  The interior was a single room some twenty-five feet long and over half as wide, the walls of pine logs carefully trimmed and notched, with joints made tight with cement. Opposite the door yawned a cavernous fireplace of rough stone in which a pile of four foot logs roared and crackled. That much there had been on that October night when the scouts first occupied the cabin; otherwise one would have scarcely have recognized it as the same place. Another pair of bunks had been added to match the first. Over the fireplace hung a fine moosehead beautifully mounted, and here and there above the windows or on the walls were other horns of elk, caribou or deer. There were several bear skins on the floor, shelves containing tinware and dishes, several big, comfortable armchairs, a heavy table piled with packages and boxes. And hanging from the rafters, or festooned about the antlers or along the walls, thick ropes of hemlock mingled with glossy mountain laurel lent a festive note to the picture and filled the room with the pungent fragrance of Christmastide. It was a picture to stir the imagination of any boy, old or young, and John Farren was stirred deeply. In that instant as he stared around, there came to him a vivid memory of the hunter’s shack on the Pacific slope which he had found and renovated with such pride in those boyhood days which now seemed so remote and far away. Swift on the heels of this, there flashed over him in one queer mental medley, the thought of home, of Christmas trees, of his mother’s smiling face, his little sister’s shrill, sweet laugh. And mixed up with those fleeting brain pictures, were vague, blurred visions of skates and toys and candy—even of stockings hung before another fire whose ashes had been cold a thousand years. He blinked—and was back in the present again, the boys clustered around him, the real fire hot against his face. “It’s great, fellows—simply great!” he said in a voice which was not quite steady. “I never saw anything so corking as—” He paused, his gaze fixed incredulously on the rough oak slab which formed the mantel. A long, black stocking hung there, bulging, distended, and for a moment he thought his brain was playing tricks. Then someone behind him snickered and Cavanaugh gave him a gentle forward push. “Santa Claus was here and left that with your name on it, Jack,” he chuckled. “Better take a look at it. The kids are itching to see what’s in it.” Amidst a laughing chorus of denial from the youngsters, Farren stepped quickly forward. The stocking was very real and solid to the touch, bulging along its length with mysterious, suggestive bumps and corners. Pinned to the top was a card on which was written in painstaking script: “J. Farren; Merry Christmas.” Farren read it slowly; then he laughed—a sudden, bubbling, infectious laugh, and faced around, the stocking in his hands. “He’s a great old scout, isn’t he?” he chuckled. “Think of his knowing I was going to be here when I didn’t even know it myself! He must have had some silent partners about. Where’s a chair? I’ve got to sit down and take this slowly. I haven’t had a Christmas stocking for goodness knows how long.” He dragged one of the big chairs up to the table and with the boys crowding around, he began to empty the stocking. It was crammed with parcels of various sizes, some neatly tied in tissue with red ribbons, others showing the work of clumsy fingers in their rumpled, wrinkled wrappings. But each separate one, as its contents was revealed, bore evidence in some way of painstaking thought, of kindness, even of sacrifice. There was a jack-knife, new and shining in its chamois case, a money belt, a leather covered shaving glass. There were packets of writing paper, some handkerchiefs, soap, chocolate, a box of cigarettes, besides many other articles of utility or luxury. As he opened them, Farren kept up a brisk running fire of comment and approval, but when they all lay spread before him, he sat motionless for a moment, his head a little bent. “This is corking of you, fellows—simply corking,” he said presently in a low tone. “It’s the nicest thing that ever happened to me, and I—I won’t forget it in a hurry.” He raised his head and flashed about the circle a smile of gratitude and appreciation. “I can’t say any more than—thank you; but I mean that a thousand times, and I want to shake hands with every one of you.” He stood up abruptly, releasing the slight touch of embarrassment which, for just an instant, had held them silent. When the handshakings were over the cabin resounded again with a babel of talk and laughter, which presently merged into the bustle of preparation, for it appeared that a regular Christmas dinner was to be cooked and served. Farren was eager to help, but his offers were firmly refused, and he was ordered to make himself comfortable by the fire while the others got busy. “Of course, if you see anything being done wrong, you can draw our attention to it,” said Jim Cavanaugh, his eyes twinkling. “A fellow can’t remember everything all the time.” “I guess you’ll remember more than I should,” laughed Farren. “What I don’t know about cooking would fill a large volume.” “We’re none of us experts,” admitted Cavvy. “Still, I reckon we’ll make out somehow.” In spite of his modesty, the work went forward in a businesslike manner which betokened either uncommon culinary skill, or a good deal of expert advice obtained beforehand. Farren drew up a chair to one side of the blaze and watched everything interestedly, keeping up a running fire of joke and comment with the cooks and their helpers. Once or twice he got up and strolled about the room, admiring the furnishings and decorations, and each time a scout or two accompanied him to make sure he missed no special feature. But gradually the interest centered around the fireplace. The fire had been allowed to die down and a thick bed of glowing coals raked forward to accommodate the various cooking operations which were going forward in every available corner of the wide stone hearth. Sweet potatoes boiled merrily in one receptacle; onions in another. From a heavy iron crane above them hung a large and ample kettle, a trickle of steam rising from its spout. These, however, were minor details of the banquet, interesting as accessories, but of no real importance compared with the principal dish which occupied the center of the stage and absorbed the anxious attention of the entire assemblage. In the middle of the hearth stood a heavy iron grate supporting a large tin oven. Cavanaugh, and Steve Haddon, who was in from Washington for a week, squatted before it, each holding an iron poker with which, at frequent intervals, they raked forward fresh coals to replenish the heap beneath the grate. And at intervals almost as frequent one or the other opened the oven door to peer within. Their movements were followed anxiously by every scout not otherwise fully occupied, and there was no lack of advice from the many onlookers. This was received by the two cooks with contemptuous jeers, but there was, nevertheless, a slight touch of tension in their manner, a decided caution of movement, a keen attention to details. For in that oven, trussed, stuffed already delicately browning, reposed—the turkey! “Mother wanted us to have it cooked at home and just warm it up in the cabin,” explained Cavvy to Farren with a touch of scorn. “But, gee! What’s the use of having a turkey if you can’t smell it cooking!” “There’s nothing like it,” agreed the soldier, sniffing the air appreciatively. “Doesn’t it make you hungry, though?” “You’ve said it!” came in unison from several lips. “You’re sure it won’t get burned, Cavvy?” added McBride, who had charge of the onions. “What do you think we’re sitting here watching it for?” retorted Cavanaugh with some heat. “You look after those onions and don’t bother about the turkey. I’ll bet you haven’t made the cream sauce yet.” “Rit’s mixing it up now.” “Well, he wants to get some speed on. This bird will be dished up in twenty minutes sharp, and we want all the other grub ready by that time. How are the potatoes, Red?” Flushed but smiling, Red Garrity withdrew the fork he had just plunged into the bubbling pail. “Just about done,” he answered. “Better set ’em off to one side, then, and about five minutes before we’re ready you can peel them and put ’em on a plate. When he gets out of there, Chick, you slick on the plum pudding to heat.” To most of them that twenty minutes dragged interminably, but like all other similar periods of waiting, it came to an end at last. When all the other accessories of the banquet had been placed on the carefully set table, Cavanaugh and Haddon together lifted the oven from the fire to the hearth and removed the steaming fowl to a platter placed in readiness. There was a moment of gasping suspense as Cavvy brushed one hand against the hot metal and nearly dropped his end of the load. But he hung on, and the calamity was averted at the expense of a red ridge across three fingers. A moment later the turkey was laid triumphantly on the board and the boys scrambled to their places, with sighs of mingled relief and anticipation. The latter were more than justified. No turkey, it seemed to them, had ever been so plump and juicy, so tender, so crisply brown, so succulent of dressing. The creamed onions were delicious, the potatoes done to a turn, the brown gravy plentiful and thick. They ate and ate, and passed their plates for more. When the first pangs of hunger had been assuaged, jesting and banter began to run up and down the table, compliments phrased in the inverse to terms of boyhood were showered upon the cooks, who tried not to look too proud as they themselves enthusiastically consumed the products of their skill. John Farren’s enjoyment of the meal was utter and complete. The food really was delicious, but better than any material pleasure was the mental relaxation that had come to him. His troubles had quite vanished, his laugh rang clear and unrestrained, and he joined in the joking give and take with all the mischievous abandon of a boy. So the feast passed on to its predestined end. And when the turkey lay dismembered on its platter, looking like the yawning wreck of some stranded derelict, when the plum pudding had vanished save for a few crumbs and every other dish was scraped quite clean, the boys arose with sighs of repletion and gathered around the fireplace. Fresh logs were piled upon the embers, skins dragged up, and they crowded in a close semi-circle before the blaze with Farren in the center. Outside the early dusk had fallen, the whispering touch of snow flakes brushed against window panes or across the roof. Now and again the wind howled eerily in the chimney. But inside the cabin was only warmth and cheer and comradeship. And as the dancing flames lit up that circles of boyish faces, some flushed and drowsy, others bright-eyed and alert, each one meeting his own glance now and then with a friendly smile, Farren thrilled oddly. McBride sat close on one side of him, little Furn Barber nestled against the other. And presently, when the small boy began to nod, Farren slid an arm around his shoulder and drew the tousled head down upon his knee. How could he have thought the world cold and lonely, he wondered? They did not sit long in silence. There were jokes and laughter, a story or two, and presently someone started up a song. But all too soon came the jingle of bells and the muffled stamping of the horse, brought up from the red farm house below. “I hate to break up the party,” said Cavanaugh, scrambling to his feet; “but you know we promised to return you on time.” “I know.” Farren stood up, smiling a little at Barber’s dazed awakening. “I’m not the least bit keen to leave, but of course I must.” It was not easy to tell them what that day had meant to him. They could not understand it all; he hoped they never would. But when he had finished, at least they knew that he was grateful. There was a brisk bustle of handshaking, a chorus of good-bys, and he was in the sleigh, looking back at the open door filled with smiling faces and wildly waving hands. Then the faces blurred into mere outlines, black against the glow of the fire, the friendly voices grew fainter, there came a turn in the path and the cabin vanished. It was nearly an hour before Cavvy and McBride returned, but it was an hour well spent in washing dishes and tidying up generally. It is just possible that this job might have been put off till morning but for the fact that the entire crowd was spending the night here and needed every inch of room. The clearing up had hardly been finished before the two boys were heard outside kicking the snow from their feet. A moment later they entered. “Greatest news you ever heard,” exclaimed Cavanaugh at once, stripping off his mackinaw and hanging it on some horns to dry. “Jack’s going over!” “What! Right away?” inquired several voices at once. “Yep. He starts the first thing in the morning. His Colonel’s had word that the regiment will be a month longer wherever they are in France before going to the front, so he’s sending four or five men who were left behind to join it. Jack’s about crazy with joy.” “I should think he would be,” remarked Steve Haddon slowly. “It must have been tough having all the others go without him. I’d hate it, I know.” No one answered him directly. At the further end of the room the youngsters were raucously disputing over sleeping places, but on the four or five older scouts gathered before the fire a sudden, thoughtful silence had fallen. A year from now where would they all be! Scarcely together as they were to-night. Presently Cavvy caught Steve’s eye and his arm dropped across the other’s shoulder to rest there with a faint pressure. “So should I,” he agreed. Then he smiled. “Steve, old scout,” he went on briskly, “we’ll have to enlist together when we go and maybe they’ll put us on the same ship. Meantime— Hanged if I’m not hungry again! Let’s see if we can’t dig up some cold turkey.” THE END |
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