Dear Davy:—Only a line to say how d’do, and tell you that things are booming here, especially in the office. The pater asks me to say that he, as chairman of a certain committee of inflated gold-bugs, will accept your figure for the entire Lost Farm tract (survey inclosed), provided the figure is anywhere within reason, whatever that means. This is with the understanding that the present tenants vacate on or before June 1st, 19—.

The N. M. & Q. will have their iron laid as far as Tramworth by that time.

I suppose you have become quite a woodsman by this time, but I can’t for the life of me see how you can stand it up there in winter; summer is bad enough.

By the way, if it is not too much trouble, you might bring Smoke along when you come out, if you ever do. I’ve given up hoping you will. Bess seems to think she wants Smoke, although she didn’t see him once a month when he was at home.

My illustrious father has cooked up a new job for me—I’m a promoter now. Shake.

Davy, I have a surprise for you when you come; something that will make you sit up and take notice, I’ll bet. In the mean time, beware the seductions of Tramworth, and dressmakers in particular. Speaking of Tramworth reminds me of the account I saw of your accident. Congrats, old man, on your ability to dodge bullets. I intended to write sooner, but have been on the jump every minute. Smoke did the Indian up for fair, bless his little heart (I mean Smoke’s). But we can talk it over when you arrive. Regards to old Cyclops and the siren child.

Sincerely,

—WALTER E. BASCOMB.

David tucked the letter into his pocket, and closing the door of his cabin walked over to Avery’s camp.

“Pop’s down on the dam talkin’ to Jim,” said Swickey from the doorway.

“All right. I’ll jog down and see him.” He turned back after a step or two. “Did Jim say he was going back this afternoon?”

“I dunno,” replied Swickey listlessly.

He looked at her. She seemed older, more serious than usual. Slowly he realized that she was no longer the child of yesterday, but a girl budding rapidly into womanhood, which seemed natural enough when he remembered what her life had been up to the time he had first met her. She was virtually doing a woman’s work at the camp; had been for a number of years. Then she was of the type that matures rapidly. Outdoor air and exercise had developed her physically, and she had always been of full proportions for her age. The color glowed in her cheeks as he gazed at her.

“Swickey, what’s the matter? Have I offended you in any way? You haven’t spoken to me since yesterday.”

“Nothin’,” she replied. “You ain’t done nothin’.”

“Don’t you mean: ‘You haven’t done anything?’” he asked kindly.

“Nope.” She offended deliberately.

“Swickey!” His tone of gentle reproof was new to her. Self-accusation, laboring in her heart, sent a full tide of color to her brows, but she did not speak.

“Is it Smoke?” he asked.

She nodded. Yesterday that answer would have sufficed her conscience, but to-day....

“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping across the porch and to the path. He had gone as far as the end of the camp when she called.

“D—Dave!”

He came back to her, an amused light in his eyes.

“I lied, I did. ’Tain’t Smoke—it’s you, too,” she cried, the tears welling to her eyes.

“Me?” he exclaimed. Then he understood. “You poor youngster. There, don’t cry. I’m coming back and, by crickey! I’ll bring Smoke, too, if it’s possible.” He drew nearer to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got your father, and there isn’t a finer man on earth than he. Besides, I won’t be away so very long if I can help it.”

But David’s words failed to comfort her.

“’Tain’t Pop I want,” she sobbed, “like I want you.”

“But, Swickey—”

She came close, pressing her face against him. Suddenly she flung her arms about his neck, her tempestuous affection striking a thrill through his body as her warmth crept to him. Despite the many interests of his new life, he had been lonely and she brought it home to him in her own abrupt way.

“Why, Swickey, I didn’t know you cared so much. Come! I’ll promise to come back just as soon as I can, and we’ll have some new books, and glorious winter evenings together to read and talk and study.”

He drew her hands from his shoulders, and as he did so she threw back her head and half affectionately, half defiantly whispered, “Ain’t you goin’ to kiss me—jest once—afore you go?”

The appeal of her tearful eyes and upturned, trembling lips, half pouting with a thirst inexplicable to her, found answer as he stooped and kissed her with grave tenderness.

“Good-bye, Swickey. I’m going to-night, if Cameron will take me through to Tramworth. The letter he brought has changed my plans. Of course I’ll see you again, but this is our real good-bye, little girl.”

“I’m fifteen anyway,” she replied, smiling through her tears.

“I’ll send you a birthday present when I get home. How would you like a nice, woolly, white mackinaw coat, with little blue squares round the edges? I know where I can get one.”

“Oh, heaps!” she exclaimed rapturously. “Will you?”

“As sure as you’re Swickey!”

She watched him as he hurried toward the dam where her father and Curious Jim were vehemently discussing the new railroad. Something white lay on the floor at her feet. She picked it up and studied the address on the envelope. It was Bascomb’s letter to David. Intending to return it to him when he came back, she placed it on the clock-shelf and busied herself with the daily routine of housekeeping.

Cameron’s fist was in the air as David came to where Avery and he stood.

“I seen ’em as plain as I see Dave Ross a-comin’,” he asserted.

Avery seemed doubtful.

“A whole line of ’em strung along the river. Then they stopped. Seein’ they was plenty of logs stranded, I clumb across, and sure as shootin’, on the other side they commenced ag’in with N. M. & Q. stamped on every ding one of ’em.”

“Jim’s a-tellin’ me them surveyor fellers marked out a new line fur the railrud, crossin’ the Branch about five mile below here tow’ds the Knoll!”

David contained his surprise. “Is that so?” he answered easily.

“Sure as hens ’ll squawk,” said Cameron.

“You’re sure it isn’t an old survey?”

“They’re fresher than them,” he replied, kicking a survey stake at his feet.

Ross glanced at Avery, but the old man’s gaze was fixed on Cameron’s face.

“Why’d you tell me about it, Jim?” he asked abruptly.

Cameron shuffled his feet in the shingle, and pensively bit a chew from his plug. He busied himself adjusting the tobacco satisfactorily, evidently preparing for a long siege.

“M-m-um, well,” he began, “thought it might int’rest you if the road was to cross the Branch there, instid of here,” emphasizing the location by again kicking the stake. “Probably you know why better than I do. I was jest spec’latin’ on that.”

“Jim,” said Avery, fixing him with a shrewd eye, “whar you been pokin’ round lately?”

Curious Jim shifted from one foot to the other.

“I can smell somethin’ comin’ plain as burnin’ grevvy—”

Cameron grinned in anticipation of his hearers’ astonishment when he should tell them what he knew.

“When the drive went through last week, I was to Tramworth. You know the back room in Bill Smeaton’s harness-shop. Well, I was settin’ there, pickin’ over some findin’s to mend my harness,—Bill havin’ gone out on a personal errand,—and somebody comes in, follered by another feller. One of ’em says, ‘Hey, Bill!’ Seein’ as my name’s Jim, I jest said nothin’”—a smile twitched Avery’s beard—“but set there. Pretty soon the feller what follered the first feller in, says, ‘Guess he’s gone out fur a drink,’ which was c’rrect. Then they sorter hung around fur a minute or two, talkin’ about the drive and this here new railroad, and some folks as ain’t more’n a mile from here; and then Fisty says, ‘Well, Red, Barney’s done us on the asbestos and that one-eyed ole’—”

“Go ahead,” interrupted Avery, “I been called thet afore now.”

“‘Has got it comin’ his way so fur,’” continued Cameron, “‘but the game ain’t all played out yet.’”

Curious Jim drew himself up and looked from one to the other of the partners. “That’s all—’cept they went out, Fisty and Jim Smeaton, and I climb out of the back window after a spell and waited till Bill Smeaton come back. Then I went in the front ag’in and got what I was after.”

“Wal, is thet all?” said Avery.

“All of that,” replied Cameron. “Later on I was in the hotel, and when I went out to the stable to hitch up, they was a couple of fellers talkin’ kind of loud in the alley back of the stable. They had liquor in ’em, I reckon. One of ’em says to the other, ‘What good is it goin’ to do ’em if the railroad don’t cross on their land?’ Now, that’s what set me thinkin’ they might be some manoeuvrin’ goin’ on what might int’rest you.”

“Jim,” said Avery, “if what you say is true, you never done a better day’s work in your life. We’re goin’ to need a fust-class man with a team when the—when things gits to runnin’ right. It’ll be stiddy work and good pay. Dave here is goin’ to Boston to-morrow to see about it and he’ll be wantin’ you to take him to the train, I reckon.”

“I was,” said David, “but all this has changed my plans. I want to go just as quick as I can. Can you take me down to-night?”

“Guess I can make her,” replied Curious Jim. “It’s goin’ to rain afore long,” he added, looking at the sky.

“Never mind the rain, Jim. I’ll be ready in five minutes,” and David hastened toward his cabin.

An hour later they were jolting down the trail in the big wagon. As they entered the woods, David turned and waved his hat. A hand flickered up and down on the distant cabin porch. He could not see the figures distinctly, Avery shading his eyes with a great hairy hand, as he gazed at the retreating wagon, and Swickey, standing beside him, eyes fixed on the edge of the forest, and the memory of David’s real good-bye still warm in her heart and tingling on her lips.