The Major

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Major


"What's the use of your packin' a hull bunch of stuff West an' my
packin' a hull bunch of stuff East. We'll just tote up the stock an'
stuff we have got and make a deal on it. I know all my stuff an' yours
is here. We'll make a trade."

To this Mr. Gwynne gladly agreed. The arrangement would save trouble
and useless expenditure. Hence the car was packed with such goods as Mr.
Sleighter considered especially useful in the new home, and with such
household furniture as the new home lacked and such articles as were
precious from family or personal associations.

"What about the pictures and curtains?" inquired Mr. Gwynne. "We don't
need them."

"Take 'em all," said Mr. Sleighter. "Pictures are like folks. They got
faces an' looks. And curtains--my missis got hers all packed. Curtains
are like clothes--they only fit them that owns them."

"And the piano?"

"Sure thing. Say, a piano in that country is like the village pump--the
hull country gets about it. Take things to eat an' things to wear an'
things to make the shack look pretty an' interestin' and comfortable.
They don't take much room and they take the bareness off. That's what
kills the women folk in the West, the bareness inside and outside.
Nothin' but chairs, table an' stove inside; nothin' but grass an' sand
outside. That's what makes 'em go crazy."

So the car was filled with things to eat and to wear, and things "to
take the bareness off." Somewhere in the car was found a place for
Rosie, the cow, a remarkable milker and "worth her weight in butter," as
Mr. Sleighter said, and for Rover, Larry's collie dog, who stood to him
as comrade almost as a brother. A place in the car too was found for
Joe Gagneau who from the first moment of the announced departure had
expressed his determination to accompany Larry no matter at what cost or
against whose opposition.

"A'm goin' be in dat car' me, by gar!" was his ultimatum, and the
various authorities interested recognised the inevitable and accepted
it, to the great delight of both boys. Joe had a mouth organ and so had
Larry, and they were both in the same key. Joe too had an old fiddle of
his father's on which he could scrape with joy to himself, and with more
or less agony to others, the dance tunes of local celebrity, the "Red
River Jig," picked up from his father, "Money Musk" and "The Deil Amang
the Tailors," the two latter from Dan Monroe at the country dances.

In due time the car, packed with the Gwynne household goods and
treasures and in charge of the two superlatively happy boys, with Rosie
and Rover to aid in providing them with sustenance and protection, set
forth, Westward Ho! Mr. Gwynne rode in the caboose of the train to
which his car was attached. Mrs. Gwynne and the girls were to follow
by passenger train and would doubtless be found awaiting them on their
arrival at Winnipeg.

The journey westward was to the boys full of interest and adventure.
At Toronto they picked up a stowaway, who, taking advantage of their
absence, boarded the car and made himself a bed behind some bales of
hay. Upon discovery by Rover, he made so piteous an appeal for refuge
from some pursuing terror which he declined to specify, that the boys
agreed to conceal him a night and a day till they were well on their
way along the north shore of Lake Superior. When Larry's conscience made
further concealment a burden greater than could be borne, Mr. Gwynne
was taken into the boys' confidence and, after protest, agreed to make
arrangement with the railroad authorities whereby Sam--for that was the
stowaway's name--might retain his place in the car.

He was a poor, wretched creature, reminding Larry of the scarecrow which
he had put up in their garden the summer before. He was thin beyond
anything the boys had ever seen. His face was worn and old and came to
a peak at the nose, which gave him the appearance of a monster rat, a
resemblance emphasised by the little blinking, red-rimmed eyes. His hair
was closely cropped and of brilliant carrotty colour.

But he had seen life in a great city and had gathered a store of
worldly wisdom, not all of which was for his good, and a repertoire
of accomplishments that won him admiration and wonder from the simple
country boys. He had all the new ragtime songs and dances, which he
rendered to his own accompaniment on an old battered banjo. He was a
contortionist of quite unusual cleverness, while his fund of stories
never ran dry throughout the seven days' journey to Winnipeg. He set
himself with the greatest assiduity to impart his accomplishments to the
boys, and by the time the party had reached the end of the first stage
in their westward journey, Sam had the satisfaction of observing that
his pupils had made very satisfactory progress, both with the clog
dancing and with the ragtime songs. Besides this, he had made for
himself an assured place in their affection, and even Mr. Gwynne had
come to feel such an interest in the bit of human driftwood flung up
against him, that he decided to offer the waif a chance to try his
fortune in the West.



CHAPTER VI

JANE BROWN


Mr. Brown was a busy man, but he never failed to be in his place at
the foot of the table every day punctually at half past twelve, solely
because at that hour his little daughter, Jane, would show her grave and
earnest and dark brown, almost swarthy, face at the head. Eight years
ago another face used to appear there, also grave, earnest, but very
fair and very lovely to look upon, to the doctor the fairest of all
faces on the earth. The little, plain, swarthy-faced child the next day
after that lovely face had been forever shut away from the doctor's eyes
was placed in her high chair at the head of the table, at first only at
the lunch hour, but later at all meal times before the doctor to look
at. And it was an ever-recurring joy to the lonely man to discover in
the little grave face before him fleeting glimpses of the other face
so tenderly loved and so long vanished. These glimpses were to be
discovered now in the deep blue eyes, deep in colour and in setting, now
in the smile that lit up the dark, irregular features like the sudden
break of sunlight upon the rough landscape, transforming it into
loveliness, now in the knitting of the heavy eyebrows, and in the firm
pressing of the lips in moments of puzzled thought. In all the moods and
tenses of the little maid the doctor looked for and found reminiscences
of her mother.

Through those eight lonely years the little girl had divided with his
profession the doctor's days. Every morning after breakfast he stood to
watch the trim, sturdy, round little figure dance down the steps, step
primly down the walk, turn at the gate to throw a kiss, and then march
away along the street to the corner where another kiss would greet him
before the final vanishing. Every day they met at noon to exchange on
equal terms the experiences of the morning. Every night they closed the
day with dinner and family prayers, the little girl gravely taking her
part in the reading during the last year from her mother's Bible. And so
it came that with the years their friendship grew in depth, in frankness
and in tenderness. The doctor was widely read beyond the literature of
his profession, and every day for a half hour it was his custom to
share with the little girl the treasures of his library. The little maid
repaid him with a passionate love and a quaint mothering care tender and
infinitely comforting to the lonely man.

The forenoon had been hot and trying, and Dr. Brown, having been
detained in his office beyond his regular hour, had been more than
usually hurried in his round of morning calls, and hence was more than
ordinarily tired with his morning's work. At his door the little girl
met him.

"Come in, Papa, I know you're hot," she said, love and reproach in her
face, "because I was hot myself, and you will need a nice, cool drink.
I had one and yours is in here." She led him into the study, hovering
about him with little touches and pushes. "You ought not to have taken
so long a round this morning," she said with gentle severity. "I know
you went out to St. James to see Mrs. Kale, and you know quite well she
doesn't need you. It would do in the afternoon. And it was awful hot in
school."

"Awful?" said the doctor.

"Well, very exceedingly then--and the kids were very tired and Miss
Mutton was as cross as anything."

"It was no wonder. How many kids were there for her to watch?"

"Oh, Papa, you said 'kids!'"

"I was just quoting my young daughter."

"And she said we were to get out this afternoon an hour earlier,"
continued Jane, ignoring his criticism, "and so I am going to take my
bicycle and go with Nora and the girls down to the freight sheds."

"The freight sheds?"

"Yes, Larry and Joe have come in, and Rover and Rosie--she's the cow,
and they milked her every day twice and drank the milk and they used to
have their meals together in the car."

"Rosie, too? Very interesting indeed."

"Now, Papa, you must not laugh at me. It is very interesting. They all
came for days and days together in the car from somewhere down East,
Ontario, I think. And Mr. Gwynne says they are just like a circus. And
they play instiments and dance."

"What, Rosie too? How clever of her!"

The child's laugh rang out joyously. "Oh, Papa, that's awfully funny.
And we're going down on our wheels. Nora can ride now, you know, and
she's going to take Ethel May's wheel. It's awfully hard to ride, but
Nora's as strong as Kathleen."

"Well, well," said her father, greatly interested in this exciting but
somewhat confused tale. "Just wait until I wash my hands and then you
shall tell me what it all means. Thank you for this deliciously cool
lemonade. It is very refreshing. You will tell me all about it at
lunch."

The lunch hour was devoted first of all to disentangling from the mass
the individual members of the car party, which after an adventurous
journey across half a continent had apparently made camp at the Winnipeg
freight sheds. Then followed the elucidation of the details of the plan
by which this camp was to be attacked and raided during the afternoon.

"Now that I have a fairly clear conception of whom Larry, Joe, Sam,
Rosie and Rover are--I think I have them right--"

"Exactly, Papa."

"I wish to find out just who are to form the advance party, the scouting
party."

"The scouting party? I don't know what you mean. But Nora--you know
Nora?"

"Certainly, the little black-eyed Irish Terrier--terror, I mean."

"Oh, Papa, she's just lovely and she's my friend."

"Is she, dear, then I apologise, but indeed I meant nothing derogatory
to her. I greatly like her, she is so spunky."

"Yes, there's Nora, and Kathleen, Nora's sister."

"Oh, Kathleen, the tall beautiful girl with the wonderful hair?"

The little girl sighed. "Oh, such lovely long yellow hair." The little
maid's hair was none of these. "And she is not a bit proud--just nice,
you know--just as if she were not so lovely, but like--only like me."

"Like you, indeed!" exclaimed the doctor indignantly. "Like my little
girl? I don't see any one quite like my little girl. There is not one of
them with all their yellow hair and things that is to be compared with
my own little girl."

"Oh, Papa. I know you think so, and I wish it was so. And I am awfully
glad you think so, but of course you are prejuist, you know."

"Prejudiced? Not a bit, not a bit."

"Well, that's Kathleen and Nora, and--and perhaps Hazel--you know Hazel,
Papa, Hazel Sleighter?"

"The western girl--not at all wild and woolly though. A very modern and
very advanced young lady, isn't she?"

"Oh, I don't know what you mean, Papa. She says she may go down, but
I don't think she likes going with a lot of kids. You know she has her
hair up. She has to have it up in the store. She says the man would not
have her behind the counter if she had not her hair up."

"Oh, that's it. I thought perhaps the maturity of her age made it
necessary."

"I don't know what maturevy means, but she is awfully old. She is going
on sixteen."

"Dear me, as old as that?" inquired her father.

"Yes, but she said she wanted to see that circus car. That's what she
calls Mr. Gwynne's car. And she says she wants to see the elephunts
perform. There are not any elephunts. There's only Rosie and Rover. But
she may get off. She can get off if she can fool her boss, she says. So
we're all going down and we may bring Larry home with us, Mrs. Sleighter
says. Though Mrs. Gwynne says there's not any room, they're so filled up
now. And I said Larry could come here and Joe, too. But I am not so
sure about Sam. I think he must be awfully queer. Mr. Gwynne thinks he's
queer."

"It is quite possible, indeed probable, my dear," assented her father.

"Yes, Mr. Gwynne said he looked like a third-rate how-do-you-feel
performer."

"A what, exactly?"

"A how-do-you-feel performer."

"Oh, a vaudeville performer."

"Yes, a fodefeel performer. I don't know what that means, but he must be
queer. But I think Larry would be all right, and Joe. You see, we know
THEM."

"Oh, do we?"

"Yes, certainly, Papa. Larry is Nora's brother. He's awfully clever.
He's only fifteen and he passed the Entrance in Ontario and that's ever
so much harder than here. He passed it before he was fourteen."

"Before he was fourteen!" replied her father. "Amazing!"

"Yes, and he plays the mouth organ and the tin whistle and the fiddle,
and Mr. Gwynne says he has learned some stunts from Sam. I think he must
be awfully nice. So I said he could come here. And Mrs. Gwynne thanked
me so nicely, and she's just lovely, Papa."

"I have not seen her," said her father, "but I have heard her voice, and
I quite agree with you. The voice always tells. Have you noticed that?
The voice gives the keynote of the soul."

"I don't know, Papa. There's Mrs. Sleighter's voice. I don't like it
very much, but I think she's nice inside."

"Ah, you are right, my dear. Perhaps I should have said that a certain
kind of voice always goes with a beautiful soul."

"I know," replied his daughter. "That's like Mrs. Gwynne's voice. And so
we'll go down to the car and bring Larry home with us, and perhaps his
mother will let him come here. She did not say she would and you can't
tell. She's quiet, you know, but somehow she isn't like Mrs. Sleighter.
I don't think you could coax her to do what she didn't want."

"And Mrs. Sleighter--can you coax Mrs. Sleighter?"

"Oh, yes, the girls just coax her and coax her, and though she doesn't
want to a bit, she just gives in."

"That's nice of her. That must be very nice for the girls, eh?"

"Oh, I don't know, Papa."

"What? don't you think it is nice to be able to coax people to do what
you want?"

"It is nice to get what you want, but I think REALLY, REALLY, you'd
rather you could not coax them to do it just because you coax them."

"Ah, I see."

"Yes; you see, you're never really quite sure after you get it whether
you ought to get it after all."

"I see," said her father; "that rather spoils it."

"Yes, but you never do that, Papa."

"Oh, you can't coax me, eh? I am glad to know that. I was afraid,
rather."

"Well, of course, I can coax you, Papa, but you usually find some other
way, and then I know it is quite right."

"I wish I was quite as sure of that, Jane. But you are going to bring
Larry home with you?"

"Yes, if Mrs. Gwynne will let him come. I told her we had four rooms and
we were only using two, and they are all crowded up in Mrs. Sleighter's,
two girls in each room, and Tom's room is so tiny, and I don't think
Larry would like to go in Tom's room. And we have two empty rooms, so we
might just as well."

"Yes, certainly, we might just as well. You might perhaps mention it to
Anna."

"Oh, I did, Papa, and she said she would have it all ready."

"So it is all arranged. I was thinking--but never mind."

"I know you were thinking, that I ought to have asked you, Papa; and I
ought to have. But I knew that when a little boy had no home to go to
you would of course--"

"Of course," replied her father hurriedly. "You were quite right, Jane.
And with those two rooms, why not bring them all, Joe and Pete--Pete, is
it?"

"Sam, Papa. I am not so sure. I think we should leave Joe and Sam. You
see Joe won't mind staying in the car. Nora says he lives in just a
shack at home, and Sam--I am a little afraid of Sam. We don't know him
very well, you see."

"I see. We are quite safe in your hands, little woman. You can do just
as you and Mrs. Gwynne arrange."

As the father watched the little, trim, sturdy figure stepping down the
street he muttered to himself, "That child grows more like her mother
every day." He heaved a great sigh from the depths of his heart. "Well,
God keep her, wise little woman that she is! I wish I were a wiser man.
I must be firm with her; it would be a shame to spoil her. Yes, I must
be firm." But he shrugged his shoulders and smiled at himself. "The
worst of it is, or the best of it is," he continued, "the little witch
is almost always right, God bless her, just like her mother, just like
her mother." He hastily wiped his eyes, and went off to his office where
Mrs. Dean awaited him and her little girl with the burned hand. And the
mother wondered at the gentleness of him as he dressed the little girl's
wounded hand.

It followed that the scouting party included not only Miss Hazel
Sleighter, but also her big brother Tom, who, being temporarily in the
high school, more perhaps because of his size and the maturity of his
bearing than by virtue of his educational qualifications, was at the
present moment most chiefly concerned in getting into form his baseball
team for the match the following Saturday in which the High School was
to meet All Comers under eighteen. The freight shed being on his way to
the practice ground, Tom deigned to join the party and to take in the
circus car as he passed. The car dwellers were discovered on the open
prairie not far from the freight shed, keeping guard over Rosie, who was
stretching her legs after her railway journey. The boys were tossing a
baseball to each other as Tom pedalled up on his wheel.

"Hello, there, here you are," he shouted to Sam, holding up his hands
for a catch.

The ball came with such impact that Tom was distinctly jarred, and
dropped the ball. With all his force he threw the ball back to Sam,
who caught it with the ease of a professional and returned it with such
vigour that again Tom dropped it.

"Let's have a knock-up," he said, hitting a long fly.

Sam flew after the ball with amazing swiftness, his scarecrow garments
fluttering and flapping in the air, and caught it with an upward leap
that landed him on his back breathless but triumphant.

"Say, you're a crackerjack," said Tom; "here's another."

Meanwhile Larry was in the hands of his sisters, who had delightedly
kissed him to his shamefaced chagrin, and introduced him to their
new-found friends.

"So this is Larry." said Miss Hazel Sleighter, greeting him with a
dazzling smile. "We have heard a lot about you. I think you must be
quite wonderful. Come here, Tom, and meet your friends."

Poor Larry! In the presence of this radiant creature and of her
well-dressed brother, he felt terribly conscious of the shabbiness of
the second best suit which his mother had thought good enough for
the journey in the car. Tom glanced at the slight, poorly dressed,
pale-faced lad who stood before him with an embarrassed, almost a
beseeching look in his eyes.

"Can you play ball?" asked Tom.

"Not much," replied Larry; "not like Sam. Come here, Sam," he called,
remembering that he had not introduced his friend. Sam shuffled over
with an air of complete nonchalance.

"This is Sam," said Larry. "Sam--I have forgotten your name."

"Nolan," said Sam shortly.

"Miss Hazel Sleighter," said Larry.

"How do you do, Miss Hazel," said Sam, sweeping her an elaborate bow,
and then gazing boldly into her eyes. "I hope you're well. If you're as
smart as you look, I guess you're way up in G."

"I am quite well, thank you," returned Miss Hazel, the angle of her chin
indicating her most haughty air.

"Say, young lady, pass up the chilly stuff," replied Sam with a laugh.
"It don't go with that mighty fine complexion of yours. Say, did you
ever see the leading lady in 'The Spider's Web'? Well, you make me think
of her, and she was a peacherino. Never seen her? No? Well, you ought to
see her some day and think of me."

Hazel turned a disgusted shoulder on Sam's impudent face and engaged
Larry in vivacious conversation.

"Well, I am off to the ball practice," said Tom. "Got a match on
Saturday--High School against the world. Guess they would like to have
you, Sam, only I wouldn't care to have you play against us. You don't
play baseball, eh?" continued Tom, addressing Larry. "What do you
play--football?"

"Not much; never tried much," said Larry, flushing over his lack of
sporting qualifications.

"He plays the fiddle," said a quiet little voice.

Larry, flushing violently, turned around and saw a little, brown-faced
maid gazing thoughtfully at him.

"Oh, he does, eh? Ha, ha, ha. Good game, eh? Ha, ha, ha." They all
joined in the laugh.

"And he plays the mouth organ, too, and does funny stunts," sturdily
continued the little girl, disdaining Tom's scornful laughter.

"Good for you, Jane."

"Yes, and he passed his entrance to the High School a year ago when
he was fourteen, in Ontario, anyway." This appeared to check Tom's
hilarity.

"My, what a wonder he is! And did he tell you all this himself?"

"No, indeed," said Jane indignantly.

"Oh, I am glad to hear that," said Tom with a grin. "Won't you come
along, Sam? It's only a little way down."

"All right," said Sam cheerfully. "So long, folks. See you later, Larry.
Au reservoir, young lady, as the camel said to the elephant when
he asked what he'd have. Hope I see you later if not sooner--ta-ta;
tinga-ling; honk honk." Again he swept Miss Hazel an elaborate bow.

"Thinks he's smart," said that young lady, lifting her nose. "He's a
regular scarecrow. Who in the world is he and where did he come from?"
she demanded of Larry, who proceeded to account for Sam's presence with
their party.

The visitors peered into the car and poked into its recesses, discovered
the food supplies for boy and beast, and inspected the dormitories
under Larry's guidance, while the boy, who had recovered from his
embarrassment, discoursed upon the wonderful experience of the journey.
Miss Hazel flashed her great blue eyes and her white teeth upon him,
shook all her frizzes in his face, smiled at him, chattered to him,
jeered at him, flattered him with all the arts and graces of the
practiced flirt she was, until Larry, swept from his bearings, walked
the clouds in a wonder world of rosy lights and ravishing airs. His
face, his eyes, his eager words, his tremulous lips, were all eloquent
of this new passion that possessed him.

As for Miss Hazel, accustomed as she was to the discriminating
admiration of her fellow clerks, the sincerity and abandonment of this
devotion was as incense to her flirtatious soul. Avid of admiration and
experienced in most of the arts and wiles necessary to secure this from
contiguous males, small wonder that the unsophisticated Larry became her
easy prey long before she had brought to bear the full complement of her
enginery of war.

It was a happy afternoon for the boy, but when informed by his sisters
of his mother's desire that he should return with them, he was resolute
in his refusal, urging many reasons why it was impossible that he should
leave the car and his comrades. There was nothing for it but to leave
him there and report to his mother their failure.

"I might have known," she said. "He would never come to a stranger's
house in his old clothes. I will just bring down his best suit after
tea."

The dinner hour at Dr. Brown's was fully occupied with an animated
recital of the adventures of the afternoon. Each member of the car party
was described with an accuracy and fulness of detail that would have
surprised him.

"And you know, Papa," said the little maid, "Tom just laughed at Larry
because he could not play baseball and things, and I just told him that
Larry could play the mouth organ lovely and the fiddle, and they laughed
and laughed. I think they were laughing at me. Tom laughed loudest of
all, and he's not so smart himself, and anyway Larry passed the entrance
a year ago and I just told him so."

"Oh, did you," said her father, "and how did Master Tom take that?"

"He didn't laugh quite as much. I don't think I like him very much."

"Ah?"

"But Hazel, she was just lovely to Larry. I think she's nice, Papa, and
such lovely cheeks and hair." Here Jane sighed.

"Oh, has she? She is quite a grown-up young lady, is she not?"

"She has her hair up, Papa. She's sixteen, you know."

"I remember you told me that she had reached that mature age."

"And I think Larry liked her, too."

"Ah? And why do you think so?"

"He just looked at her, and looked, and looked."