  “Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted Paul. “We’re most home now. A hot bath in a real bath tub, and a real bed tonight, Dan! Think of it! A few days and we’ll be home!” “’Tis grand!” exclaimed Dan, “and oh! ’t will be grand t’ get home!” “I’ll wager,” broke in Amesbury, laughing, “that both you fellows will be pulling blankets off your beds and rolling upon the floor before morning, and I’ll wager, too, that you’ll be wishing you could get out to the back yard of the hotel to sleep on the ground.” Ahmik waved his hand toward the town. “Good sell fur; no good to stay. No good place to live. Bush good place to live. We like have you come back to trap.” “You’ve been mighty good to us, Ahmik, and we thank you,” said Paul. They stored their things in a shop whose proprietor Amesbury knew, each carrying a back-load up from the river. “Now,” suggested Amesbury, “we’ll go to the hotel and wash up. What do you say?” “I’d like to telegraph home first,” answered Paul. “All right. Glad you spoke of that. We’ll wire from the hotel.” Ahmik had no interest in the proposed bath or in hotel accommodations, and with promises to see him later, the three turned toward the center of town. “You chaps got any cash?” asked Amesbury. “Dead broke, both of us,” confessed Paul. “Haven’t seen a cent of money since we left the ship.” “I suspected it,” laughed Amesbury. “Well, I happen to have a little. You’ll be rich tonight when you get your share of the fur money.” At the telegraph office in the hotel the three put their heads together, and formulated the following telegram to Paul’s father:
The three put their heads together “Your father’ll say that’s the best piece of literature he’s read this year,” remarked Amesbury. “Here, operator, rush this off. Make it a ‘rush’ now.” “What time’ll he get it?” asked Paul, as they turned from the telegraph desk. “Let’s see. It’s eleven-thirty now. Oh, he ought to get it before he leaves his office this afternoon.” “I’m so excited I can hardly keep from yelling!” Paul exclaimed. “Well, you’d better hold in. They think you’re an Indian now, from your looks, and they’ll be sure of it if you yell, and fire us all. See how every one is eyeing us?” “When’ll Skipper Bluntt be hearin’, now?” asked Dan. “Tonight. Paul’s father will wire him right away, I’m sure.”
“’Tis wonderful fine t’ be lettin’ un know so quick. Now I’m thinkin’ th’ skipper’ll get word t’ mother soon’s he can. Dad’s off t’ th’ Labrador by this, though, fishin’, an’ he won’t be hearin’ for a month.” The clerk at the desk greeted Amesbury as an old acquaintance, shook his hand, and handed him a pen to register. Following a luxurious wash came a thick, rare, juicy steak smothered in onions, an array of vegetables, a delicious salad, double portions of pudding and coffee, to which the party brought trapper appetites. “Now for business,” said Amesbury, lighting a fragrant cigar. “We’ll get a carriage and bring up our furs and see what they’ll bring us. Then you chaps had better get some civilized toggery.” The afternoon was a busy one. Furs were commanding a good figure, and when the sales were made Paul found himself in possession of $470, and Dan received $560, as their share of the fur money. Amesbury then guided them to a clothing store where complete outfits, from hats to “We’ll fix that later,” he said. “I’ll pay the bills now, and when we get to New York, and find out how much the trip costs, we can have our settlement.” “An’ you keeps th’ account,” assented Dan. Then they purchased their railway and sleeping car tickets for the following day, and returned to the hotel to bathe and don their new clothing. “A telegram for one of the young gentlemen,” announced the clerk, as they entered the hotel and stopped at the desk for their keys. It was for Paul. He refrained from opening it until they reached their rooms. Then with trembling hand he broke the seal and read:
Paul burst into tears, weeping from sheer joy. Dan, too, wiped his eyes. “Good old Dad!” Paul exclaimed at last. “I can hardly wait to see them!” Dan felt exceedingly uncomfortable in his new clothes. Even though he and Paul had selected suits at very moderate cost, and they were far from perfect in fit, he had never been so well dressed in his life. As he surveyed himself in the mirror, he confided to Paul: “I feels wonderful fine dressed, an’ when I gets home an’ wears these clothes the folks at Ragged Cove’ll sure be sayin’ I’m puttin’ on airs.” “Oh, you’ll soon get used to them,” laughed Paul. “I feel kind of stuck up myself, getting into civilized clothes again.” “And, Paul,” continued Dan, “I feels wonderful rich with all th’ money I’m gettin’. Dad and me hunted all of last winter, an’ all Dad gets for his catch is a hundred an’ twenty dollars in trade, an’ he thinks he does rare well. Now I been gettin’ five hundred an’ sixty in cash!” “We did do pretty well, didn’t we, Dan? Paul and Dan occupied a large room, with two beds, Amesbury a single room, and between the two rooms was a bath room which they used in common, doors from the sleeping rooms opening into the bath room from opposite sides. These doors were left open when they retired at night. All seemed unreal after the long camp life. The boys, weary with the day’s excitement, fell asleep the moment their heads touched the pillows. When they awoke the sun was streaming through the windows. Amesbury, taking his morning ablutions, was splashing in the bath-tub, and singing: “‘There was a fat man of Bombay, Who was smoking one sunshiny day; When a bird called a snipe, Flew away with his pipe, Which vex’d the fat man of Bombay.’” The lads sprang out of bed. “My, but it’s late,” exclaimed Paul. “The sun’s up.” “’Tis that,” said Dan. “I weren’t knowin’ just where I were when I wakes.” “Good morning, fellows,” called Amesbury from the bath room. “Come along one of you; I’m through.” “Good morning!” they both called back. “Hurrah!” shouted Paul. “Today we start for home!” “And you’re going to leave a mighty lonely fellow behind,” said Amesbury. “I’ll have to break myself in all over again. I’ve a notion I’ll kidnap you both and take you back to the bush with me.” “Can’t you come with us?” plead Paul. “Change your mind about it, and come. Your sister would give the world to see you again, I’m sure. We do want you. It will be a jolly trip if you come.” A shadow passed over Amesbury’s face, and left it again—as on the evening when he told them his life story—haggard, old, and as one suffering inexpressible pain. He was dressing now. He made no answer for several minutes, “Thank you ever and ever so much, fellows. It’s better that I do not go. The world forgets good deeds quickly. It never forgets bad ones. Mine were bad. I was a jailbird once. No one who ever knew it will ever forget it. My appearance in New York would bring shame to my sister and her children, if she has any. God alone knows how I long to see them! The news of who and what I was would spread among their friends—even their new friends—and they would be shunned and made miserable because of me. No, it’s my punishment. I must not go.” Amesbury had again assumed his good-natured, whimsical attitude when they went below to breakfast, and chaffed and joked the boys as usual. Presently Ahmik appeared, to accompany them to the railway station. “Come back hunt some more,” Ahmik invited, as the train rolled into the station. “Miss you very much.” “We owe you so much,” said Paul, as he “I’ll never be forgettin’ you, an’ how rare kind you were,” declared Dan. “You chaps owe me nothing,” insisted Amesbury. “The debt’s all the other way. You earned your keep, made some money for me, and made a few weeks of my life very pleasant.” Paul and Dan ran to the platform of the rear car as the train drew out of the station, and had a last fleeting glimpse of Amesbury standing there gazing after them, a look of wistful longing in his eyes. |
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