CHAPTER VII THE LUCK CHANGES

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The next day luck turned. Wayne went to work for Callahan’s Livery Stable, and June, happening into the Union Hotel with a drummer’s sample cases, witnessed the discharge of a bell boy, applied for the position, got it, was thrust into a dark-blue uniform and, half an hour later, was climbing stairs and answering calls as though he had done nothing else all his life. The wage was only three dollars a week, and out of that he was required to deposit ten dollars as security for the uniform, which meant that for three weeks he would get nothing from his employer. Ordinarily he would have had to deposit that ten dollars before starting to work, but the fact that his services were badly needed at the moment and the fact that he neither had ten dollars nor could get it, caused the proprietor to waive the rule. But June didn’t bother about that ten dollars, for he knew that it was tips and not wages that counted in his job, and he believed in his ability to get the tips. He didn’t return to the new home very rich that night, to be sure, for he hadn’t yet learned the ropes and his chances had been few, but it didn’t take him long to put his new position on a paying basis. At the end of three days everyone in the hotel knew June and liked him. He was always willing, always ready, and always cheerful. And he was always polite, a fact which made him a favourite with the guests, accustomed as they were to the half-sullen services of the other boys. Dimes and even quarters dropped into June’s pocket at a rate that astonished him. When, at the end of his second week of service, he counted up his wealth and discovered that it totalled the stupendous sum of nine dollars and eighty cents he rolled his eyes and confided to Wayne that he “didn’ know there was so much money in the whole world!” The main drawback to June’s work was that his period of duty began at six o’clock in the morning and lasted until four in the afternoon, necessitating a very early rising hour in the car. Wayne’s own duties didn’t begin until eight, and in consequence he had two hours on his hands that he didn’t know what to do with. Breakfast was always over by half-past five and a minute or two later June was streaking across the field to the railroad track. At about twenty-five minutes to six there was a milk train due and June had become an adept at swinging himself to a platform as it slowed down at the yard entrance. Just at first his presence, when discovered, was resented, but presently the train hands good-naturedly failed to see him and he rode into town huddled up on a car step. When, as infrequently happened, the train was late June was put to it to reach the hotel on time, but he always did it by hook or by crook even if he had to run most of the way over the uneven ties.

Wayne’s job brought him seventy-five cents a day—when he worked. He didn’t always work, for it was only when one of the regular men was taken away to a drive at a funeral or a wedding that his services were required. But he had to report every morning, in any case, and it was rather surprising how many folks were married or buried in Medfield! He liked driving a carriage well enough, but waiting for fares at the station in all sorts of weather wasn’t pleasant. It was a sort of lazy job, too. On the whole, he was far from satisfied with it and continually kept his eyes open for something better. It was rather a blow to his pride to have June bring home four or five dollars each week while he almost never earned more than three. Still, he was thankful for what he got, for it enabled them to live very comfortably in their novel home.

One of the first things Wayne did was to recover Sam. Denny Connor parted with the dog reluctantly, but consoled himself with the fact that as Sam had been with him only four days and hadn’t got used to the change he wouldn’t miss him as much as he might have.

“You see,” he confided, “it ain’t as if you slept a lot better for having a dog howl all night in the kitchen!”

Sam took to the new home at once. He approved of it enthusiastically. Perhaps the freedom of the country appealed to him after the confinement of town. At all events, he had a perfectly delirious time the first hour, running around the field, barking at everyone who passed along the railroad track and searching for rats under the car. His big adventure came later, though, when, after disappearing frenziedly and at full speed into the woods he returned a quarter of an hour after much chastened and with his muzzle bleeding profusely from several deep scratches. What his adversary had been they never knew. June offered the theory that Sam had been in mortal combat with a catamount. I don’t think June knew just what a catamount was, but he liked the word. Wayne said he guessed it was a “cat” without the “mount.” In any event, Sam displayed a strong dislike of the woods for weeks afterward. Wayne tried taking him to work with him at first, but Mr. Callahan objected to having the dog in the carriage and made Wayne tie him in an empty stall in the stable. That didn’t please Sam a mite and he said so very loudly and continuously, so heartily, in fact, that the edict went forth that “that fool dog” was not to be brought there again. After that Wayne shut him up in the car when he left at half-past seven and was pursued for a quarter of a mile by Sam’s lamentations. Eventually the dog learned that he was not to follow, that his duty was to remain behind and guard the domicile, and he became reconciled.

“Carhurst,” as Wayne dubbed the new home, was slowly but steadily rehabilitated. Now that there was money for the purpose the boys set out to turn the abandoned horse car into a real place of residence. Every day witnessed some improvement. The missing stovepipe was early replaced with two sections purchased at a junk dealer’s emporium and with a five-cent can of blacking June made stove and pipe shine like a new beaver hat. Red builder’s paper superseded the boards across the window frames, giving the car quite a cheerful appearance from without even if it added little to the lighting within. Sooner or later they meant to reglaze two windows on each side, and to that end June brought back a fine big lump of putty one afternoon which he had wheedled out of a painter at work in the hotel. After that, as Wayne complacently remarked, all they needed were points, a putty knife, and some glass! They put shelves up for their groceries, cooking utensils, and tableware, all largely augmented with returning prosperity, set a box on the more shaded platform to serve as an ice-chest, invested in four blankets and, in short, surrounded themselves with all sorts of luxuries!

June solved the fuel problem very simply. Wood soon became scarce and they were forced to go far afield to find enough to cook meals with, while having a fire for the mere purpose of keeping warm on some of those raw nights of early spring was an extravagance not to be considered. Not, that is to say, until June had his brilliant idea. He disappeared one afternoon with the basket that they used to bring provisions home in and returned half an hour later bearing it on his head and filled to the brim with coal. The railroad tracks were black with it, he reported, and all they had to do was gather it up. Wayne found that a slight exaggeration, but it wasn’t at all a difficult matter to fill a basket without going out of sight of home. After that, when the weather was cold or rainy, they kept a fire going all day and night in the tiny stove, which, in spite of some infirmities, served them faithfully and cheerfully and consumed little fuel.

They had a few leaks to contend with when the rain drove against the car, leaks that simply refused to be located when the weather was dry and Wayne, armed with pieces of tin, and tacks, and a hammer went searching for them. But even more expensive houses leak, and it was a simple enough matter to move away from the trickles. To be sure, it wasn’t so pleasant when they awoke one very stormy night toward the first of April to find that the trough-shaped seat upon which they were reposing had turned itself into a reservoir for the collection of the rain driving in at a corner of the car. They had to open the draughts of the little stove and dry their blankets before they could go to sleep again on the opposite seat. And they had difficulties with the windows, too, occasionally, for the paper had a mean habit of breaking loose under the combined assaults of wind and rain. At such times the old horse blanket, now discarded as an article of bedding, was used as a temporary shutter. Wayne threatened to varnish or shellac the paper so that it would turn the rain, but he never carried out the threat.

June was the cook and a very good one. He had a positive talent for coffee and could really do wonders with a frying pan. They never attempted ambitious feats of cookery, but they lived well, if simply, and had all they wanted. Only breakfast and supper, the latter a rather hearty meal, were eaten at “Carhurst.” The midday meal was taken in the town. Wayne went to the Golden Star Lunch when he had opportunity, at other times patronising the counter in the station. June skirmished his lunches in the hotel kitchen, and, since everyone there from the chef to the scullery maid liked him, fared well. Sam ate twice a day to the boys’ knowledge and, it was suspected, levied toll at noon hour on the employees of the stamping works. If there hadn’t been so many chipmunks and squirrels and, possibly, worthier game to chase he would have waxed fat and lazy at this period of his history.

They had been living at “Carhurst” something over three weeks when, quite unexpectedly, almost overnight, spring arrived. Of course, if they were to believe the almanac, spring had really been there some time, but they would never have suspected it. Some days there had been a mildness in the air that had seemed to presage the lady’s appearance, but it wasn’t until they awoke that April morning to the knowledge that the fire in the stove, as low as it was, was “super’ogatory”—the word is June’s, and one he was extremely fond of—and stuck their heads outdoors to find out why, that it seemed to them she had really arrived. It was like May rather than April. Although it was still only five o’clock in the morning, there was an unaccustomed warmth in the air and the east was rosy with the coming sun. It was after June had scudded off and Wayne had washed the few breakfast dishes and hung the dishcloth—yes, they had even attained to the luxury of a dishcloth by then!—over the platform rail and had seated himself on the step with Sam in his arms that the desire that affects almost all of us on the first warm morning of spring came to him. He wanted to grow something!

At first glance the prospect of growing anything at “Carhurst” was not encouraging. The meadow was still soft and sodden with the spring rains and here and there little pools of water showed between the hummocks of turf. But when one becomes really possessed with the longing to have a garden it takes a great deal to discourage one. Wayne set Sam down and walked around the car and frowned intently over the problem. After all, he didn’t need a very big patch for his garden, and by filling in a few low places along the sunny side of the car and digging out the turf—turning it under would be better, but it entailed more labour than he felt capable of that lazy-feeling morning—he could have a patch about four yards long by a yard wide, quite big enough for his needs. He had no idea of raising such useful things as vegetables. His soul sighed for foliage and flowers. He wondered, though, what kinds of flowers grew up here in the North. He would, he decided, have to consult someone as to that. Probably the man he bought his seeds of would tell him. Anyhow, at the back of the bed, where it would shade the car in hot weather, he would have something tall. And in front he would grow pretty things with lots of colour. He talked it over all the while with Sam, and Sam indicated quite plainly that he considered it a perfectly glorious idea, following Wayne around and around with his tail never for an instant still. Finally, Wayne drew forth the little leather bag in which he kept his money and viewed the contents doubtfully. Two dollars didn’t seem a great deal, but it would probably do if only he could borrow a shovel and rake and not have to buy them. All the way to town his mind dwelt on the project and he became so absorbed that he sometimes forgot to keep on walking and came very near to being late at the stable.

It was June who solved the problem of shovel and rake by borrowing both these necessary implements, as well as a hoe, at the stamping works. June had many friends there by that time and there was no difficulty at all. Wayne bought eight packages of flower seed—they were far cheaper than he had dared hope—and one afternoon the boys began the preparation of the garden. June was less enthusiastic than Wayne, but he lent willing assistance. June advocated the growing of useful things like corn and beans and “tomatuses,” but acknowledged that the ground at their disposal was rather too small in area for much of a crop. Wayne compromised by agreeing to set out some tomato plants since they were, while not exactly flowers, attractive when in fruit. The job was a good deal harder than they had expected, for that turf had been growing there a long while and resented being displaced. Sam tried to help, but his digging was merely spasmodic and seldom in the right place.

They spent four evenings getting the plot of ground cleared of grass and graded up, and Wayne went to bed that fourth evening very tired but cheered by the anticipation of planting his garden the next morning. When morning came, however, a cold east wind was blowing across the field, the sun was hidden and it seemed as though Miss Spring must have drawn her flimsy garments about her and gone shivering back to the Southland. Instead of planting his seeds, Wayne spent the time between June’s departure and his own in sitting disgustedly in front of the stove and trying to get warm. He had awakened some time in the night to find himself uncomfortably chilly, his cover having fallen to the floor, and he hadn’t so far succeeded in driving away the little shivers that coursed up and down his back. He even sneezed once or twice and sniffed a good deal, and was sorry when the time came for him to go to work. He felt strangely disinclined for exertion and the thought of the walk along the tracks to town quite dismayed him. But he put his sweater on and started out and felt better by the time he had been in the air awhile. The station platform was a rather exposed place and sitting beside it on the front seat of a carriage was not a very grateful occupation today. Wayne sneezed at intervals and blew his nose between sneezes and by noon had reached the conclusion that he had a cold. He wasn’t used to them and resented this one every time he had to drag his handkerchief out. There were few arrivals today and Wayne had little to do. When he took his horse back to the stable at twelve-thirty for his feed he climbed into an old hack in a far corner of the carriage-room and spent an uncomfortable three-quarters of an hour there. He didn’t want any lunch, although he had a dim notion that a cup of hot coffee would taste good. But that meant exertion, and exertion was something he had no liking for today.

He was back at the station for the two-twenty-four and picked up two passengers for the hotel. He hoped that June would come out for the luggage, but it was another boy who attended to the arrivals and Wayne drove off again without seeing June. It got no warmer as the afternoon progressed and Wayne was shivering most of the time. When the five o’clock express was in and he had satisfied himself that there were no fares for his conveyance he drove back to the stable as fast as the horse would trot, unharnessed, and set out for home. That walk seemed interminable and he thoroughly envied a gang of track workers who, having eaten their supper, were sitting at ease around a stove in an old box car which had been fitted up for living purposes. It was all Wayne could do to drag a tired and aching and shivering body past that stove!

It was almost dusk when he finally crept down the embankment, squirmed between the wires of the fence and, with the light from “Carhurst” guiding him, floundered across the field. June had a fine fire going in the stove and when Wayne had pushed the door half open and squeezed through he simply slumped onto the seat and closed his eyes, immensely thankful for warmth and shelter. June viewed him at first with surprise and then with misgiving.

“What’s the matter with you, Mas’ Wayne?” he asked.

Wayne shook his head and muttered: “Just tired, June.” Then he had a spasm of shivering and reached for a blanket. June observed him anxiously for a moment. Then:

“You got a chill, that’s what you got,” he said decisively. “You lay yourself right down there an’ I’ll cover you up. My sakes!”

The last exclamation was called forth by a sudden fit of sneezing that left Wayne weak and with streaming eyes.

“Lawsy-y-y, child, but you got a cold sure enough!” said June. “What-all you been doin’, I like to know? You fix yourself for bed this yere minute. My goodness, ’tain’ goin’ to do for you to go an’ get sick, Mas’ Wayne!”

June bustled around and brewed a pot of tea, a cup of which he insisted on Wayne’s swallowing while it was still so hot that it almost burned the latter’s mouth. After that June piled all the blankets on the invalid and sternly told him to go to sleep. Rather to Wayne’s surprise, he found that, as tired and played out as he was, sleep wouldn’t come. He had aches in queer places and his head seemed due to burst apart almost any moment. With half-closed eyes he lay and watched June cook and eat his supper. Now and then he dozed for a minute or two. The warmth from the stove, the hot tea he had drank, and the piled-on blankets presently had their effect, and Wayne, muttering remonstrances, tried to throw off some of the cover. But June was after him on the instant.

“Keep them blankets over you, Mas’ Wayne,” he commanded sternly. “You got to sweat that cold out.”

“I’m hot,” protested Wayne irritably.

“I know you is, an’ you goin’ to be hot! Jus’ you leave them blankets alone an’ go to sleep.”

After a long while Wayne opened his eyes again. He had been sleeping hours, he thought. He felt horribly uncomfortable and wondered what time it was. Then his gaze fell on June hunched up near the stove with Sam on his knees, and sighed. If June was still awake it couldn’t be late, after all. Presently he fell again into a restless, troubled sleep. In the corner June nodded, roused himself, looked at the recumbent form on the seat, reached across and tucked a corner of a gray blanket in and settled back in his corner. The firelight, finding its way through cracks and crevices in the stove, made streaks and splotches of light on the wall and ceiling, and one ray fell fairly on June’s face. Perhaps it was that ray of light that did the business, for presently his eyelids slowly closed——

Somewhere, afar off, a clock struck three.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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