The Riverman

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The process seemed to amuse her. She turned her head sidewise to
watch with interest the hurrying, tumbling little cascades that slid
from her every step. From time to time she would raise her skirts
daintily with the tips of her fingers, and lean far over in order to
observe with interest how her feet sank to the ankles, and how the
sand rushed from either side to fill in the depressions. The wind
carried up to Orde low, joyous chuckles of delight, like those of a
happy child.

As though directed by some unseen guide, her course veered more and
more until it led directly to the spot where Orde stood. When she
was within ten feet of him she at last raised her head so the young
man could see something besides the top of her hat. Orde looked
plump into her eyes.

"Hullo!" she said cheerfully and unsurprised, and sank down cross-
legged at his feet.

Orde stood quite motionless, overcome by astonishment. Her face,
its long oval framed in the bands of the gray veil and the down-
turned brim of the hat, looked up smiling into his. The fresh air
had deepened the colour beneath her skin and had blown loose stray
locks of the fine shadow-filled hair. Her red lips, with the
quaintly up-turned corners, smiled at him with a new frankness, and
the black eyes--the eyes so black as to resemble spots--had lost
their half-indolent reserve and brimmed over quite frankly with the
joy of life. She scooped up a handful of the dry, clean sand from
either side of her, raised it aloft, and let it trickle slowly
between her fingers. The windgth appeared a tiny
black insect, struggling against the rolling, overwhelming sands.
With great care the girl scooped this newcomer out and set him on
the level ground. She looked up happily at Orde, thrusting the
loose hair from in front of her eyes.

"I was convinced we ought to dig a hole," said she gravely. "Now,
let's go somewhere else."

She arose to her feet, shaking the sand free from her skirts.

"I think, through these woods," she decided. "Can we get back to
town this way?"

Receiving Orde's assurance, she turned at once down the slope
through the fringe of scrub spruces and junipers into the tall
woods. Here the air fell still. She remarked on how warm it
seemed, and began to untie from over her ears the narrow band of
veil that held close her hat.

"Yes," replied Orde. "The lumber-jacks say that the woods are the
poor man's overcoat."

She paused to savour this, her head on one side, her arms upraised
to the knot.

"Oh, I like that!" said she, continuing her task. In a moment or so
the veil hung free. She removed it and the hat, and swung them both
from one finger, and threw back her head.

"Hear all the birds! " she said.

Softly she began to utter a cheeping noise between her lips and
teeth, low and plaintive. At once the volume of bird-sounds about
increased; the half-seen flashes became more frequent. A second
later the twigs were alive with tiny warblers and creepers, flirting
from branch to branch, with larger, more circumspect chewinks,
catbirds, and finches hopping down from above, very silent, very
grave. In the depths of the thickets the shyer hermit and olive
thrushes and the oven birds revealed themselves ghost-like, or as
sea-growths lift into a half visibility through translucent shadows
the colour of themselves. All were very intent, very earnest, very
interested, each after his own manner, in the comradeship of the
featherhood he imagined to be uttering distressful cries. A few,
like the chickadees, quivered their wings, opened their little
mouths, fluttered down tiny but aggressive against the disaster.
Others hopped here and there restlessly, uttering plaintive, low-
toned cheeps. The shyest contented themselves by a discreet,
silent, and distant sympathy. Three or four freebooting Jays,
attracted not so much by the supposed calls for help as by
curiosity, fluttered among the tops of the trees, uttering their
harsh notes.

Finally, the girl ended her performance in a musical laugh.

"Run away, Brighteyes," she called. "It's all right; nobody's
damaged."

She waved her hand. As though at a signal, the host she had evoked
melted back into the shadows of the forest. Only the chickadee,
impudent as ever, retreated scolding rather ostentatiously, and the
jays, splendid in their ornate blue, screamed opinions at each other
from the tops of trees.

"How would you like to be a bird?" she inquired.

"Hadn't thought," replied Orde.

"Don't you ever indulge in vain and idle speculations?" she
inquired. "Never mind, don't answer. It's too much to expect of a
man."

She set herself in idle motion down the slope, swinging the hat at
the end of its veil, pausing to look or listen, humming a little
melody between her closed lips, throwing her head back to breathe
deep the warm air, revelling in the woods sounds and woods odours
and woods life with entire self-abandonment. Orde followed her in
silence. She seemed to be quite without responsibility in regard to
him; and yet an occasional random remark thrown in his direction
proved that he was not forgotten. Finally they emerged from the
beach woods.

They faced an open rolling country. As far as the eye could reach
were the old stumps of pine trees. Sometimes they stood in place,
burned and scarred, but attesting mutely the abiding place of a
spirit long since passed away. Sometimes they had been uprooted and
dragged to mark the boundaries of fields, where they raised an
abatis of twisted roots to the sky.

The girl stopped short as she came face to face with this open
country. The inner uplift, that had lent to her aspect the wide-
eyed, careless joy of a child, faded. In its place came a new and
serious gravity. She turned on him troubled eyes.

"You do this," she accused him quite simply.

For answer he motioned to the left where below them lay a wide and
cultivated countryside--farmhouses surrounded by elms; compact wood
lots of hardwood; crops and orchards, all fair and pleasant across
the bosom of a fertile nature.

"And this," said he. "That valley was once nothing but a pine
forest--and so was all the southern part of the State, the peach
belt and the farms. And for that matter Indiana, too, and all the
other forest States right out to the prairies. Where would we be
now, if we HADN'T done that?" he pointed across at the stump-covered
hills.

Mischief had driven out the gravity from the girl's eyes. She had
lowered her head slightly sidewise as though to conceal their
expression from him.

"I was beginning to be afraid you'd say 'yes-indeed,'" said she.

Orde looked bewildered, then remembered the Incubus, and laughed.

"I haven't been very conversational," he acknowledged.

"Certainly NOT!" she said severely. "That would have been very
disappointing. There has been nothing to say." She turned and
waved her hat at the beech woods falling sombre against the lowering
sun.

"Good-bye," she said gravely, "and pleasant dreams to you. I hope
those very saucy little birds won't keep you awake." She looked up
at Orde. "He was rather nice to us this afternoon," she explained,
"and it's always well to be polite to them anyway." She gazed
steadily at Orde for signs of amusement. He resolutely held his
face sympathetic.

"Now I think we'll go home," said she.

They made their way between the stumps to the edge of the sand-hill
overlooking the village. With one accord they stopped. The low-
slanting sun cast across the vista a sleepy light of evening.

"How would you like to live in a place like that all your life?"
asked Orde.

"I don't know." She weighed her words carefully. "It would depend.
The place isn't of so much importance, it seems to me. It's the
life one is called to. It's whether one finds her soul's realm or
not that a place is liveable or not. I can imagine entering my
kingdom at a railway water-tank," she said quaintly, "or missing it
entirely in a big city."

Orde looked out over the raw little village with a new interest.

"Of course I can see how a man's work can lie in a small place,"
said he; "but a woman is different."

"Why is a woman different?" she challenged. "What is her 'work,' as
you call it; and why shouldn't it, as well as a man's, lie in a
small place? What is work--outside of drudgery--unless it is
correspondence of one's abilities to one's task?"

"But the compensations--" began Orde vaguely.

"Compensations?" she cried. "What do you mean? Here are the woods
and fields, the river, the lake, the birds, and the breezes. We'll
check them off against the theatre and balls. Books can be had here
as well as anywhere. As to people: in a large city you meet a great
many, and they're all busy, and unless you make an especial and
particular effort--which you're not likely to--you'll see them only
casually and once in a great while. In a small place you know fewer
people; but you know them intimately." She broke off with a half-
laugh. "I'm from New York," she stated humorously, "and you've
magicked me into an eloquent defense of Podunk!" She laughed up at
Orde quite frankly. "Giant Strides!" she challenged suddenly. She
turned off the edge of the sand-hill, and began to plunge down its
slope, leaning far back, her arms extended, increasing as much as
possible the length of each step. Orde followed at full speed.
When the bottom was reached, he steadied her to a halt. She shook
herself, straightened her hat, and wound the veil around it. Her
whole aspect seemed to have changed with the descent into the
conventionality of the village street. The old, gentle though
capable and self-contained reserve had returned. She moved beside
Orde with dignity.

"I came down with Jane and Mrs. Hubbard to see Mr. Hubbard off on
the boat for Milwaukee last night," she told him. "Of course we had
to wait over Sunday. Mrs. Hubbard and Jane had to see some relative
or other; but I preferred to take a walk."

"Where are you staying?" asked Orde.

"At the Bennetts'. Do you know where it is?"

"Yes," replied Orde.

They said little more until the Bennetts' gate was reached. Orde
declined to come in.

"Good-night," she said. "I want to thank you. You did not once act
as though you thought I was silly or crazy. And you didn't try, as
all the rest of them would, to act silly too. You couldn't have
done it; and you didn't try. Oh, you may have felt it--I know!"
She smiled one of her quaint and quizzical smiles. "But men aren't
built for foolishness. They have to leave that to us. You've been
very nice this afternoon; and it's helped a lot. I'm good for quite
a long stretch now. Good-night."

She nodded to him and left him tongue-tied by the gate.

Orde, however, walked back to the hotel in a black rage with himself
over what he termed his imbecility. As he remembered it, he had
made just one consecutive speech that afternoon.

"Joe," said he to Newmark, at the hotel office, "what's the plural
form of Incubus? I dimly remember it isn't 'busses.'"

"Incubi," answered Newmark.

"Thanks," said Orde gloomily.

XIII

I have Heinzman's contract all drawn," said Newmark the next
morning, "and I think I'll go around with you to the office."

At the appointed time they found the little German awaiting them, a
rotund smile of false good-nature illuminating his rosy face. Orde
introduced his partner. Newmark immediately took charge of the
interview.

"I have executed here the contract, and the bonds secured by Mr.
Orde's and my shares of stock in the new company," he explained.
"It is only necessary that you affix your signature and summon the
required witnesses."

Heinzman reached his hands for the papers, beaming over his glasses
at the two young men.

As he read, however, his smile vanished, and he looked up sharply.

"Vat is this?" he inquired, a new crispness in his voice. "You tolt
me," he accused Orde, "dot you were not brepared to break out the
rollways. You tolt me you would egspect me to do that for myself."

"Certainly," agreed Orde.

"Vell, why do you put in this?" demanded Heinzman, reading from the
paper in his hand. "'In case said rollways belonging to said
parties of the second part are not broken out by the time the drive
has reached them, and in case on demand said parties of the second
part do refuse or do not exercise due diligence in breaking out said
rollways, the said parties of the first part shall themselves break
out said rollways, and the said parties of the second part do hereby
agree to reimburse said parties of the first part at the rate of a
dollar per thousand board feet.'"

"That is merely to protect ourselves," struck in Newmark.

"But," exploded Heinzman, his face purpling, "a dollar a tousand is
absurd!"

"Of course it is," agreed Newmark. "We expect it to be. But also
we expect you to break out your own rollways in time. It is
intended as a penalty in case you don't."

"I vill not stand for such foolishness," pounded Heinzman on the arm
of his chair.

"Very well," said Newmark crisply, reaching for the contract.

But Heinzman clung to it.

"It is absurd," he repeated in a milder tone. "See, I vill strike
it out." He did so with a few dashes of the pen.

"We have no intention," stated Newmark with decision, "of giving you
the chance to hang up our drive."

Heinzman caught his breath like a child about to cry out.

"So that is what you think!" he shouted at them. "That's the sort
of men you think we are! I'll show you you cannot come into honest
men's offices to insoolt them by such insinuations!" He tore the
contract in pieces and threw it in the waste basket. "Get oudt of
here!" he cried.

Newmark arose as dry and precise as ever. Orde was going red and
white by turns, and his hands twitched.

"Then I understand you to refuse our offer?" asked Newmark coolly.

"Refuse! Yes! You and your whole kapoodle!" yelled Heinzman.

He hopped down and followed them to the grill door, repeating over
and over that he had been insulted. The clerks stared in amazement.

Once at the foot of the dark stairs and in the open street, Orde
looked up at the sky with a deep breath of relief.

"Whew!" said he, "that was a terror! We've gone off the wrong foot
that time."

Newmark looked at him with some amusement.

"You don't mean to say that fooled you!" he marvelled.

"What?" asked Orde.

"All that talk about insults, and the rest of the rubbish. He saw
we had spotted his little scheme; and he had to retreat somehow. It
was as plain as the nose on your face."

"You think so?" doubted Orde.

"I know so. If he was mad at all, it was only at being found out."

"Maybe," said Orde.

"We've got an enemy on our hands in any case," concluded Newmark,
"and one we'll have to look out for, I don't know how he'll do it;
but he'll try to make trouble on the river. Perhaps he'll try to
block the stream by not breaking his rollways."

"One of the first things we'll do will be to boom through a channel
where Mr. Man's rollways will be," said Orde.

A faint gleam of approval lit Newmark's eyes.

"I guess you'll be equal to the occasion," said he drily.

Before the afternoon train, there remained four hours. The partners
at once hunted out the little one-story frame building near the
river in which Johnson conducted his business.

Johnson received them with an evident reserve of suspicion.

"I see no use in it," said he, passing his hand over his hair
"slicked" down in the lumber-jack fashion. "I can run me own widout
help from any man."

"Which seems to settle that!" said Newmark to Orde after they had
left.

"Oh, well, his drive is small; and he's behind us," Orde pointed
out.

"True," said Newmark thoughtfully.

"Now," said Newmark, as they trudged back to their hotel to get
lunch and their hand-bags. "I'll get to work at my part of it.
This proposition of Heinzman's has given me an idea. I'm not going
to try to sell this stock outside, but to the men who own timber
along the river. Then they won't be objecting to the tolls; for if
the company makes any profits, part will go to them."

"Good idea!" cried Orde.

"I'll take these contracts, to show we can do the business."

"All correct."

"And I'll see about incorporation. Also I'll look about and get a
proper office and equipments, and get hold of a book-keeper. Of
course we'll have to make this our headquarters."

"I suppose so," said Orde a little blankly. After an instant he
laughed. "Do you know, I hadn't thought of that? We'll have to
live here, won't we?"

"Also," went on Newmark calmly, "I'll buy the supplies to the best
advantage I can, and see that they get here in good shape. I have
our preliminary lists, and as fast as you think you need anything,
send a requisition in to me, and I'll see to it."

"And I?" inquired Orde.

"You'll get right at the construction. Get the booms built and
improve the river where it needs it. Begin to get your crew--I'm
not going to tell you how; you know better than I do. Only get
everything in shape for next spring's drive. You can start right
off. We have my money to begin on."

Orde laughed and stretched his arms over his head.

"My! She's a nice big job, isn't she?" he cried joyously.

XIV

Orde, in spite of his activities, managed to see Carroll Bishop
twice during the ensuing week.

On his return home late Monday afternoon, Grandma Orde informed him
with a shrewd twinkle that she wanted him surely at home the
following evening.

"I've asked in three or four of the young people for a candy pull,"
said she.

"Who, mother?" asked Orde.

"Your crowd. The Smiths, Collinses, Jane Hubbard, and Her," said
Grandma Orde, which probably went to show that she had in the
meantime been making inquiries, and was satisfied with them.

"Do you suppose they'll care for candy pulling?" hazarded Orde a
little doubtfully.

"You mean, will she?" countered Grandma. "Well, I hope for both
your sakes she is not beyond a little old-fashioned fun."

So it proved. The young people straggled in at an early hour after
supper--every one had supper in those days. Carroll Bishop and Jane
arrived nearly the last. Orde stepped into the hall to help them
with their wraps. Hupon the
vital point of the evening. He had said something about a plan for
the week following.

"But you forget that by that time I shall be gone," said she.

"Gone!" he echoed blankly. "Where?"

"Home," said she. "Don't you remember I am to go Sunday morning?"

"I thought you were going to stay a month."

"I was, but I--certain things came up that made it necessary for me
to leave sooner."

"I--I'm sorry you're going," stammered Orde.

"So am I," said she. "I've had a very nice time here."

"Then I won't see you again," said Orde, still groping for
realisation. "I must go to Monrovia to-morrow. But I'll be down to
see you off."

"Do come," said she.

"It's not to be for good?" he expostulated. "You'll be coming
back."

She threw her hands palm out, with a pretty gesture of ignorance.

"That is in the lap of the gods," said she.

"Wile was surprised as he approached Miss Bishop to
lift her cloak from her shoulders, to find that the top of her
daintily poised head, with its soft, fine hair, came well below the
level of his eyes. Somehow her poise, her slender grace of movement
and of attitude, had lent her the impression of a stature she did
not possess. To-night her eyes, while fathomless as ever, shone
quietly in anticipation.

"Do you know," she told Orde delightedly, "I have never been to a
real candy pull in my life. It was so good of your mother to ask
me. What a dear she looks to-night. And is that your father? I'm
going to speak to him."

She turned through the narrow door into the lighted, low-ceilinged
parlour where the company were chatting busily. Orde mechanically
followed her. He was arrested by the sound of Jane Hubbard's slow
good-humoured voice behind him.

"Now, Jack," she drawled, "I agree with you perfectly; but that is
NO reason why I should be neglected entirely. Come and hang up my
coat."

Full of remorse, Orde turned. Jane Hubbard stood accusingly in the
middle of the hall, her plain, shrewd, good-humoured face smiling
faintly. Orde met her frank wide eyes with some embarrassment.

"Here it is," said Jane, holding out the coat. "I don't much care
whether you hang it up or not. I just wanted to call you back to
wish you luck." Her slow smile widened, and her gray eyes met his
still more knowingly.

Orde seized the coat and her hand at the same time.

"Jane, you're a trump," said he. "No wonder you're the most popular
girl in town."

"Of course I am, Jack," she agreed indolently. She entered the
parlour.

The candy pulling was a success. Of course everybody got burned a
little and spattered a good deal; but that was to be expected.
After the product had been broken and been piled on dishes, all
trooped to the informal "back sitting-room," where an open fire
invited to stories and games of the quieter sort. Some of the girls
sat in chairs, though most joined the men on the hearth.

Carroll Bishop, however, seemed possessed of a spirit of
restlessness. The place seemed to interest her. She wandered here
and there in the room, looking now at the walnut-framed photograph
of Uncle Jim Orde, now at the great pink conch shells either side
the door, now at the marble-topped table with its square paper-
weight of polished agate and its glass "bell," beneath which stood a
very life-like robin. This "back sitting-room" contained little in
the way of ornament. It was filled, on the contrary, with old
comfortable chairs, and worn calf-backed books. The girl peered at
the titles of these; but the gas-jets had been turned low in favour
of the firelight, and she had to give over the effort to identify
the volumes. Once she wandered close to Grandma Orde's cushioned
wooden rocker, and passed her hand lightly over the old lady's
shoulder.

"Do you mind if I look at things?" she asked. "It's so dear and
sweet and old and different from our New York homes."

"Look all you want to, dearie," said Grandma Orde.

After a moment she passed into the dining-room. Here Orde found
her, her hands linked in front of her.

"Oh, it is so quaint and delightful," she exhaled slowly. "This
dear, dear old house with its low ceilings and its queer haphazard
lines, and its deep windows, and its old pictures, and queer
unexpected things that take your breath away."

"It is one of the oldest houses in town," said Orde, "and I suppose
it is picturesque. But, you see, I was brought up here, so I'm used
to it."

"Wait until you leave it," said she prophetically, "and live away
from it. Then all these things will come back to you to make your
heart ache for them."

They rambled about together, Orde's enthusiasm gradually kindling at
the flame of her own. He showed her the marvellous and painstaking
pencil sketch of Napoleon looking out over a maltese-cross sunset
done by Aunt Martha at the age of ten. It hung framed in the upper
hall.

"It has always been there, ever since I can remember," said Orde,
"and it has seemed to belong there. I've never thought of it as
good or bad, just as belonging."

"I know," she nodded.

In this spirit also they viewed the plaster statue of Washington in
the lower hall, and the Roger's group in the parlour. The glass
cabinet of "curiosities" interested her greatly--the carved ivory
chessmen, the dried sea-weeds, the stone from Sugar Loaf Rock, the
bit from thl you write me occasionally?" he begged.

"As to that--" she began--"I'm a very poor correspondent."

"But won't you write?" he insisted.

"I do not make it a custom de
especially had an infinitude of details on his hands. The fat note-
book in his side pocket filled rapidly with rough sketches, lists,
and estimates. Constantly he interviewed men of all kinds--
rivermen, mill men, contractors, boat builders, hardware dealers,
pile-driver captains, builders, wholesale grocery men, cooks, axe-
men, chore boys--all a little world in itself.

The signs of progress soon manifested themselves. Below Big Bend
the pile-drivers were at work, the square masses of their hammers
rising rapidly to the tops of the derricks, there to pause a moment
before dropping swiftly to a dull THUMP! They were placing a long,
compact row, which should be the outer bulwarks separating the
sorting-booms from the channel of the river. Ashore the carpenters
were knocking together a long, low structure for the cook-house and
a larger building, destined to serve as bunk-house for the regular
boom-crew. There would also be a blacksmith's forge, a storehouse,
a tool and supply-house, a barn, and small separate shanties for the
married men. Below more labourers with picks, e wreck of the NORTH STAR, the
gold and silver shells,
the glittering geodes and pyrites, the sandal-wood fan, and all the
hundred and one knick-knacks it was then the custom to collect under
glass. They even ventured part way up the creaky attic stairs, but
it was too dark to enter that mysterious region.

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