Well, I'll count on you to keep an eye on him. If you catch him loafing, don't waste any time on him.”
Hunch went over the conversation in the evening with Bruce. It frightened Bruce, and he made promises which he kept for the rest of the week.
They did not talk about Mamie until Saturday night, after they had been sitting by the stove for a long time in silence. Bruce was nervous.
“Say, Hunch,” he said, “would you go down if you was me?”
“Where?”
“You know—down to Marne's to-morrow.”
“Would I go? What you talking about?”
“I don't know. What do you s'pose she'll say?”
“I guess you know what she ought to say, all right.”
“Do you think she'll be mad?”
“Oh, you shut up!”
Bruce went to bed early, but Hunch heard him tossing until late. In the morning he was moody.
“Hunch,” he said, after breakfast, “what time does the train go down?”
“'Bout half an hour.”
“Say, I s'pose I might as well take it as the noon train.”
“That's your business-'tain't mine.”
“Well, I guess I will. Say, Hunch, I'll tell you—s'pose you come along.”
“Guess not.”
“I don't mean nothing, Hunch, but you've been talking to her, and you know how to kind of quiet her. I never could, somehow.”
“Look here, Bruce, I ain't going today or any day. I ain't going at all. Understand? You needn't tell her I said that, though.”
“Guess I'd better be starting, eh, Hunch?”
“Guess you had.”
“Come on down to the depot. You ain't got nothing to do.”
At the station, Hunch said: “Got any money?”
“No, I ain't got much.”
“Here's a little. No drinking, now.”
“On my honor, Hunch, I won't drink a drop. Do you think a man would drink when he's going down to see his own wife, Hunch? Do you think——”
“You better get aboard.”
“Good-by, Hunch, I'll get back tonight.”
In the evening Hunch met the Liddington train. Bruce did not get off.
Hunch looked for him Monday morning, but had no word of him. At noon he was called to Mr. Jackson's office.
“Badeau,” said his employer, “when that Considine gets back to work, you send him to me for his time.”
Hunch hesitated. “I'll tell you, Mr. Jackson, he went down yesterday to see his wife. Their kid died a little while ago, and like's not she's sick.”
“Think so?”
“My work is pretty light to-day. I thought mebbe I could get off for the afternoon train and sort of look him up. I can get back to-night, you know. You see, if he gets laid off it'll come kind of hard on his wife.”
“All right, go ahead. But, say, Badeau, hold on a minute. We're not running a charity hospital, you know. We can't give that man much rope.” Hunch said, “Yes, sir,” and went out.
He reached Liddington at supper time and picked up a hasty meal at the hotel. Then he hurried over to Joe Cartier's house. Cartier let him in.
“Hello, Joe,” said Hunch. “Bruce here?”
Cartier hesitated.
“Yes, I guess he's upstairs.”
“I want to see him.”
“Well; say, Hunch, come in the parlor a minute. I want to talk to you.”
“What's the matter?”
“Well, you know Bruce came down yesterday morning, and 'long about noon I guess they quarrelled a little. Me and my wife, we didn't listen, but we couldn't help hearing Bruce talk. And then Bruce went out——”
“Oh,” said Hunch, “drunk?”
“Not so bad as I've seen him, but he come in kind of ugly, and he's got some up there—brought it back with him. Seems kind of too bad. I didn't feel quite 's if I could do anything. You see 't ain't really none of my business.”
Hunch went upstairs and knocked at the door. There was a stir inside, and he could hear Bruce grumbling and Mamie whispering. Then Mamie opened the door a few inches. When she looked at Hunch, the color left her face and she leaned against the door.
“It's all right,” said Hunch, “I come for him.”
“Oh,” faltered Mamie.
“Who's there?” called Bruce. “Who you whispering to?”
Mamie hesitated and looked at Hunch. He gently brushed her aside, saying, “Lemme come in.”
“Who is it?” said Bruce. He was lying on the bed, his clothing mussed, his face red. Hunch stood by the bed and looked down at him.
“What you doing here?” growled Bruce. “What right you got coming in a man's house?”
Hunch looked at his watch.
“Come on,” he said, “we've got to get back on this train.”
“Who's goin' back. I ain't goin' back. Go on out o' here, will you?”
Hunch took his arm and pulled him up. Bruce sat oh the edge of the bed.
“Come on, Bruce, get moving.”
“Go 'way.”
Hunch turned to Mamie.
“Where's his hat, Mis' Considine?” Bruce stood up.
“What's that? What you saying to my wife? Tha's my wife, Hunch Badeau. She's a lady. You can't talk to my wife.”
Mamie stood at the foot of the bed watching the two men nervously,
“Bruce,” said Hunch, “shut up and come along.”
“Don't you think you'd better go, dear?” said Mamie, timidly.
“Wha's that? You want to get rid of me too, eh? Oh, I'm on to you two. You can't fool me; you can't. You're pretty smart, Hunch Badeau, sneaking down to see my wife——”
Hunch gripped Bruce's arm and jerked him out of the room. They were at the top of the stairs when Mamie came to the door.
“Here's his hat,” she said. “You'd better take it, I guess.”
“Thanks,” said Hunch, without looking at her, and he hurried Bruce down the stairs.