NEW FRIENDS

If Audry Ferris “worshipped” people who are “big” she must have prostrated herself in adoration before the mammoth bulk of Miranda, the camp cook, who held sway in the cottage. No spiritual reasons had directed Miranda’s choice of this residence. She was there because she was there. And she was very much there. No white person ever was, or ever could be, as large in circumference as Miranda. To Tom the muslin girdle which encircled her waist seemed like the equator.

“Some day when you have a little time take a trip around her,” said Ferris to Tom.

The cottage, like the hotel, was held fast by iron rods reaching slantingways from the eaves all around and securely anchored in the rocks. The very security of these auxiliary holds gave one a feeling of insecurity that such outlandish makeshifts should be necessary to ensure the safety of a house.

It was all but dark when they arrived and a late supper was served them in the little living room of the cottage. It was very cozy eating there.

Tom could not reconcile himself to the incongruity of Miranda living in the cottage, she was so large and the cottage so small. She would have seemed more appropriately placed in the big barnlike structure nearby. Her hospitality was as large as her person and she informed Tom that whatever he required Auntie Mirandy was the one to see.

Her abounding maternalism included the whole camp, the one disturbing element in her comfortable employment being a rooted conviction that the old hotel was haunted.

“Heered ’em?” she vociferated in answer to Tom’s inquiry. “Lor’ I seed ’em, honey. I seed ’em wid my own eyes; Lord o’ mercy yes. I seed ’em runnin’.”

She had long since served supper to the group of hungry workers over in the kitchen of the big hotel. It was the custom of two or more of these to come over to the cottage and carry back the huge caldron and other utensils containing the meal for all.

Often, when Tom saw this steaming caldron, filled with stew or chowder, being borne across the littered, shaving covered space to the hotel, he felt that he would like to be among that miscellaneous band who dined in such primitive fashion among themselves. They bunked in three or four of the ground floor rooms and gathered on a back porch in one of the wings to chat and smoke away the evenings.

They were here when Ferris, carrying a lantern, took Tom over after supper to show him the hotel and have him meet the workers.

“Boys,” said Ferris in his hearty way and with a kindly tact that increased Tom’s already strong admiration for him, “this is Tom Slade, comes from the big camp up Catskill way. He’s got a lot of this woodcraft dope and he’s going to get us started on the log cabin. Hope some of you’ll give him a hand.”

“Welcome to our city,” said a voice with a rich, musical volume to it. The words seemed to roll out as if they were greased.

“Meet Mr. Fairgreaves, Slade,” said Ferris.

Mr. Fairgreaves, as Tom could just about make out in the fitful lantern light, wore khaki trousers, a blue flannel shirt and a cutaway coat. A more outlandish combination could hardly be imagined, yet this coat, despite its incongruous companion garments, gave its wearer a certain gracious dignity which was heightened by a distinguished countenance, with dashing, wavy hair and an extensive, mobile mouth.

“Thrice welcome to our humble domicile,” he said.

He seemed so hospitable that Tom felt already a little qualm of remorse that he had elected to sleep and dine apart from this group. Somehow or other Mr. Fairgreaves’ ample welcome seemed to bespeak the friendly, rough and ready spirit of the place. It made Tom feel a little guilty.

There were eight or ten men lounging on the porch, ranging in age from twenty to thirty, Tom thought. He was introduced to but three or four individually, and these he supposed to be the steadies.

One who seemed youngish, although quite bald, he guessed to be the inventor with a fortune hinging on a law suit. Even in the dim light Tom could see that two or three were rather dubious looking characters.

One who leaned against the railing smoking a pipe wore a doughboy’s uniform and a slouch hat. Tom thought afterward that he was one who had been introduced as Mr. Whalen. But the introductions had been very haphazard and the darkness had made them all but superfluous.

When he went to bed in a funny little room in the cottage that night, the only one of the group he seemed to know by name was Mr. Fairgreaves. Mr. Fairgreaves’ black cutaway and melodious, rolling voice had triumphed over the darkness.