 Book 2 Chapter 4 of Corporal Cameron of the Northwest Mounted Police, a tale of the McLeod Trail. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. Corporal Cameron of the Northwest Mounted Police. Book 2 Chapter 4 A Rainy Day It was haying time. Over the fields of yellowing fall, wheat, and barley, of gray timothy and purple clover, the heat shimmered in dancing waves. Everywhere the growing crops were drinking in the light and heat with eager thirst, for the call of the harvest was ringing through the land. The air was sweet with the scents of the hay fields, and the whole countryside was humming with the sound of the mowers. It was the crowning time of the year. After this season all the life of a farm moved steadily the whole year long. The next two months or three would bring to the farmer the fruit of long days of toil and waiting. Every minute of these harvest days, from the early gray dawn, when Mandy called the cows in for the milking, till the long shadows from the orchard lay quite across the wide barley field. When Tim, handling his team with careless pride, drove in the last load for the day. Every minute was packed full of life and action. But though busy were the days and full of hard and at times backbreaking and nerve straining work, what of it? The color, the rush, the eager race with the flying hours, the sense of triumph, the promise of wealth, the certainty of comfort. All these helped to carry off the heaviest toil with a swing and vim that banished aches from the body and weariness from the soul. The Cameron, all unskilled as he was, the days brought many an hour of strenuous toil, but every day his muscles were knitting more firmly, his hands were hardening, and his mastery of himself growing more complete. In haying there is no large place for skill. This operation, unlike that of turnip-hoeing, demands chiefly strength, quickness, and endurance—and especially endurance. To stand all day in the hay field under the burning sun with its rays leaping back from the superheated ground, and roll up the wind-rows into huge bundles and toss them on to the wagon, were to run up a long line of cocks and heave them fork-handle high to the top of a load, calls for something of skill, but mainly for strength of arm and back. But skill had its place, and once more it was Tim who stood close to Cameron and showed him all the tricks of pitching hay. It was Tim who showed him how to stand with his back to the wagon, so as to get the load properly poised with the least expenditure of strength. It was Tim who taught him the cunning trick of using his thigh as a fulcrum in getting his load up, rather than doing it by main strength and awkwardness. It was Tim who demonstrated the method of lifting half a cock by running the end of the fork-handle into the ground so that the whole earth might aid in the hoisting of the load. Of course in all this Cameron's intelligence and quickness stood him in the place of long experience, and before the first days hauling was done he was able to keep his wagon going. But with all the stimulus of the harvest movement and color, Cameron found himself growing weary of life on the Hailey farm. It was not the long days, and to none on the farm were the days longer than to Cameron, who had taken upon himself the duty of supplying the kitchen with wood and water. No small business, either at the beginning or at the end of a long day's work. It was not the heavy toil. It was chiefly the continuous contact with the dirt and disorder of his environment that wore his body down in his spirit raw. No matter with how keen a hunger did he approach the dinner-table, the disgusting filth everywhere a parent would cause his gorge to rise, and followed by the cheerful jibes of perkins, he would retire often with his strength unrecruited and his hunger unappeased, and though he gradually achieved a certain skill in picking his way through a meal, selecting such articles of food as could be less affected than others by the unsavory surroundings, the want of appetizing and nourishing food told disastrously upon his strength. His sleep, too, was broken and disturbed by the necessity of sharing a bed with Webster. He had never been accustomed to doubling up, and under the most favorable circumstances the experience would not have been conducive to sound sleep. But Webster's manner of life was not such as to render him an altogether desirable bed-fellow. For while the majority of farm lads in the neighborhood made at least semi-weekly pilgrimages to the dam for a swim, Webster felt no necessity laid upon him for such an expenditure of energy after a hard and sweaty day in the field. His ideas of hygiene were of the most elementary nature, hence it was his nightly custom, when released from the toils of the day, to proceed upstairs to his room, and slipping his braces from his shoulders, allow his nether garments to drop to the floor, and without further preparation roll into bed. Of the effeminacy of a night-robe, Webster knew nothing except by somewhat hazy rumor. Once under the patchwork quilt he was safe for the night, for heaving himself into the middle of the bed he sank into solid and statorious slumber, from which all Cameron's prods and kicks failed to arouse him to the grey dawn once more cemented a life, whereupon, resuming the aforesaid nether garments, he was once more simply, but in his opinion, quite sufficiently, equipped for his place among men. Many nights did it happen that the statorious melody of Webster's all too odorous slumbers drove Cameron to find a bed upon the floor. Once again Tim was his friend, for it was to Tim that Cameron owed the blissful experience of a night in the hayloft upon the newly harvested hay. There, buried in its fragrant depths, and drawing deep breaths of the clean, unbreathed air that swept in through the great open barn doors, Cameron experienced a joy hitherto undreamed of in association with the very commonplace exercise of sleep. After his first night in the hay-mow, which he shared with Tim, he awoke refreshed in body and with a new courage in his heart. By Jove, Tim, that's the finest thing I ever had in the way of sleep. Now, if we only had a tub. A tub? What for? A dip, my boy, a splash. To wash in? inquired Tim, wondering at the exuberance of his friend's desires. I'll get a tub, he added, and running to the house returned with wash-tub and towel. Tim, my boy, you're a jewel, exclaimed Cameron. From the stable cistern they filled the vessel full, and first Cameron, and after persuasion, and with rather dubious delight, Tim tasted the joy of a morning tub. Henceforth life became distinctly more indurable to Cameron. But more than all the other irritating elements in his environment put together, Cameron chafed under the unceasing rasp of Perkins' wit, clever, if somewhat crude, and cumbrous. Perkins had never forgotten nor forgiven his defeat at the turn of hoeing, which he attributed chiefly to Cameron. His jibes at Cameron's awkwardness in the various operations on the farm, his readiness to seize every opportunity for ridicule, his skill at creating awkward situations, all these sensibly increased the wear on Cameron's spirit. All these, however, Cameron felt he could put up with without endangering his self-control. But when Perkins, with vulgar innuendo, chafed the farmer's daughter upon her infatuation for the young Scotty, as he invariably designated Cameron, or when he rallied Cameron upon his supposed triumph in the matter of Mandy's youthful affections, then Cameron raged, and with the difficulty kept his hands from his cheerful and ever-smiling tormentor. It did not help matters much that apparently Mandy took no offense at Perkins insinuations. Indeed it gradually dawned upon Cameron that what to him would seem a vulgar impertinence might to this uncultured girl appear no more than a harmless pleasantry. At all costs he was resolved that under no circumstances would he allow his self-control to be broken through. He would finish out his term with the farmer without any violent outbreak. It was quite possible that Perkins and others would take him for a chicken-hearted fool, but all the same he would maintain this attitude of resolute self-control to the very end. After all, what mattered the silly jibes of an ignorant boar? And when his term was done he would abandon the farm life forever. It took but little calculation to make quite clear that there was not much to hope for in the way of advancement from farming in this part of Canada. Even Perkins, who received at the very highest wage in that neighborhood, made no more than three hundred dollars a year, and with land at sixty to seventy-five dollars per acre it seemed to him that he would be an old man before he could become the owner of a farm. He was heart-sick of the pettiness and sordidness of the farm life whose horizon seemed to be that one of the hundred acres o' so that comprised it. Therefore he resolved that to the great west he would go, that great wonderful west with its vast spaces and its vast possibilities of achievement. The rumor of it filled the countryside. For two months longer he would endure. A rainy day brought relief. O, the blessed Sabbath of a rainy day, when the wheels stop and silence falls in the fields, and time-tired, harvest hands recline at ease upon the new cut and sweet-smelling hay on the barn floor, and through the wide, open doors look out upon the falling rain that roars upon the shingles, pours down in cataracts from the eaves, and washes clean the air that wanders in, laden with those subtle scents that old Mother Earth releases only when the rain falls. O, happy rainy days in harvest time, when undisturbed by conscience the weary toilers stretch and slumber and wake to lark and chaff and careless ease the long hours through. In the Haley's barn they were all gathered, gazing lazily and with undisturbed content at the steady downpour that indicated an all-day rest. Even Haley, upon whose crops the rain was teeming down, was enjoying the rest from the toil, for most of the hay that had been cut was already in cock or in the barn. Besides, Haley worked as hard as the best of them and welcomed a day's rest, so let it rain. While they lay upon the hay on the barn floor with tired muscles all relaxed, drinking in the fragrant airs that stole in from the rain-washed skies outside, in the slackening of the rain two neighbors dropped in. Big Mac, Murray, and his brother, Danny, for a crack about things in general, and especially to discuss the Dominion Day picnic, which was coming off at the end of the following week. This picnic was to be something out of the ordinary, for in addition to the usual feasting and frolicking there was advertised an athletic contest of a superior order, the prizes in which were sufficiently attractive to draw, not only local athletes, but even some of the best from the neighboring city. A crack runner was expected, and perhaps even McGee, the big policeman of the London city force, a hammer-thrower of fame, might be present. Let him come, eh, Mac, said Perkins. I guess we ain't afraid of no city bug beating you with a hammer. Oh, I'm no thrower, said Mac modestly. I just take the thing up and give it a fling. I haven't got the trick of it at all. Have you practiced much? said Cameron, whose heart warmed at the accent that might have been transplanted that very day from his own north country. Never at all, except now and then at the blacksmith's shop on a rainy day, replied Mac. Have you done anything at it? Oh, I've seen a good deal of it at the games in the north of Scotland, replied Cameron. Man, I wish we had a hammer, and you could show me the trick of it, said Mac fervently, for they will be looking to me to throw, and I do not wish to be beaten just too easily. There's a big mason's hammer, said Tim, in the tool-house, I think. Get it, Tim, then, said Mac, eagerly, and we will have little practice at it, for throw I must, and I have no wish to bring discredit on my country, for it will be a big day. They will be coming from all over. The band of the Seventh is coming out, and Piper Sutherland from Zora will be there. A piper, echoed Cameron, is there much pipe playing in this country? Indeed, you may say that, said Mac, and good pipers they are too, they tell me. Piper Sutherland, I think, was of the old Fortitois. Are you a piper, perhaps? Cried Mac? Oh, I play a little, said Cameron. I have a set in the house. God bless my soul, cried Mac, and we never knew it. Tell Danny where they are, and he will fetch them out. Go, Danny! Never mind, I will get them myself, said Cameron, trying to conceal his eagerness, for he had long been itching for a chance to play, and his fingers were now tingling for the chanter. It was an occasion of great delight, not only to Big Mac and his brother Danny and the others, but to Cameron himself, up and down the floor he marched, making the rafters of the big barn ring with the ancient martial heirs of Scotland, and then, dropping into a lighter strain, he set their feet a-wrapping with reels and stress-speeds. Man, Yon's great plan, cried Mac with fervent enthusiasm to the company who had gathered to the summons of the pipes from the house and from the high-road, and think of him keeping them in his chest all this time. And what else can you do? And on Mac, with the enthusiasm of a discoverer? You have been in the big games too, I warrant you! Cameron confessed to some experience of these thrilling events. Bless my soul, we will put you against the big folk from the city. Come, and show us the hammer, said Mac, leading the way out of the barn, for the rain had ceased, with a big mason's hammer in his hand. It needed but a single throat to make it quite clear to Cameron that Mac was greatly in need of coaching. As he said himself, he just took up the thing and gave it a fling. A mighty fling, too, it proved to be. Twenty-eight paces, cried Cameron, and then to make sure stepped it back again. Yes, he said, twenty-eight paces, nearly twenty-nine. Great Caesar! Mac, if you only had the braimer swing, you would be a famous thrower. Ah, now you are just joking me, said Mac, modestly. You can add twenty feet easy to your throw if you get the swing, asserted Cameron. Look here, now get this swing. And Cameron demonstrated, in his best style, the famous braimer swing. Thirty-two paces, said Mac, in amazement, after he had measured the throw. Man alive, you can beat McGee, let alone myself. Now Mac, get the throw, said Cameron with enthusiasm. You will be a great thrower. But try though he might, Mac failed to get the swing. Man, come over to-night and bring your pipes. Danny will fetch out his fiddle, and we will have a bit of a frolic. And, he added, as if in an afterthought, I have a big hammer yonder, the regulation size, we might have a throw or so. Thanks, I will be sure to come, said Cameron, eagerly. Come, all of you, said Mac, new too, Mandy. We will clear out the barn floor and have a regular hoedown. Hope-shaw! giggled Mandy, tossing her head. I can't dance. Oh, come along and watch me, then, said Mac, in good humor, who, with all his two hundred pounds, was light-footed as a girl. The Murray's new bank barn was considered the finest in the country, and the new floor was still quite smooth and eminently suited to a hoedown. Before the darkness had fallen, however, Mac drew Cameron with a Danny, Perkins, and a few of the neighbors who had dropped in, out to the lane, and giving him a big hammer, try that, he said, with some doubt in his tone. Cameron took the hammer. This is the right thing. The weight of it will make more difference to me, however, than to you, Mac. Oh, I'm not so sure, said Mac. Show us how you do it. The first throw Cameron took easily. Twenty-nine paces cried Mac after stepping it off. Man, that's a great throw, and you do it easy. Not much of a throw, laughed Cameron. Try it yourself. Ignoring the swing, Mac tried to throw in his own style and hurled the hammer two paces beyond Cameron's throw. You did that with your arms only, said Cameron. Now you must put legs and shoulders into it. Let's see you beat that throw yourself, laughed Perkins, who was by no means pleased with the sudden distinction that had come to the Scotty. Cameron took the hammer, and with the easy, slow grace of the Braemar swing made his throw. Hurray, yelled Danny, who was doing the measuring. You got it yawned time for sure. Three paces to the good. You'll have to put your back into it, Mac, I guess. Once more, Mac seized the hammer. Then Cameron took Mac in hand, and over and over again coached him in the poise and swing. Now try it, and think of your legs and back. Let the hammer take care of itself. Now, nice and easy and slow, not far this time. Again and again, Mac practiced the swing. You're getting it, cried Cameron enthusiastically, but you are trying too hard. Forget the distance this time, and think only of the easy, slow swing. Let your muscles go slack. So he coached his pupil. At length, after many attempts, Mac succeeded in delivering his hammer according to instructions. Man, you are right, he exclaimed. That's the trick of it, and it is as smooth as oil. Keep it up, Mac, said Cameron, and always easy. Over and over again, he put the big man through the swing till he began to catch the notion of the rhythmic, harmonious cooperation of the various muscles in legs and shoulders and arms, so necessary to the highest result. You've got the swing, Mac, at length, said Cameron. Now then, this time, let yourself go. Don't try your best, but let yourself out. Easy, now easy, get it first in your mind. For a moment, Mac stood pondering. He was getting it in his mind. Then, with a long swing, easy and slow, he gave the great hammer a mighty heave, with a shout the company crowded about. 33, 34, 35, 36, 37. Hooray, bully for you, you are the lad. Get the line on it, said Mac, quietly. The measuring line showed one hundred and eleven and a half feet. The boys crowded round him, exclaiming, cheering, patting him on the back. Mac received the congratulations in silence. Then turning to Cameron, said very earnestly, Man, you're as easy as eating butter. You have done me a good turn today. Oh, that's nothing, Mack," said Cameron, who was more pleased than any of them. You got the swing perfectly that time. You can put twenty feet to that throw—one hundred and eleven feet. Why, I could beat that myself! Man alive! Do you tell me now," said Mack in amazement, running his eyes over Cameron's lean, muscular body. I've done it often when I was in shape. Oh, rats," said Perkins with a laugh. Where was that? Cameron flushed a deep red, then turned pale but kept silent. I believe you, my boy," said Mack with emphasis and facing sharply upon Perkins, and if ever I do a big throw I will owe it to you. Oh, come off," said Perkins, again laughing scornfully. There are others that know the swing besides Scotty here. What you have got you owe to no one but yourself, Mack. If I beat the man McGee next week," said Mack quietly, it will be from what I learned tonight, and I know what I am saying. Man, it's a lucky thing we found you. But that will do for just now. Come along to the barn. Hooray for the pipes and the lassies. They are worth all the hammers in the world. And putting his arm through Cameron's he led the way to the barn, followed by the others. If Scotty could only hope turnips and tie wheat as well as he can play the pipes and throw the hammer, said Perkins to the others as they followed in the rear, I guess he'd soon have all of us lean in against the fence to dry. He will, too, some day, said Tim, whose indignation at Perkins overcame the shyness which usually kept him silent in the presence of older men. Hello, Timmy, what are you chipping in for? said Perkins, reaching for the boy's coat collar. He thinks this Scotty is the whole works, and he is great, too, at showing people how to do things. I hear he showed Tim how to hoe turnips, said one of the boys, slyly. The laugh that followed showed that the story of Tim's triumph over the champion had gone abroad. Oh, rot! said Perkins angrily. Tim's got a little too perky because I let him get ahead of me one night in a drill of turnips. You've done your best, didn't you, Webster? cried Tim with indignation. Well, he certainly was making some pretty big gashes in them drills, said Webster slowly. Oh, get out! replied Perkins, though all the same Tim's quite a turnip-ower, he conceded. Hello! There's quite a crowd in the barn, Danny. I wish I had my store clothes on. At this, a girl came running up to meet them. Come on, Danny, tune up. I can hardly keep my heels on my boots. Oh, you'll not be wanting my little fiddle after you have heard Cameron on the pipes, Issa. Never you fear that, Danny, replied Issa, catching him by the arm and hurrying him onward. Wait a minute, I want you to meet Mr. Cameron, said Danny. Come away, then, replied Issa, I am dying to get done with it and get the fiddle going. But Cameron was in the meantime engaged, for Mac was busy introducing him to a bevy of girls who stood at one corner of the barn floor. My, but he's a bra lad, said Issa gaily, as she watched Cameron making his bowels. Yes, he is that, replied Danny with enthusiastic admiration, and a hammer-thrower, too, he is. What? Yon stripling? You may say it. He can beat Mac there. Mac, cried Issa, with scorn, it's just big lies you were telling me. Indeed, he has beaten Mac's best throw many a time. And how do you know, exclaimed Issa? He said so himself. Aha! said Issa scornfully. He is good at blowing his own horn, whatever, and I don't believe he can beat Mac, and I don't like him a bit, she continued. Her dark eyes flashing, and the red color glowing in her full round cheek. Come, Issa, cried Mac, catching sight of her in the dim light. Come here. I want Mr. Cameron to meet you. How do you do? said the girl, giving Cameron her hand, and glancing saucily into his face. I hear you are a piper, and a hammer-thrower, and altogether a wonderful man. A wonderfully lucky man to have the pleasure of meeting you, said Cameron, glancing boldly back at her. And I am sure you can dance the fling, continued Issa. All the Highlanders do. Not all, said Cameron, but with certain partners all Highlanders would love to try. Oh, I, with a soft Highland accent that warmed Cameron's blood, I see you have the tongue. Come away, Danny, now, strike up, or I will go on without you. And the girl kilted her skirts and began a reel, and as Mac's eyes followed her every step, there was no mistaking their expression. To Mac, there was only one girl in the barn, were in all the world for that matter, and that was the leal-hearted, light-footed, black-eyed Issa Mackenzie. Bonnie she was, and that she well knew, the bell of the whole township, driving the men to distraction, and for all that holding the love of her own sex as well. But her heart was still her own, or at least she thought it was, for all big Mac Murray's open and simple-hearted adoration, and she was ready for a frolic with any man who could give her word for word or dance with her the Highland reel. With the courtesy of a true gentleman, Danny led off with his fiddle till they had all got thoroughly into the spirit and swing of the frolic, and then, putting his instrument back into its bag, he declared that they were all tired of it, and were waiting for the pipes. Not a bit of it, cried Issa, but we will give you a rest, Danny, and besides I want to dance a reel with you myself, though Mr. Cameron is not bad, she added, with a little bow to Cameron, with whom she had just finished a reel. Finally enough Cameron tuned his pipes, for he was aching to get at them, and only too glad to furnish music for the gay company of kindly-hearted folk who were giving him his first evening's pleasure, since he had left the co-ug ore. From reel to shotski, and from shotski to reel, four seminatesome they kept him playing, ever asking for more, till the gloaming passed into moonlight and still they were not done. The respite came through Manti, who solid in weight and heavy of foot had labored through the reels as often as she could get a partner, and at other times had sat gazing and wrapped devotion upon the piper. "'Whooper up again, Scotty,' cried Perkins, when Cameron paused at the end of a reel. "'Don't you do it,' said Manti sharply, her deep voice booming through the barn. He's just tired of it, and I'm tired looking at him.' There was a shout of laughter which covered poor Manti with wrathful confusion. "'Good for you, Manti,' cried Perkins, with a great guffaw. "'You want some music now, don't you? So do I. Come on, Danny.' "'No, I don't,' snapped Manti, who could understand neither the previous laugh nor that which greeted Perkins' sally. "'Allen,' she said, sticking a little over the name, is tired out, and besides, it's time we were going home. "'That's right. Take him home, Manti, and put the little deer to bed,' said Perkins. "'You needn't be so smart, Joe Perkins,' said Manti angrily. "'Anyway, I'm going home. I've got to be up early.' "'Me too, Manti,' said Cameron, packing up his pipes, for his sympathy had been roused for the girl who was championing him so bravely. "'I've had a great night, and I have played you all to death, but you will forgive me. I was lonely for the chanter. I have not touched it since I left home.' There was a universal cry of protest as they gathered about him. "'Indeed, Mr. Cameron, you have given us all a rare treat,' cried Eesa, coming close to him, and I only wish you could pipe and dance at the same time.' "'That's so,' cried Mack. "'But what's the matter with the fiddle, Eesa? Come on, Danny, strike up. Let him have a reel together.' Cameron glanced at Manti, who was standing impatiently waiting. Perkins caught the glance. "'Oh, please let him stay,' Manti, he pleaded. "'He can stay if he likes,' sniffed Manti scornfully. "'I've got no string on him, but I'm going home. Good night, everybody.' "'Good night, Manti,' called Perkins. "'Tell him we're coming.' "'Just a moment, Manti,' said Cameron, and I'm with you. Another time I hope to do a reel with you, Miss Mackenzie,' he said, bidding her good night. And I hope it will be soon.' "'Remember, then,' cried Eesa, warmly shaking hands with him. "'I will keep you to your promise at the picnic.' "'Fine,' said Cameron, and with easy grace he made his farewells and set off after Manti, who by this time was some distance down the lane. "'You needn't come for me,' she said, throwing her voice at him over her shoulder. "'What a splendid night we have had,' said Cameron, ignoring her wrath. And what awfully nice people!' Manti grunted, and in silence continued her way down the lane, picking her steps between the muddy spots and pools left by the rain. After some minutes, Cameron, who was truly sorry for the girl, ventured to resume the conversation. "'Didn't you enjoy the evening, Manti?' "'No, I didn't,' she replied shortly. "'I can't dance, and they all know it. "'Why don't you learn, Manti? You could dance if you practiced.' "'I can't. I ain't like other girls. I'm too clumsy.' "'Not a bit of it,' said Cameron. "'I've watched you stepping about the house, and you are not a bit clumsy. If you only practiced a bit, you would soon pick up the Shotsky.' "'Oh, you're just saying that, because you know I'm mad,' said Manti, slightly mollified. "'Not at all. I firmly believe it. I saw you try a Shotsky tonight with Perkins and—' "'Oh, shucks,' said Manti. "'He don't give me no show. He gets mad when I tramp on him.' "'All you want is practice, Manti,' replied Cameron. "'Oh, I ain't got no one to show me,' said Manti. Perkins, he won't be bothered, and—' "'And there's no one else,' she added shyly. "'Why, I—' "'I would show you,' replied Cameron, every instinct of chivalry demanding that he should play up to her lead. "'If I had any opportunity.' "'When?' said Manti simply. "'When?' echoed Cameron, taken aback. "'Why, the first chance we get.' As he spoke the word, they reached the new bridge that crossed the deep ditch that separated the lane from the high road. "'Here's a good place right here on this bridge,' said Manti, with a giggle. "'But we have no music,' stammered Cameron, aghast at the prospect of a dancing lesson by moon night upon the public highway. "'Oh, Pasha, said Manti, we don't need no music. You can just count. I seen Isa show in Mac once, and they didn't have no music. But,' she added, regarding Cameron with suspicion, "'if you don't want to.' "'Oh, I should be glad to, but wouldn't the porch be better?' he replied in desperation. "'The porch—' "'That's so,' ascended Mandy, eagerly. "'Let's hurry before the rest come home.' So, saying, she set off at a great pace, followed by Cameron, ruefully wondering to what extent the lesson in the Tipper-Shurian art might be expected to go. As soon as the porch was reached, Manti cried. "'Now, let's at the thing. I'm going to learn that shot-ski if it costs a leg.'" Without stopping to inquire whose leg might be in peril, Cameron proceeded with his lesson, and he had not gone through many paces till he began to recognize the magnitude of the task laid upon him. The girl's sense of time was accurate enough, but she was undeniably awkward and clumsy in her movements, and there was an almost total absence of coordination of muscle and brain. She had, however, suffered too long and too keenly from her inability to join with the others in the dance, to fail to make the best of her opportunity to relieve herself of this serious disability. So with fierce industry, she poised, counted, hopped, according to Cameron's instructions and example, with never a sign of weariness, but alas, with little indication of progress. "'Oh, shucks, I can't do it,' she cried at length, pausing in despair. "'I think we could do it better together. That's the way Macanisa do it. I've seen them at it for an hour.' Cameron's heart sank within him. He had caught an exchange of glances between the two young people mentioned, and he could quite understand how a lesson on the intricacies of the Highland Shotsky might very well be extended over an hour to their mutual satisfaction. But he shrank with a feeling of dismay, if not disgust, from a like experience with the girl before him. He was on the point of abruptly postponing the lesson when his eye fell upon her face as she stood in the moonlight which streamed in through the open door. Was it the mystic alchemy of the moon on her face, or was it the glowing passion in her wonderful eyes that transfigured the course features? A sudden pity for the girl rose in Cameron's heart, and he said gently, "'We will try it together.' He took her hand, put his arm about her waist, but as he drew her towards him, with a startled look in her eyes, she shrank back, saying hurriedly, "'I guess I won't bother you any more tonight. You've been awful good to me. You're tired.' "'Not a bit, Mandy. Come along,' replied Cameron briskly. At that moment a shadow fell upon the square of moonlight on the floor. Mandy started back with a cry. "'My! You scared me! We were—' "'Allen, Mr. Cameron, was learning me the Highland Shotsky.' Her face and her voice were full of fear. It was Perkins. White, silent, and rigid, he stood regarding them for minutes, it seemed, then turned away. "'Let's finish,' said Cameron, quietly. "'Oh, no, no,' said Mandy, in a low voice. He's awful mad. I'm scared to death. He'll do something. Oh, dear, dear. He's awful when he gets mad.' "'Nonsense,' said Cameron. He can't hurt you.' "'No, but you.' "'Oh, don't worry about me. He won't hurt me.' Cameron's tone arrested the girl's attention. "'Promise me. Promise me,' she cried, that you won't touch him. She clutched his arm in a fierce grip. "'Certainly I won't touch him,' said Cameron easily, if he behaves himself. But in his heart he was conscious of a fierce desire that Perkins would give him the opportunity to wipe out A-part, at least, of the accumulated burden of insult he had been forced to bear during the last three weeks. "'Oh,' wailed Mandy, wringing her hands. "'I know you're going to fight him. I don't want you to. Do you hear me?' She cried, suddenly gripping Cameron again by the arm and shaking him. "'I don't want you to. Promise me you won't.' She was in a transport of fear. "'Oh, this is nonsense, Mandy,' said Cameron, laughing at her. "'There won't be any fight. I'll run away.' "'All right,' replied the girl quietly, releasing his arm. "'Remember, you promised,' she turned from him. "'Good night, Mandy. We will finish our lesson at another time, eh?' He said cheerfully. "'Good night,' replied Mandy dolly, and passed through the kitchen and into the house. Cameron watched her go, then poured for himself a glass of milk from a pitcher that always stood upon the table for any who might be returning home late at night, and drank it slowly, pondering the situation the while. "'What a confounded mess it is,' he said to himself. I feel like cutting the whole thing. By Jove, that girl is getting on my nerves, and that infernal bounder, he seems to—poor girl—I wonder if he has got any hold on her. It would be the greatest satisfaction in the world to teach him a few things, too. But I have made up my mind that I am not going to end up my time here with any row, and I'll stick to that, unless—' And with a tingling in his fingers he passed out into the moonlight. As he stepped out from the door, a dark mass hurled itself at him, a hand clutched at his throat, missed as he swiftly dodged back and carried away his collar. It was Perkins, his face distorted, his white teeth showing in a snarl as of a furious beast. Again with a beast-like growl he sprang, and again Cameron avoided him. While Perkins, missing his clutch, stumbled over a block of wood and went crashing head-first among a pile of pots and pans, and still unable to recover himself and wildly grasping whatever chance to be within reach, fell upon the board that stood against the corner of the porch to direct the rain into the tub. But the unstable board slid slowly down and allowed the unfortunate Perkins to come sitting in the tub full of water. Very neatly done, Perkins, cried Cameron, whose anger at the furious attack was suddenly transformed into an ecstasy of delight at seeing the plight of his enemy. Like a cat, Perkins was on his feet, and without a single moment's pause came on again in silent fury. By an evil chance there lay in his path the splitting ax, gleaming in the moonlight. Uttering a low, choking cry as of joy, he seized the ax and sprang towards his foe. Quicker than thought Cameron picked up a heavy arm chair that stood near the porch to use it as a shield against the impending attack. Are you mad, Perkins? he cried, catching the terrific blow that came crashing down upon the chair. Then filled with indignant rage at the murderous attack upon him, and suddenly comprehending the desperate nature of the situation, he sprang at his antagonist, thrusting the remnants of the chair in his face and following hard and fast upon him, pushed him backward and still backward, till tripping once more he fell supine among the pots and pans. Seizing the ax that had dropped from his enemy's hand, Perkins hurled it far beyond the wood-pile, and then stood waiting, a cold and deadly rage possessing him. Come on, you dog, he said through his shut teeth, you have been needing this for some time and now you'll get it. What is it, Joe? Cameron quickly turned and saw behind him Mandy, her face blanched, her eyes wide, and her voice faint with terror. Oh, nothing much, said Cameron, struggling to recover himself. Perkins stumbled over the tub among the pots and pans there. He made a great row too, he continued with a laugh, having to get his voice under control. What is it, Joe? repeated Mandy, approaching Perkins, but Perkins stood leaning against the corner of the porch in a kind of dazed silence. You've been fighting, she said, turning upon Cameron. Not at all, said Cameron lightly, but if you must know Perkins went stumbling among these pots and pans and finally sat down in the tub, and naturally he is mad. Is that true, Joe? said Mandy, moving slowly nearer him. Oh, shut up, Mandy, I'm all wet, that's all, and I'm going to bed. His voice was faint as though he were speaking with an effort. You go into the house, he said to the girl. I've got something to say to Cameron here. You are quarreling. Oh, give us a rest, Mandy, and get out. There's no quarreling, but I want to have a talk with Cameron about something. Go on now. For a few moments she hesitated, looking from one to the other. It's all right, Mandy, said Cameron quietly. You needn't be afraid, there won't be any trouble. For a moment more she stood, then quietly turned away. Wait! said Perkins to Cameron, and followed Mandy into the house. For some minutes Cameron stood waiting. Now, you murderous brute, he said, when Perkins reappeared. Come down to the barn where no girl can interfere. He turned towards the barn. Hold on, said Perkins, breathing heavily. Not tonight. I want to say something. She's waiting to see me go upstairs. Cameron came back. What have you got to say, you cur? He asked in a voice filled with a cold and deliberate contempt. Don't you call no names, replied Perkins, it ain't no use. His voice was low, trembling, but gravely earnest. Say, I might have killed you tonight. His breath was still coming in quick, short gasps. You tried your best, you dog, said Cameron. Don't you call no names, panted Perkins again. I might have killed you. I'm mighty glad I didn't. He spoke like a man who had had a great deliverance. But don't you hear his teeth snapped like a dog's. Don't you ever go full in with that girl again. Don't you ever do it. I seen you hugging her in there, and I tell you, I tell you. His breath began to come in psalms. I won't stand it. I'll kill you, sure as God's in heaven. Are you mad, said Cameron, scanning narrowly the white distorted face. Mad? Yes, I guess so. I don't know. But don't you do it. That's all. She's mine. Mine, do you hear? He stepped forward and thrust his snarling face into Cameron's. No, I ain't going to touch you, as Cameron stepped back into a posture of defense. Not tonight. Someday, perhaps. Here again his teeth came together with a snap. But I'm not going to have you or any other man cutting in on me with that girl. Do you hear me? And he lifted a trembling forefinger and thrust it almost into Cameron's face. Cameron stood regarding him in silent and contemptuous amazement. Neither of them saw a dark form standing back out of the moonlight inside the door. At last Cameron spoke. Now, what the deuce does this all mean, he said slowly? Is this girl by any unhappy chance engaged to you? Yes, she is. Cameron was as good as, till you came, but you listened to me. As God hears me up there, he raised his shaking hand and pointed up to the moonlit sky, and then went on, chewing on his words like a dog on a bone, I'll cut the heart out of your body if I catch you monkey and round with that girl again. You've got to get out of here. Everything was all right till you came sneaking in. You've got to get out. You've got to get out. Do you hear me? You've got to get out. His voice was rising. Mad rage was seizing him again. His fingers were opening and shutting like a man in a death agony. Cameron glanced towards the door. I'm done, said Perkins, noting the glance. That's my last word. You'd better quit this job. His voice again took on an imploring tone. You'd better go or something will sure happen to you. Nobody will miss you much, except perhaps Mandy. His ghastly face twisted into a snarling smile. His eyes appeared glazed in the moonlight. His voice was husky. The man seemed truly insane. Cameron stood observing him quietly when he had ceased speaking. Are you finished? Then hear me. First, in regard to this girl, she doesn't want me and I don't want her, but make up your mind. I promise you to do all I can to prevent her falling into the hands of a brute like you. Then, as to leaving this place, I shall go just when it suits me. No sooner. All right, said Perkins, his voice low and trembling. All right. I warned you. Mind I warned you. But if you go fooling with that girl, I'll kill you, so help me God." These words he uttered with the solemnity of an oath and turned towards the porch. A dark figure flitted across the kitchen and disappeared into the house. Cameron walked slowly towards the barn. He's mad. He's clean daffy, but nonetheless dangerous, he said to himself. What a rotten mess all this is, he added in disgust. But I jove, the whole thing isn't worthwhile. But as he thought of Mandy's frightened face and imploring eyes in the brutal, murderous face of the man who claimed her as his own, he said between his teeth. No, I won't quit now. I'll see this thing through, whatever it costs. And with this resolve he set himself to the business of getting to sleep, in which, after many attempts, he was at length successful. BOOK II CHAPTER V While they saved the day, there never was such a dominion day for weather since the first dominion day was born, of this Fatty Freeman was fully assured. Fatty Freeman was a young man for whose opinion older men were accustomed to wait. His person more than justified this premon, for Mr. Harper Freeman Jr. was undeniably fat. Fat, but fine and frisky, was ever his own comment upon the descriptive adjective by which his friends distinguished him. And fine and frisky he was. Fine in his appreciation of good eating. Fine in his judgment of good cattle. And fine isn't in his estimate of men. Frisky too and utterly irrepressible. Harp's just like a young pup, his own father, the reverend Harper Freeman, the old Methodist minister of the Maple Hill Circuit, used to say, if Harp had a tail he would never do anything but play with it. On this, however, it is difficult to hold any well-based opinion. Ebulin in his spirits, he radiated cheeriness wherever he went, and was at the bottom of most of the practical jokes that kept the village of Maple Hill in a state of firm it. Yet, if any man thought to turn a sharp quarter in business with Mr. Harper Freeman Jr., he invariably found that frisky individual waiting for him around the corner with a cheery smile of welcome shrewd and disconcerting. It was this cheery shrewdness of his that made him the most successful cattle buyer in the county, and at the same time secretary of the Middlesex Caledonian Society. As secretary of this society, he was made chiefly responsible for the success of the Dominion Day picnic, and, as with everything that he took hold of, fatty-toiled at the business of preparation for this picnic with conscientious seal, given to at all his spared hours and many of his working hours for the three months preceding. It was due solely to his efforts that so many distinguished county magnates appeared eager to lend their patronage. It needed but a little persuasion to secure the enthusiastic support of the Honorable J.J. Patterson, MPP, and incidentally the handsome challenge cup for hammer-throwing for the honorable mention of parliament was a full-blooded Highlander himself and an ardent supporter of the games, but only Fatty Freeman's finesse could have extracted from Dr. Cain the opposition candidate for provincial parliamentary honors, the cup for the hundred yards race, and other cups for other individuals more or less deeply interested in Dominion, provincial, and municipal politics. The prize list secured it needed only a skillful manipulation of the local press and a judicious but persistent personal correspondence to swell the ranks of the competitors in the various events, and thus ensure a monster attendance of the people from the neighboring townships and from the city nearby. The weather being assured, Fatty's anxieties were mostly elade, for he had on file in his office acceptance letters from the distinguished men who were to cast the spell of their oratory over the assembled multitude, as also from the big men in the athletic world who had entered for the various events in the program of sports. It was a master stroke of diplomacy that resulted in the securing for the hammer-throwing contest the redoubtable and famous Duncan Ross of Zora, who had at first disdained debate of the Maple Hill Dominion Day picnic, but in some mysterious way had at length been hooked and landed. For Duncan was a notable man and held the championship of the Zoras, and indeed in all Ontario he was second only to the world-famous Rory McClellan of Glengarry, who had been to Bernard itself and was beaten there only by a fluke. How he came to agree to be present at the Maple Hill picnic, Locke Duncan, could not quite understand, but had he compared notes with McGee, the champion of the London police force, and of various towns and cities of the Western Peninsula, he would doubtless have received some enlightenment. To the skill of the same master hand was due the appearance upon the racing list of the Dominion Day picnic of such distinguished names as Cahill of London, Fullerton of Woodstock, and especially of Eugene LaBelle, of nowhere in particular, who held the provincial championship for skating and was a runner of provincial fame. In the racing, Fatty was particularly interested, because his young brother, Wilbur, of whom he was uncommonly proud, a handsome lad, swift and graceful as a deer, was to make his first assay for more than local honours. The lists for the other events were equally well filled, and every detail of the arrangements for the day had passed under the secretary's personal review. The feeding of the multitude was in charge of the Methodist lady's aid, an energetic and exceptionally businesslike organization, which fully expected to make sufficient profit from the enterprise to clear off the debt from their church at Maple Hill, an achievement greatly desired not only by the ladies themselves, but by their minister, the reverend Harper Freeman, now in the third year of his incumbency. The music was to be furnished by the band of the Seventh from London, and by no less a distinguished person than Piper Sutherland himself from Zora, former pipe major of the old forty-two. The discovery of another piper in camera brought joy to the secretary's heart, who only regretted that an earlier discovery had not rendered possible a pipe competition. Early in the afternoon the crowds began to gather to McBernie's Woods, a beautiful maple grove, lying midway between the Haley's Farm and Maple Hill Village, about two miles distant from each. The grove of noble maple trees overlooking a grassy meadow provided an ideal spot for picnicking, furnishing as it did both shade from the sun and a fine open space with firm footing for the contestants in the games. High over a noble maple in the centre of the grassy meadow floated the Red Ensign of the Empire, which, with the Canadian coat of arms on the fly, by common usage had become the national flag of Canada. From the great trees the swings were hung, and under their noble spreading bowels were placed the tables, and the platform for the speechmaking and the dancing, while at the base of the encircling hills surrounding the grassy meadow, hard by the grove and other platforms was placed, from which distinguished visitors might view with ease and comfort the contests upon the campus immediately adjacent. Through the fence, let down for the purpose, the people drove in from the high road. They came in top buggies and in lumber wagons, in Democrats and in three-seated rigs, while from the city came a foreign hand with McGee, Cahill and their backers, as well as other carriages filled with good citizens of London, drawn to their by the promise of a day's sport of more than usual excellence, or by the lure of the day in the woods and fields of God's open country. A specially fine carriage and pair, owned and driven by the honourable member of parliament himself, conveyed Piper Sutherland, with colours streaming and pipes playing to the picnic grounds. Warmly was the old Piper welcomed, not only by the frisky, cheery secretary, but by many old friends, and by none more warmly than the reverend Alexander Munro, the do-sold bachelor-presbyterian minister of Maple Hill, a great lover of the pipes and a special friend of Piper Sutherland. But the welcome was hardly over when once more the sound of the pipes was heard far up the sideline. Surely that will be gunned, said Mr. Munro. Sutherland listened for a minute or two. No, it is not gunned. Is Ross coming? No. Yon is not Ross. That will be a stranger, he continued, turning to the secretary, but the secretary remained silent, enjoying the old man's surprise and perplexity. Man, that is not a bad piping. Not so bad at all. Who is it? He added, with some impatience, turning upon the secretary again. Oh, that's Haley's team, and I guess that's his hired man. A young fellow just out from Scotland, replied the secretary indifferently. I am no great judge of the pipes myself, but he strikes me as a crack-a-jack, and I shouldn't be surprised if he would make you all sit up. But the old Piper's ear was closed his words, and opened only to the strains of music ever drawing nearer. Hey, Yon's a Piper, he said at length with emphasis. Yon's a Piper. I only wish I had discovered him in time for competition, said Fatty regretfully. I said Sutherland. Yon's a Piper worth playing against. In very brave and gallant young Cameron looked as Tim swung his steam through the fence and up to the platform upon the trees where the great ones of the people were standing in groups. They were all there. Patterson, the MPP, and Dr. Kain, the opposition candidate. Reeve Robertson, for ten years the municipal head of the county, Inspector Grant, a little man with a massive head and a luminous eye. Patterson's understudy and generally regarded as his successor in provincial politics. The Reverend Harper Freeman, the Methodist minister, Tall and Lank, was shrewd kindly faced in a twinkling eye. The Reverend Alexander Munro, the Presbyterian minister, solid and sedate, slowed to take fire but one kindled a very furnace for heat. These, with their various wives and daughters, such as had them, and many others less notable but no less important, constituted a sort of informal reception committee under Fatty Freeman's general direction and management. And here and there and everywhere crowds of young men and maidens, conspicuous among the latter, is a McKenzie and her special friends, made merry with each other as brave and gallant a company of sturdy sun-browned youths and bony wholesome lasses as any land or age could ever show. Look at them! cried the Reverend Harper Freeman, waving his hand towards a kaleidoscopic gathering. There's your dominion day oration for you, Mr. Patterson. Most of it done in brown, too, chuckled a son, Harper Freeman Junior. Yes, and said in jewels and gold, replied his father. You hold over me, Dad, cried his son. Here, he called to Cameron, who was standing aloof from the others. Come and meet a brother, Scott, and a fellow, Piper. Mr. Sutherland, from Zora. Though to your ignorant Scottish ear that means nothing, but to every intelligent Canadian, Zora stands for all that's finest in brain and brawn in Canada. And it takes both to play the pipes, eh, Sutherland? said the MPP. Oh, eh, but mostly wind, said the Piper. Just like politics, eh, Mr. Patterson? said the Reverend Harper Freeman. Yes, and like preaching, replied the MPP. One on you, Dad, said the irrepressible fatty. Meantime, Sutherland was warmly complimenting Cameron on his playing. You have been well taught, he said. No one taught me, said Cameron. But we had a famous old Piper at home in our glen. McPherson was his name. McPherson, did he ever play at the Breymar Gathering? Yes, but McLennon beat him. McLennon, I have heard him. The tone was quite sufficient to satisfy the unhappy McClellan, and I have heard McPherson too. You as a player, none of the fouty rows of your modern players, but grand and mighty. I agree with you entirely, replied Cameron, his heart warming at the praise of his old friend of the glen K.R., but, he added, McLennon is a great player too. A great player? Yes and no. He has the fingers in the notes, but he is not the big man. It is the soul that breathes through the chanter, the soul. Here he grew up Cameron by the arm. Man, it is like praying. A big man will never show himself in small things, but when he will be in communion with his maker, or when he will be pouring out a soul in a piebroke, then the bigness of the man will be manifest. A continued the Piper, warming to his theme, and encouraged by the eager sympathy of his listener, and not only the bigness, but the quality of the soul. A mean man can play the pipes, but he can never be a Piper. He is only a big man and a fine man, and I will venture to say a good man, and there are not many men can be Pipers. A, Mr. Southerland, broke in the reverend Alexander Munro. What you say is true, but it is true not only of piping, it is true surely of anything great enough to express the deepest emotions of the soul. A man is never at his best in anything till he is expressing his noblest self. For instance, in preaching, A, said Dr. Cain. A, in preaching, or in political oratory, replied the minister. At this, however, the old Piper shook his head doubtfully. He did not agree with Mr. Munro in that, said the MPP. No, replied Southerland. Speaking is one thing, piping is another. And that is no lie, and a mighty good thing too it is, said Dr. Cain flippantly. It is no lie, replied the old Piper with dignity, and if you knew much about either of them, you would say it differently. Why, what is the difference, Mr. Southerland, said Dr. Cain, anxious to appease the old man? They both are means of expressing the emotions of the soul, say. The difference, the difference is it. The difference is here, that the pipes will never lie. There was a shout of laughter. One for you, Cain, cried the reverend Harper Freeman, and he continued when the laughing had ceased. We will have to take our share too, Mr. Munro. By the hour for beginning the program had arrived, and the secretary climbed to the platform to announce the events for the day. Ladies and gentlemen, he cried in a high, clear, penetrating voice. The speech of welcome will be delivered towards the close of the day by the president of the Middlesex Caledonian Society, the honorable JJ Patterson, MMP. My duty is the very simple one of announcing the order of events on the program, and of expressing on behalf of the Middlesex Caledonian Society, the earnest hope that you all may enjoy the day, and that each event on the program will prove more interesting than the last. The program is long and varied, and I must ask your assistants to put it through on schedule time. First, there are the athletic competitions, I shall endeavor to assist Dr. Cain and the judges in running these through without unnecessary and annoying delays. Then we'll follow piping, dancing and feasting in their proper order, after which will come the presentation of prizes and speeches from our distinguished visitors. On the platform over yonder, there are places for the speakers, the officials, and the guests of the society, but such is the very excellent character of the ground that all can be accommodated with grand stand seats. One disappointment, and one only, I must announce the Band of the Seventh, London, cannot be with us today. But we will never miss them, interpolated, the Reverend Alexander Munro was sole emphasis, exactly so continued fatty when the lap had subsided, and now let's all go in for a good old time picnic, where even the farmer seats from grumbling and the preachers take a rest. Now take your places ladies and gentlemen, for the grand parade is about to begin. The program opened with the 100 yard flat race. For this race there were four entries, Cahill from London, Fullerton from Woodstock, LaBelle from nowhere in particular, and Wilbur Freeman from Maple Hill, but Wilbur was nowhere to be seen. The secretary came breathless to the platform. Where's Wilbur? he asked his father. Wilbur, surely he is in the crowd, or in the tent perhaps. At the tent the secretary found his brother nursing a twisted ankle, heart sick with disappointment. Early in the day he had injured his foot in an attempt to fasten a swing upon a tree. Every minute since that time he had spent in rubbing and manipulating the injured member, but all to no purpose. While the pain was not great, a race was out of the question. The secretary was greatly disturbed, and as nearly wrathful as ever he allowed himself to become. He was set on his brother making a good showing in the race. Moreover, without Wilbur there would be no competitor to up to hold the honour of Maple Hill, in this contest, and this would deprive it of much of its interest. What the dickens were you climbing trees for, he began impatiently, but a glance at his young brother's pale and woe-stricken face changed his wrath to pity. Never mind, old chap, he said. Better luck next time, and you will be fit or two. Back he ran to the platform, for he must report the dismal news to his mother, whose chief interest in the program for the day lay in this race in which her latest born was to win his spurs. The cherry secretary was nearly desperate. It was an ominous beginning for the day's sports. What should he do? He confided his woe to Mack and Cameron, who were standing close by the platform. It will play the very mischief with the program. It will spoil the whole day. For Wilbur was the sole Maple Hill representative in the three races. Besides, I believe the youngster would have shown up well. He would that, cried Mack hardly. He was a bird. But is there no one else from the hill that could enter? No. No one with a chance of winning, and no fellow likes to go in simply to be beaten. What difference? said Cameron. It's all in a day's sport. That's so, said Mack. If I could run myself, I would enter. I wonder if Danny would. Danny, said the secretary shortly. You know better than that. Danny's too shy to appear before this crowd, even if you were a dead shore of winning. Say, it is too bad, continued Mack. Has the magnitude of the calamity grew upon him? Surely we can find someone to make an appearance. What about yourself, Cameron? Did you ever race? Some, said Cameron. I raced last year at the Athol Games. Fatty threw himself upon him. Cameron, you are my man. Do you want to save your country and perhaps my life? Certainly my reputation. Get out of those frills. Touching is killed. And I'll get a suit from one of the jumpers for you. Go, bless your soul. Anything you want that's mine you can have. Only hustle for dear life's sake. Go, go, go. Take him away, Mack. We'll get something else on. Fatty actually pushed Cameron clear away from the platform and after him, Big Mack. There seems to be no help for it, said Cameron, as they went to the tent together. It's awful good of you, replied Mack. But you can see how hard Fatty takes it, though it is not a bit fair to you. Oh, nobody knows me here, said Cameron, and I don't mind being a victim. But as Mack saw him get into his jersey and shorts, he began to wonder a bit. Man, it would be great if you should beat you on Frenchman. He exclaimed, Frenchman? Yes, Lebel. He is that stuck on himself. He thinks he is a winner before he starts. It's a good way to think, Mack. Now, let us get down into the woods and have a bit of practice in the getaway. How do they start here? With a pistol? No, replied Mack. We are not so swell. The starter gives the word this way. All set? Go. All right, Mack. You give me the word slap. I am out of practice, and I must get the idea into my head. You are great on the idea, I see, replied Mack. Right, you are, and is just the same with the hammer, Mack. Hey, I have found that out. For twenty minutes or so, Cameron practiced his start, and at every attempt, Mack's confidence grew. So that, when he brought his man back to the platform, he announced to a group of the girls standing there, don't say anything, but I have the winner right here for you. Why, Mr. Cameron, cried Issa. What a wonder you are. What else can you do? You are a piper, a dancer, a hammer thrower, and now a runner. Jack of all trades laughed Perkins, who, with Mandy, was standing near. Yes, but you can't say Master of None, replied Issa sharply. Better wait, said Cameron. I have entered the race only to save Mr. Freeman from collapse. Collapse? Fatty? He couldn't, said Issa with emphasis. Blast, I do not know, said Mack gravely. He looked more hollow than ever I have seen him before. Well, we'll all cheer for you, Mr. Cameron, anyway, cried Issa. Won't we, girls? Oh, if wishes were wings. Wing, said Mandy, with a puzzled air. What for? This is a race. Didn't you never see a hen run, Mandy, laughed Perkins? Yes, I have, but I tell you, Mr. Cameron ain't no hen, replied Mandy angrily. And more, he's going to win. Say, Mandy, that is a talk, said Mack, when the laugh had passed. Did you hear yawn? He added to Cameron. Cameron nodded. It is a good omen, he said. I am going to do my best. And by Jingo, if you only had a chance, said Mack, I believe you would lick them all. At this, Fatty bustled up. Already, eh, Cameron? I shall owe you something for this. LaBelle kicked like a steer against your entering at the last minute, is against the rules you know, but he's given in. Fatty did not explain that he had intimated to LaBelle that there was no need for anxiety, as far as the chat from the old country was concerned. He was there merely to fill up. But if LaBelle's fears were elade by the Secretary's disparaging description of the latest competitor, they sprang full-grown into life again when he saw Cameron, all set, for the start, and more especially so when he heard his protest against the Frenchman's method of the getaway. I want you to notice, he said firmly to Dr. Cain, who was acting as starter, that this man gets away with the word go and not after it. It is an old trick, but long ago played out. Then the Frenchman fell into a rage. It is no trick, sputtered LaBelle. It is too quick for him. All right, said Dr. Cain. You are to start after the word go, remember. Sorry we had no pistol. Once more the competitors crouched over the scratch. All set, go. Like the releasing of a whirlwind, the four runners spring from the scratch. LaBelle, whose specialty is his getaway in front, full-attended Cameron in second place. Kay Hill, a close third. A blanket would cover them all. A tumult of cheers from the friends of the various runners follows them along their brief course. Who is it? Who is it? cries Mandy breathlessly, clutching Mack by the arm. Cameron, I swear, roars Mack, pushing his way through the crowd to the judges. No, no, LaBelle, LaBelle, cried the Frenchman's backers from the city. The judges are apparently in dispute. I swear it is Cameron. Roars Mack again in their ears, his eyes aflame and his face alight with a fierce and triumphant joy. It is Cameron, I am telling you. Oh, get out, you big bluffer, cried a thin-faced man, pressing close upon the judges. It is LaBelle by a mile. By a mile, as it shouts Mack, then go and hunt your man, and with a swift motion his big hand falls upon the thin face and sweeps it clear out of you, the man bearing it coming to his feet in a white fury some paces away. A second look at Mack, however, calms his rage, and from a distance he continues leaping and yelling, LaBelle, LaBelle. After a few moments' consultation the result is announced. A tie for the first place between LaBelle and Cameron. Tie him eleven seconds. The tie will be run off in a few minutes. In a tumult of triumph, big Mack shoulders Cameron through the crowd and carries him off to the dressing deck, where he spends the next ten minutes rubbing the man's legs and chanting his glory. Who is this Cameron? inquired the MPP, leaning over the platform railing. Quick came the answer from the bevy of girls thronging past the platform. Cameron, he's our man. It was Mandy's voice, bold and strong. Your man, said the MPP, laughing down into the coarse-flushed face. Yes, our man, cried Issa Mackenzie back at him. And a winner, you may be sure. Ah, happy man, exclaimed the MPP, who would not win with such backers. Why, I would win myself, Mrs. Issa, or you to back me so. But who is Cameron? He continued to the Methodist minister at his side. He is Haley's hired man, I believe, and that first girl is Haley's daughter. Poor thing, echoed Mrs. Freeman, a kindly smile on her motherly face. But she has a good heart, has poor Mandy. But why, poor, inquired the MPP. Oh, well, answered Mrs. Freeman with hesitation. You see, she is so very plain, and, well, not like the other girls. But she is a good worker and has a kind heart. Once more the runners face the starter. Lobel, gay, alert, confident. Cameron, silent, pale and grim. I'll set, go. Lobel is away or the word is spoken. Lobel, however, brings him back, wrathful and less confident. Once more they stand crouching over the scratch. Once more the word releases them like shafts from the bow. A beautiful start. Lobel again in the lead, but Cameron hearted his heels, and evidently was something to spare. Thus for fifty yards, sixty, yes sixty-five. Lobel, Lobel, he wins, he wins, yells his backers frantically. The thin-faced man dancing madly near the finishing tape. Twenty yards ago, and still Lobel is in the lead. High above the shouting rise is Max Roar. Now, Cameron, for the life of you. It was as if his voice has touched a spring somewhere in Cameron's anatomy. A great leap brings him even with Lobel. Another, another, and still another, and he breasts the tape a winter by a yard. Time, ten and three-fifths seconds. The Maple Hill folk go mad. And madder than all is a inner company of girlfriends. I got one bad start, me. He, pull me back, panted Lobel to his backers who were holding him up. Who pulled you back? Indignantly cried the thin-faced man, looking for blood. That's Zachary's dark hair. You ran a fine-race Lobel, said Cameron, coming up. Not in peste. I make him in ten and one-fifth, replied the disgusted Lobel. I have made it in ten, said Cameron quietly. Aha! exclaimed Lobel. You are one black horse, hey! So I raced no more to-day. Then no more do I, said Cameron, firmly. Why Lobel? He will beat me in the next race-shore. I have no wind. Under pressure Lobel changed his mind. And well for him he did. For in the two hundred and twenty yards, and in the quarter mile, Cameron's lack of condition told against him. So that in the one he ran second to Lobel, and in the other third to Lobel and Fullerton. The Maple Hill folks were gloriously satisfied, and Fatty in an ecstasy of delight radiated good cheer everywhere. Throughout the various contests, the interest continued to deepen. The secretary, with the able-general ship, reserving the hammer-throwing as the most thrilling event to the last place, for more than anything in the world, men, and especially women, love strong men and love to see them in conflict. For that fatal love cruel wars have been waged, lands have been desolated, kingdoms have fallen. There was the promise of a very pretty fight indeed, between the three entered for the hammer-throwing contest. Two of them experienced in this warfare and bearing high honors. The third new to the game and unskilled, but loved for his modest courage, and for the simple, gentle heart he carried in his great body. He could not win, of course, for McGee, the champion of the city police force, had many scalps at his girdle, and Duncan Ross. Black Duncan, the pride of the Zoras, the unconquered hero of something less than a hundred fights, who could hope to win from him. But all the more for this, the people loved Big Mac and wished him well. So down the sloping sides of the encircling hills, the crowds pressed thick, and on the platform the great men leaned over the rail, where they lifted their ladies to places of vantage upon the chairs beside them. Oh, I cannot see a bit, cried Issa Mackenzie, vainly pressing upon the crowding men, who, stolidly unaware of all but what was doing in front of them, effectually shut off her view. And you want to see, said the MPP, looking down at her. Oh, so much, she cried. Come up here, then, and, giving her a hand, he lifted her, smiling and blushing, to a place on the platform, whence, she, with absorbing interest, followed the movements of Big Mac, and, incidentally, of the others, in as far as they might bear any relation to those of her hero. And now they were drawing for place. Ah-ha, Mack is going to throw first, said the Reverend Alexander Monroe. That is a pity. It's a shame, cried Issa, with flashing eyes. Why don't they put one of those older, um, Stagers suggested the MPP. Duffers concluded Issa. The lot determines the place, Miss Issa, said Mr. Freeman, with a smile at her. But the best man will win. Oh, I'm not so sure of that, cried the girl in a distressed voice. Mack might get nervous. Nervous, laughed the MPP. That giant? Yes, indeed. I have seen him that nervous, said Issa, and stopped abruptly. Ah, that is quite possible, replied the MPP, with a quizzical smile. And there is young Cameron Yonder. He is not going to throw, is he? inquired Mr. Monroe. He is coaching Mack, explained Issa, and fine he is at it. Oh, there, he is going to throw. Oh, if he only gets a swing. Oh, oh, oh, he's got it fine. A storm of cheer follows Mack's throw. Then a deep silence while the judges took the measurement. 121 feet. 121 feet echoed 100 voices in amazement. 121? It's a lie, cried McGee, with an oath striding out to personally supervise the measuring. 121, said Duncan Ross, shaking his head doubtfully, that he was too much of a gentleman to do other than wait for the judge's decision. 121 feet and two inches was the final verdict. And from the crowd there rose a roar that rolled like thunder around the hills. It's a fluke, and so it is, said McGee with another oath. Give me your hand, lad, said Duncan Ross. Evidently much rouse. It is a noble throw at Aver and worthy big glory himself. I have done better, however, but indeed I may not today. It was indeed a great throw, and one immediate result was that there was no holding back in the contest, no playing possum. Mack's throw was there to be beaten, and neither McGee, nor even Black Duncan, could afford to throw away a single chance. For hammer throwing is an art requiring not only strength but skill as well, and not only strength and skill, but something else most difficult to secure. With the strength and the skill, there must go a rhythmic and perfect coordination of all the muscles in the body, with exactly the proper contracting and relaxing of each head exactly the proper moment of time, and this perfect coordination is a result rarely achieved even by the greatest throwers, but one achieved, and with the man's full strength behind it, his record throw is a result. Meantime Cameron was hovering about his man in an ecstasy of delight. Oh, Mack, old man, he said, you got the swing perfectly. It was a dream, and if you had put your full strength into it, he would have made a world record. Why, man, you could add ten feet to it. It is a fluke, said McGee again, as he took his place. Make one like it, then, my lad, said Black Duncan with a grim smile, but this McGee failed to do, for his throw measured ninety-seven feet. A very fair throw, McGee, said Black Duncan, but not your best, and nothing but the best will do the day, appearingly. With that, Black Duncan took place for his throw. One, twice, thrice, he swung the great hammer about his head, then sent it whirling into the air. Again a mighty shout announced a great throw, and again a dead silence waited for the measurement, one hundred and fourteen feet. Ah-ha, said Black Duncan, and stepped back apparently well satisfied. It was again Max's turn. You have the privilege of allowing your first throw to stand, said Dr. Cain. Best let it stand, lad, till it is beat, advised Black Duncan kindly. It is a noble throw. He can do better, though, said Cameron. Very well, very well, said Duncan, let him try. But Max's success had keyed him up to the highest pitch. Every nerve was tingling, every muscle taught. His first throw he had taken without strain, being mainly anxious under Cameron's coaching. To get the swing, but under the excitement incident to the contest, he had put more strength into the throw than appeared either to himself or to his coach. Now, however, with nerves and muscles tied, he was eager to increase his distance. Too eager it seemed, for his second throw measured only eighty-nine feet. A silence fell upon his friends, and Cameron began to chide him. He went right back to your old style, Mac. There wasn't the sign of a swing. I will get it yet, or bust, said Big Mac, between his teeth. McGee's second throw went one hundred and seventeen feet. The cheer arose from his backers, for it was a great throw, and within five feet of his record. Undoubtedly McGee was in a great form, and he might well be expected to measure up to his best today. Black Duncan's second throw measured one hundred and nineteen feet seven, which was fifteen feet short of his record, and showed him to be climbing steadily upward. Once more the turn came to Mac, and once more, with almost savage eagerness, he seized the hammer preparatively to his throw. Now Mac, for heaven's sake, go easy, said Cameron. Take your swing easy and slow. But Mac heeded him not. I can beat it, he muttered, between his shut teeth, and I will. So with every nerve taught, and every muscle strained to its limit, he made his third attempt. It was in vain. The measure showed ninety-seven feet six, a suppressed groan rose from the Maple Hill Folk. A grand throw, lad, for a beginner, said Black Duncan. The excitement now became intense. By his first throw of one hundred and twenty-one feet two, Mac remained still the winner. But McGee had only four feet to gain, and Black Duncan less than two to equal him. The little secretary went skipping about a glow with satisfaction and delight. The day was already famous in the history of Canadian athletics. Again McGee took his place for his throw, his third and last. The crowd gathered in as near as they dared, but McGee was done his best for that day, and his final throw measured only one hundred and five feet. There remained yet but a single chance to rest from Mac Murray, the prize for that day. But that chance lay in the hands of Duncan Ross, the cool and experienced champion of many a hard fight fight. Again Black Duncan took the hammer, it was his last throw. He had still fifteen feet to go to reach his own record, and he had often beaten the throw that challenged him today. But, on the other hand, he had passed through many a contest where his throw had fallen short of the one he must now beat to win. A hush fell upon the people as Black Duncan took his place. Once, twice, and with ever-increasing speed, thrice he swung the great hammer, then high and far hurled through the air. Jerusalem cried Mac, what a fling! Too high, mutter, Black Duncan. You've got it, lad, you've got it, and you well deserve it. Tut, tut, nonsense, said Mac impatiently. Wait you a minute. Silent and expectant, the crowd awaited the result. Twice over, the judges measured the throw, then announced one hundred and twenty-one feet. Mac had won by two inches. A great roar rose from the crowd. Round Mac, they surged like a flood, eager to grip his hands and eager to carry him off shoulder high. But he threw them off as the rock throws back the incoming tide and made for Duncan Ross, who stood calm and pale with his hand outstretched, waiting him. It was a new experience for Black Duncan, and a bitter to be second in a contest. Only once in many years had he been forced to lower his colors and to be beaten by a raw and unknown youth added to the humiliation of his defeat. But Duncan Ross had in his veins the blood of a long line of Highland gentlemen who knew how to take defeat with a smile. I congratulate you, Mac Murray. He said in a firm, clear voice. Your fame will be through Canada tomorrow, and well you deserve it. But Mac caught the outstretched hands in both of his and, leaning towards Black Duncan, he roared at him above the den. Mr. Ross, Mr. Ross, it is no win. Listen to me, he panted. What are two inches and a hundred and twenty feet? A stretching of the tape will do it. No, no, listen to me. You must listen to me, as you are a man. I will not have it. You have beat me easily in the throw. At best it is a tie, and nothing else will I have today. At least let us throw again, he pleaded. But to this Ross would not listen for a moment. The lad has made his win, he said to the judges, and his win he must have. But Mac declared that nothing under heaven would make him change his mind. Finally the judges, too, agreed that in view of the possibility of a mistake in measuring with the tape, it would be only right and fair to count the result of a tie. Black Duncan listened respectfully to the judge's decision. You are asking me a good deal, Mac, he said at length, but you are a gallant lad, and I am an older man, and a better shot at Mac. And so I will agree. Once more the field was cleared, and now there fell upon the crowding people a hush, as if they stood in the presence of death itself. Ladies and gentlemen, said the MPP. Do you realize that you are looking upon a truly great contest? A contest great enough to be of national, yes, of international importance. You bet your sweet life, cried the irrepressible fatty. We're going some. What's the matter with our Mac, he shouted? He's all right, came back the chant, from the surrounding hills in hundreds of voices. And what's the matter with Duncan Ross, cried Mac, waving a hand above his head? Again the assurance of perfect rightness came back in a mighty roar from the hills, but it was hushed into immediate silence, a silence breathless and overwhelming. Her black Duncan had taken once more his place with a hammer in his hand. Oh, I do wish they would hurry, gasped is her hands pressed hard upon her heart. My heart is rather weak too, said the MPP. I fear I cannot last much longer. Ah, there he goes, thank God. Amen, fervently responds little Mrs. Freeman, who, in the intensity of her excitement, is standing on a chair holding tight by her husband's collar. Not a sound breaks the silence as black Duncan takes his swing. It is a crucial moment in his career, only by one man in Canada has he ever been beaten, and with the powers of his antagonists all untried and unknown, for anyone can see that Mac has not yet thrown his best, he may be called upon to surrender within the next few minutes the proud position he has held so long in the athletic world. But there is not a sign of excitement in his face. With great care, and with almost painful deliberation, he balances the hammer for a moment or two. Then once, twice, and with a tremendous quickening of speed thrice, he swings and his throw is made, a great throw it is, anyone can see, and one that beats the winner. In hushed and strained silence, the people await the result. One hundred and twenty-one feet, nine, then rises the roar that has been held pent up during the last few nerve-wracking minutes. It is a good enough throw, said black Duncan, with a quiet smile, but there is more in me yet. Now lad, do your best, and there will be no hard feeling with this man whatever happens. Black Duncan's accent and idioms reveal the intense excitement that lies behind his quiet face. Mack takes the hammer. I will not beat it, you may be sure, he says, but I will just take a fling it in anyway. Now Mack says, Cameron, for the sake of all you love, forget the distance and show them their brain more swing, easy and slow. But Mack waves him aside and stands pondering. He is getting the idea. Man, do you see him, whispers his brother Danny, who stands near to Cameron? I believe he has got it. Cameron nods his head. Mack wears an impressive air of confidence and strength. It will be a great throw, says Cameron to Danny. Easy and slow. Mack poises the great hammer in his hand, swings it gently backward and forward. As if it had been a boy's toy, the great muscles in arms and back rippling up and down in firm, full waves under his white skin, for he is now stripped to the waist for this throw. Suddenly, as if at command, the muscles seem to spring to their places. Tense, alert. Easy, yet truly, but by no means slow. Easy, the great hammer swings about his head in whirling circles, swift and ever-swifter, once and twice. The great muscles in back and arms and back and legs nodded in bunches thrice. A long wailing, horrible sound, half moan, half cry, breaks from the people. Mack has missed his direction and the great hammer, weighted with the potentialities of death, is describing a parabola high over the heads of the crowding, shrieking, scattering people. Oh my god, my god, oh my god, my god, with his hands covering his eyes, the big man is swaying from side to side like a mighty tree before a tempest. Cameron and Ross both spring to him. On the hillsides, men stand rigid, pale, shaking, women shriek in pain. One ghastly moment of suspense and then a horrid, sickening thud. One more agonizing second of silence and then from the score of throats rises a cry. It's all right, all right, no one hurt. From five hundred throats breaks a weird, unearthly mingling of strange sounds, cheers and cries, shouts and sobs, prayers and oats. In the midst of it all, Mack sinks to his knees, with hands outstretched to heaven. Great god, I thank thee, I thank thee, he cries brokenly, the tears streaming down his ghastly face. Then, falling forward upon his hands, he steadies himself, while great sobs come heaving from his mighty chest. Cameron and Ross still upholding him. Through the crowd a man comes pushing his way, hurling men and women right and left. Back people and be still. It is the minister, Alexander Munro, be still. It is a great deliverance that God has wrought. Peace woman, God is near, let us pray. Instantly all noises are hushed, hats come off, and all of the sloping hills, men and women, fall to their knees, or remain standing with heads bowed, while the minister, upright beside the kneeling man, spreads his hands towards heaven and prays in a voice steady, strong, thrilling. Almighty God, great and wonderful in thy ways, merciful and gracious in thy providence. Thou hast wrought a great deliverance before our eyes this day. All power is in thy hands, all forces move at thy command. Thy hand it is that guided this dread hammer harmless to its own place, saving the people from death. It is ever thus, Father, for thou art love. We live to thee, our hearts praise. May we walk softly before thee this day, and always. Amen. Amen, amen. On every hand and up the hillsides rises the fervent solemn attestation. Rise, Mr. Murray, says the minister in a loud and solemn voice, giving Mac his hand. God has been gracious to you this day. See that you do not forget. He has that, he has that, psalms Mac, and God forgive me if I ever forget. And suddenly, pushing from him, the many hands stretched out towards him, he stumbles his way through the crowd, led off by his two friends towards the tent. Hold on there a minute. Let us get this measurement first. It was a matter-of-fact cheery voice of Fatty Freeman. If I am not mistaken, we have a great throw to measure. Quite right, Mr. Freeman, says the minister. Let us get the measurement, and let not the day be spoiled. Here, you people don't stand there gawking like a lot of dody chumps. Cried the secretary, striving to whip them out of the mood of horror into which they had fallen. Get a move on. Give the judges a chance. What is it, doctor? The judges were consulting. At length the decision was announced. One hundred and twenty-nine, seven. Ray yelled Fatty, flinging his straw hat high. One hundred and twenty-nine, seven. It is a world throw. Why don't you yell, you people? Don't you know that you have a world-beater among you? Yell! Yell! Three cheers from Mack Murray, cried out the Reverend Harper Freeman from the platform, swinging his great black beaver hat over his head. It was what the people wanted. Again and again and yet again the crowd exhausted its pent-up emotions in frantic cheers. The clouds of gloom were rolled back. The sun was shining bright again, and with fresh zest the people turned to the enjoyment of the rest of the program. Thank you, sir, said Fatty amid the uproar gripping the hand of Mr. Monroe. You have saved the day for us. We are all going to smash, but you pulled us out. Meantime in the tent Duncan Ross was discoursing to his friends. Man, Mack, he haunts a mighty throw. Do you know it is within five feet of my own record and within ten of big rories? Then he said solemnly, You are in the world's first class today, my boy, and you are just beginning. I have just quit, said Mack. West lad, this is not the day for saying anything about it. We will wait a wee, and today we will just be thankful. And with that they turned to other things. They were still in the dressing tent when the secretary thrust his cheery face under the flap. I say, boys, are you ready? Cameron, we want you on the pipes. Harp, said Mack. I am going home. I am quite useless. And me too, said Cameron. I shall go with you, Mack. What cried Fatty in consternation? Look here, boys. Is this a square deal? God knows I am nearly all in myself. I've had enough to keep this thing from going to pieces. Don't you go back on me now. That is so, said Mack slowly. Cameron, you must stay. You are needed. I will spoil things more by staying than by going. I will be forever seeing that hammer crushing down. He covered his face with his hands and shuddered. All right, Mack. I will stay, said Cameron. But what about you? Oh, said Black Duncan. Mack and I will walk about and have a smoke for a while. Thanks, boys. You are the stuff, said Fatty fervently. Once more you have saved the day. Come then, Cameron. Get your pipes. Old Sutherland is waiting for you. But before he set off, Mack called Cameron to him. You will see Issa, he said, and tell her why I could not stay. And you will take her home. His face was still pallid, his voice unsteady. I will take care of her, Mack. Never fear. But could you not remain? It might help you. But Mack only shook his head. His fervent Highland soul had too recently passed through the valley of death and its shadow were still upon him. Four hours later, Fatty looked in upon Mack at his own home. He found him sitting in the moonlight in the open door of the big new barn with his new made friend, Duncan Ross, at one door post, an old Piper Sutherland at the other. While up and down the floor in the shadow within, Cameron marched, droning the wild melody of the Macramond lament. Mournful and weird, it sounded through the gloom. But upon the hearts of these Highlanders, it felt like a soothing balm. With a wave of his hand, Mack indicated to see which fat he took without a word. Irrepressible though he was, he had all the instincts of a true gentleman. He knew it was the time for silence, and silent he stood till the lament had run through its doubling and its troubling, ending with the simple stately movement of its original theme. To Fatty, it was a mere mad and unmalodious noise, but reading the faces of the three men before him in the moonlight, he had sensed enough to recognize his own limitations. At length the lament was finished, and Cameron came forward into the light. That is good for the soul, said old Piper Sutherland. Do you know what your pipes have been saying to me and your lament? Yea, though I walk through death's dark veil, yet will I fear none ill, for thou art with me, and thy rod and staff, me comfort still. And we have been in the valley this day. Mack rose to his feet. I could not have said it myself, but, as true as death, that is the word for me. Well, said Fatty, rising briskly, I guess you are all right, Mack. I confess I was a bit anxious about you, but there is no need to Mack gravely. I can sleep now. Good night then, replied Fatty, turning to go. Cameron, I owe you a whole lot. I won't forget it. He said his hat upon the back of his head, sticking his hands into his pockets, and surveying the group before him. Say, you Highlanders are a great bunch. I do not pretend to understand you, but I want to say that between you, you have saved the day. And with that the cheery frisky, irrepressible, but kindly little man, faded into the moonlight, and was gone. For the fourth time the day had been saved. End of Book 2, Chapter 5, Recording by Chuck Barges, Bradenton, Florida