The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  “Hark!”

  The single word “Dollie!” rang through the arches of the woods. They recognized the voice as that of the superintendent, who was hurrying over the path they had left, and who was not far away. In fact, Hugh held the lantern in front of him so as to hide its rays.

  “I am sorry for him,” he said, “but we don’t want him with us.”

  “It cannot be,” remarked Tom, after they had struggled further, “that she has gone as far as this; Nero must be off the track.”

  At this moment the dog emitted a low, baying whine that would have startled any one had he not known its meaning. It was the signal which the remarkable animal always gave when close to the end of a trail.

  “We shall soon know the worst,” said Hugh, crashing through the wood with such haste that Tom had to hurry almost into a trot to save himself from dropping behind.

  The singular call of the dog was heard again. He wanted his friends to move faster. It came from a point slightly to the left.

  “Here he is!” exclaimed Hugh, making a sharp turn and showing more excitement than at any time during the evening.

  “I see him! There he stands!” added Tom, stumbling forward.

  With his right hand Hugh raised the lantern above his head, so that its glare was taken from their eyes. The hound was close to a rock that rose some six or eight feet above the ground, and his nose was pointed toward the base of the black mass. At the same moment the men saw something dark and light mixed together, like a bundle of clothing. One bound and Hugh was on his knees, the lamp held even with his forehead while he peered downward and softly drew the clothing aside. Tom was also stooping low and leaning forward with bated breath.

  There lay little Dollie Bradley, sleeping as sweetly as if nestling beside her big brother in the warm bed at home. She must have wandered through the woods until, worn out, she reached this spot. Then she had thrown herself on the earth beside the rock and had fallen asleep. Having lost her hood, her head was without any covering, except her own native hair, which was abundant. Besides, rugged people do not need to cover their heads while asleep, even in cold weather.

  It was fortunate for Dollie that she was so warmly wrapped. One arm was doubled under her head, and the cheek that rested on it was pushed just enough out of shape to add to her picturesqueness. Her heavy coat having been buttoned around her body, kept its form and could not have been better arranged. The chubby legs were covered by thick stockings, and the feet were protected by heavy shoes. True, she ran much risk in lying upon the cold earth, with nothing between her and the ground, but there was hope that no serious harm would follow.

  The rock not only kept off the wind, but screened her from the snow.

  It was almost certain that the little one had been asleep several hours.

  Hugh gently examined the limbs and body to see whether there was any hurt. Her peaceful sleep ought to have satisfied him, but he was not content. Not a scratch, however, was found, though her clothing had suffered a good deal.

  “Take the lantern,” said he in a husky voice to his companion. Then, softly pushing his brawny arms under the dimpled form, he lifted it as tenderly as its mother could have done. Tom smoothed the clothing so as to cover the body as fully as possible. Hugh doffed his coarse cap and covered the mass of silken tresses that streamed over his shoulder.

  Dollie muttered as a child will do when disturbed in its slumber, but, fitting her head to the changed position, she slept on as sweetly as ever.

  “Now lead the way,” added Hugh, “and be careful where you step.”

  Tom was only too glad to do his part. Nero, as happy as the others, walked in advance, in his dignified manner, now and then wagging his tail and whining with delight. None knew better than he the noble work he had done.

  Tom used great care. When the bushes could not be avoided, Hugh shoved them aside with one hand, that they might not brush against the face resting so close to his own. Perhaps he held the velvety cheek nearer his shaggy beard than was needed, but who can chide him when his heart glowed with the sorrowful pleasure that came from the fancy that his own Jennie, whom he had so often pressed to his breast, was resting there again?

  A tear dropped on the cheek of the little one. In that hour new resolves entered the heart of O’Hara. He had been sullen, discontented, and had long led a life that grieved his conscience.

  By and by when they came back to the path they found the walking easier than before.

  “Hugh,” said Tom, stopping short and facing about, “ain’t you tired of carryin’ the kid? ’cause if you are, I’m ready to give you a lift.”

  “No; I wish I could carry her forever!”

  All too soon the glimmer from the cabin window fell upon them, and they paused at the door to make sure the clothing of the child was arranged. They acted as if they were getting ready to go into the presence of company.

  “I don’t know as I’ve done right in not carrying her home,” said Hugh, “but she has been out too long already in the night air; we’ll take her in and keep her while you run down to the village and let the folks know she is safe.”

  “Is she still asleep?”

  “Yes, hark! some of the boys seem to be inside,” added Hugh, as the sound of voices came to them from within.

  The door was pushed open and the two men and dog entered.

  Harvey Bradley had risen to his feet, and for one second he stared angrily at the newcomers. You will recall that hot words had just passed between him and Jack Hansell, and both were in an ugly mood. Then Harvey quickly recognized the form in the arms of Hugh and rushed forward.

  “Is she alive?”

  “Aye, alive and without a scratch,” replied Hugh, deftly taking the hat from the head of the little sleeper and placing her in the outstretched arms.

  “How thankful I am,” exclaimed Harvey, kissing the cold red cheeks over and over again, and pressing her to his heart; “yes—she is well—she was lost and is found—she was dead and is alive again.”

  “What are you laughing at?” demanded Hugh, wiping his eyes and glaring savagely at Jack Hansell, who, with open mouth, was looking on in a bewildered way; “haven’t you manners enough to know when gentlemen are present?”

  Jack seemed to think that the only way to behave was by keeping his mouth closed. He shut his jaws with a click like that of a steel trap and never said a word.

  Harvey Bradley sat down on the stool from which he had arisen, first drawing it closer to the fire, and unfastened the outer clothing of the little one. He saw that all was well with her. Then he looked up with moistened eyes and said in a tremulous voice:

  “Hugh, tell me all about it.”

  The short story was soon told. The hardy fellow made light of what he had done, but the superintendent, who kept his eyes fixed on his face, saw the sparkle of tears that the speaker could not keep back. It was hard for any one of the three to believe that only a brief while before they were ready to fly at each other’s throats. Harvey was melted not only by the rescue of his sister, but by the remembrance of the dreadful injustice done Hugh O’Hara and his friends, when he allowed himself to think they had taken part in the disappearance of Dollie, who, through all the talk, continued sleeping.

  “I can never thank you for what you have done,” said the superintendent, hardly able to master his emotion, “but I shall show you that the charge of ingratitude can never be laid at my door.”

  “That’s all right,” replied Hugh, in his off-hand fashion; “Tom and I are glad to do a turn like that; nobody could want to see any harm come to such a child, no matter how they might feel toward others related to her. Do you mean to take her home tonight?”

  “Yes; her aunt is frantic with grief.”

  “But Tom can run down there quicker than you can with the little one.”

  “No doubt, but we shall feel better to have her with us. She seems to be well, and we can bundle her up warmly. There may, after all, be serious results from this expos
ure, and it is best that we should have her where we can give her every care.”

  And drawing the hood from his pocket he fixed it upon Dollie’s head. She opened her eyes for a moment and mumbled something, but sank into sleep again. Harvey explained how it was he came to have the headgear with him.

  “I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Bradley,” said O’Hara, shifting from one foot to another and as confused as a school-boy.

  “Anything that you ask shall be granted, if it be in my power to grant it,” replied Harvey with a fervor that could leave no doubt of his sincerity.

  “It’s a long distance to the village, and I will be glad if you will let me carry her.”

  He made as if he simply wished to assist the superintendent. The latter knew better, but he did not say so.

  “I shall be glad to have your aid; you have had a rest for several days, and a little exercise like this won’t hurt you.”

  Hugh brought forth his best coat and gathered it around Dollie, as if he was tucking her up in her trundle bed. Then Harvey placed her with much care in his arms and made sure they were fully prepared to go out doors.

  The Hansell brothers quietly looked on during these proceedings. They felt that there was no special use for them, and therefore they kept in the background. The hound Nero showed much interest. He walked around Hugh and Harvey, whining and wagging his tail as if he thought his views ought to have some weight in the questions the couple were called upon to consider.

  “Come, Nero,” said his master, as he drew the door inward. The dog shot through like a flash and the tramp to the village was begun.

  Hardly a word was spoken on the way, but when the house was reached Hugh handed his burden over to Harvey and, refusing to go in, started to move off. The superintendent put out his free hand.

  “Hugh, I want you to come and see me tomorrow afternoon; will you do so?”

  “I will. Good-night.”

  “Good-night.”

  Hugh O’Hara had walked but a short distance up the mountain path when he was caught in a driving snow-storm. He cared little for it, however, and reached the cabin in due time, there to perform a strange duty.

  CHAPTER V.

  A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.

  When Hugh O’Hara came to the door of Harvey Bradley, he was in his best dress—the same that he wore to church on Sundays. Aunt Maria met him on the threshold, and, in tremulous tones, thanked him. Then she led the way to the back parlor, where the young superintendent awaited him. The moment he entered, there came a flash of sunshine and a merry exclamation, and with one bound, little Dollie (none the worse, apparently, for her adventure the night before) landed in the iron-like arms and kissed the shaggy-bearded fellow, who laughingly took a chair and held her a willing captive on his knee.

  Harvey sat smiling and silent until the earthquake was over. Then, as his chief foreman looked toward him, he said:

  “As I said last night, Hugh, the service you have done is beyond payment. You know what a storm set in just after Dollie was brought home, she never could have lived through that.”

  “It would have gone hard with her, I’m afraid,” replied the embarrassed visitor; “does the little one feel no harm?”

  “We observe nothing except a slight cold, which the doctor says is of no account. I have made up my mind to give to you, Hugh—”

  The latter raised his hand in protest. He could accept money for any service except that of befriending the blue-eyed darling on his knee.

  “Never refer to that again.”

  Harvey laughed.

  “I looked for something of the kind; I have a few words to add. I found out this morning that there was a mortgage of $600 against your little home in the village. I don’t believe in mortgages, and that particular one has now no existence. If you see any way to help undo what I have done go ahead, but I beg you not to refuse another small present that I have prepared for you.”

  And Harvey turned as if about to take something from his desk, but stopped when he saw Hugh shake his head almost angrily.

  “I would do a good deal to oblige you, Mr. Bradley, but you must not ask that. I would have been better pleased had you let the mortgage alone; my wife and little one are under the sod, and it matters nought to me whether I have a place to lay my head. But,” he added with a faint smile, “what’s done can’t be undone, and, since you have asked me, I will drop the matter, but nothing more, I pray you, on the other subject.”

  “Hugh,” said the superintendent, like one who braces himself for a duty that has its disagreeable as well as its pleasant features, “you know that I had sent to Vining for men to take the places of those who are on strike?”

  “I heard something of the kind, sir.”

  “They were to start for Bardstown tonight and are due tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I countermanded the order by telegraph this morning; not a man will come.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The whistle will blow tomorrow as usual, ten minutes before 7 o’clock, and I shall expect every one of you to be in place; I have agreed to your terms.”

  Hugh looked at the superintendent a moment and then asked a singular question:

  “Is it because I found Dollie that you agree to our terms?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because, if that is the reason, I will not accept the terms, for you would be doing out of gratitude an act which your judgment condemned.”

  Harvey Bradley felt his respect for this man increase tenfold. Such manliness was worthy of all admiration. He hastened to add:

  “There’s where, I am glad to say, you are in error. Now you know as well as I do that in order to keep discipline the employer must insist upon his rights. If he were to give all that is asked his business would be destroyed. But, on the other hand, labor has rights as well as capital, and the two can never get along together until this truth is respected by both. In all disputes, there should be an interchange of views, a full statement of grievances by those who are dissatisfied, and a fair consideration of them by the party against whom they exist.”

  O’Hara was not afraid to look his employer in the face and say:

  “That has been my opinion all along, Mr. Bradley, and had it been yours this lock-out would never have come.”

  “I admit it. You came to me from the employes and asked for a discussion of the differences between us. I thought you insolent, and refused to listen to you. Therein I did you all an injustice, for which I apologize.”

  “It gives me joy to hear you speak thus, Mr. Bradley.”

  “Seeing now my mistake, there is but the one course before me. I am convinced that in all cases of trouble like ours the court of first resort should be arbitration. The wish to be just is natural to every one, or at least to the majority of mankind. If the parties concerned cannot agree, they should appeal to those in whom both have confidence to bring about an agreement between them; that is according to the golden rule. Employer and employed, labor and capital, should be friends, and arbitration is the agent that shall bring about that happy state of things.”

  “But I do not see that there has been any arbitration in this dispute.”

  “But there has been all the same.”

  “Where is the arbitrator?”

  “She sits on your knee wondering what all this talk means. I tell you, Hugh, there is a good deal more in those little heads than most people think. Yesterday morning, when Dollie sat in her high chair at the breakfast-table, she heard her aunt and me talking about the strike. Though she could not understand it all, she knew there was trouble between me and my employes. I was out of patience and used some sharp words. She listened for a few minutes while busy with her bread and milk, and then what do you think she said?”

  “I am sure I have no idea,” replied O’Hara, patting the head of the laughing child, “but whatever it was, it was something nice.”

  “She says, ‘Brother Harvey, when I do anythi
ng wrong, you take me on your knee and talk to me and that makes me feel so bad that I never do that kind of wrong again. Why don’t you take those bad men on your knee and talk to them, so they won’t do so again?’ I showed her that such an arrangement was hardly practicable, and then she fired her solid shot that pierced my ship between wind and water: ‘Brother Harvey, maybe it’s you that has done wrong; why don’t you sit down on their knees and let them give you a talking to? Then you won’t be bad any more.”

  Hugh and Harvey broke into laughter, during which Dollie, who had become tired of sitting still full two minutes, slid off O’Hara’s knee and ran out of the room.

  “We smile at the odd conceits of the little ones,” continued Harvey, “but you know that the truest wisdom has come from the mouths of babes. I hushed her, but what she said set me thinking—‘Why don’t you let them give you a good talking to?’ That was the very thing you had asked and I had refused. I set out to take a long walk, and was absent most of the day. Her question kept coming up to me, and I tried to drive it away. The effort made me angry and ended in a decision to be sterner than ever. I would not yield a point; I would import a body of men at large expense and keep them at work, just because I was too proud to undo what I knew was wrong.

  “Still my conscience troubled me, but for all that I don’t think I would have yielded. Pride, the greatest of all stumbling-blocks, was in my way. Reaching home, I learned that Dollie was lost; then, of course, every other thought went from my head. Nothing else could be done until she was found.”

  Harvey was about to tell his guest his suspicion that he had had a hand in the abduction of the child, but he was ashamed, and really there was no call for such a confession.

  “Well, it was you who found her. I repeat that my debt to you can never be paid. And yet I do not believe that that obligation would have led me to yield, where I felt that a principle was at stake. It was the words of Dollie, spoken yesterday, that stuck to me. They kept me awake most of the night and played a part in the dreams that I had about her being lost in the woods and eaten up by panthers and all sorts of creatures. When I awoke this morning, the mists had cleared away. I saw my error, and fully made up my mind to do all I could to correct it. I went to the telegraph office before breakfast and sent a message to Vining countermanding the order for the men. Then I came back and had just finished my meal when a message was brought to my house. Odd, wasn’t it?”