“No person can succeed in a business which he dislikes,” remarked Mr. Hunter to Maggie who on this summer afternoon sat on the front porch, plying her deft needle, while the waning twilight lasted, with Bridget inside preparing the evening meal.
“I think that is true, father,” was her gentle reply.
“And that boy hates the stone business and I can’t understand why he should.”
“Isn’t it also true, father, that one cannot control his likes and dislikes? Tim has told me he can’t bear the thought of spending his life in getting out great blocks of stone and trimming them into shape for building. He said he wished he could feel as you do, but there’s no use of his trying.”
“Fudge!” was the impatient exclamation; “what business has a boy of his years to talk or think about what sort of business he prefers? It is my place to select his future avocation and his to accept it without a growl.”
“He will do that, father.”
“Of course he will,” replied the parent with a compression of his thin lips and a flash of his eyes; “when I yield to a boy fourteen years old, it will be time to shift me off to the lunatic asylum.”
“Why, then, are you displeased, since he will do what you wish and do it without complaint?
“I am displeased because he is dissatisfied and has no heart in his work. He shows no interest in anything relating to the quarries and it is becoming worse every day with him.”
“Didn’t he help this forenoon?”
“Yes, because I told him he must be on hand as soon as he was through breakfast and not leave until he went to dinner.”
“Did you say nothing about his working this afternoon?”
“No; I left that out on purpose to test him.”
“What was the result?”
“I haven’t seen hide or hair of him since; I suppose he is off in the woods or up in his room, reading or figuring on some invention. Do you know where he is?”
“He has been in his room almost all the afternoon and is there now.”
“Doing what?”
“I guess you have answered that question,” replied Maggie laying aside her sewing because of the increasing shadows, and looking across at her father with a smile.
“That’s what makes me lose all patience. What earthly good is it for him to sit in his room drawing figures of machines he dreams of making, or scribbling over sheets of paper? If this keeps up much longer, he will take to writing poetry, and the next thing will be smoking cigarettes and then his ruin will be complete.”
Maggie’s clear laughter rang out on the summer air. She was always overflowing with spirits and the picture drawn by her parent and the look of profound disgust on his face as he uttered his scornful words stirred her mirth beyond repression.
“What are you laughing at?” he demanded, turning toward her, though without any anger in his tones, for he could never feel any emotion of that nature toward such a daughter.
“It was the idea of Tim writing poetry or rhyme and smoking cigarettes.
I’ll guarantee that he will never do either.”
“Nor anything else, you may as well add.”
“I’ll guarantee that if he lives he will do a good many things that will be better than getting out and trimming stone.”
This was not the first time that Maggie had intimated the same faith, without going into particulars or giving any idea upon what she based that faith. The parent looked sharply at her and asked:
“What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
But the daughter was not yet ready to do so. She had her thoughts or dreams or whatever they might be, but was not prepared as yet to share them with her parent. He was not in the mood, and for her to tell all that was in her mind would be to provoke an outburst that would be painful to the last degree. She chose for the present to parry.
“How can I know, father, what ambition Tim has? He is still young enough to change that ambition, whatever it may be.”
“And he’s got to change it, as sure as he lives! I am tired of his fooling; he is fourteen years old, big, strong, and healthy; if he would take hold of the work and show some interest in it, he would be able in a couple of years to take charge of the whole business and give me a rest, but he is frittering away valuable time until I’ve made up my mind to permit it no longer.”
The parent knocked the bowl of his pipe against the column of the porch and shook his head in a way that showed he meant every word he said. Maggie was troubled, for she had feared an outbreak between him and Tim, and it seemed to be impending. She dreaded it more than death, for any violence by her beloved parent toward her equally beloved brother would break her heart. That parent, naturally placid and good-natured, had a frightful temper when it was aroused. She could never forget that day when in a quarrel with one of his employes, he came within a hair of killing the man and for the time was a raging tiger.
There was one appeal that Maggie knew had never failed her, though she feared the day would come when even that would lose its power. She reserved it as the last recourse. When she saw her father rise to his feet, and in the gathering gloom noted the grim resolute expression on his face, she knew the crisis had come.
“Tell him to come downstairs; we may as well have this matter settled here and now.”
“Father,” she said in a low voice of the sweetest tenderness, “you will not forget what he did two years ago?”
The parent stood motionless, silent for a minute, and then gently resumed his seat, adding a moment later,
“No; I can never forget that; never mind calling him just now.”
And what it was that Tim Hunter did “two years ago” I must now tell you.
CHAPTER II.
Bear in mind that Tim Hunter was twelve years old at the time, being the junior by two years of his sister Maggie.
On the day which I have in mind, he had spent the forenoon fishing, and brought home a mess of trout for which he had whipped one of the mountain brooks, and which furnished the family with the choicest sort of a meal. The father complimented him on his skill, for that was before the parent’s patience had been so sorely tried by the indifference of the lad toward the vocation to which the elder meant he should devote his life. He left the lad at liberty to spend the rest of the day as he chose, and, early in the afternoon, he proposed to his sister that they should engage in that old game of “jackstones” with which I am sure you are familiar.
Years ago the country lads and lassies generally used little bits of stones, instead of scraggly, jagged pieces of iron, with which they amuse themselves in these days. Tim had seen some of the improved jackstones; and, borrowing one from a playmate, he made a clay mould from it, into which he poured melted lead, repeating the operation until he had five as pretty and symmetrically formed specimens as one could wish. It was with these in his hands, that he led the way to the barn for a game between himself and sister.
The big, spacious structure was a favorite place for spending their leisure hours. The hard, seedy floor, with the arching rafters overhead could not be improved for their purpose. The shingles were so far aloft that the shade within was cool on sultry summer days, and it was the pleasantest kind of music to hear the rain drops patter on the roof and the wind whistle around the eaves and corners. The mow where the hay was stored was to the left, as you entered the door, and under that were the stalls where the horses munched their dinner and looked solemnly through the opening over the mangers at the two children engaged at play. Between where they sat and the rafters, the space was open.
Maggie took her seat in the middle of the floor, and her brother placed himself opposite. Before doing so, he stepped to the nearest stall and picked up a block of wood six inches in diameter and two feet in length. This he laid on the floor and seated himself upon it, tossing the jackstones to his sister to begin the game.
She was his superior, for her pretty taper fingers were more nimble than his sturdy ones, and, unless she handicapped herself b
y certain conditions, she invariably won in the contest of skill. She tossed them one after the other, then two or three or more at a time, snatching up the others from the floor and going through the varied performance with an easy perfection that was the wonder of Tim. Once or twice, she purposely missed some feat, but the alert lad was sure to detect it, and declared he would not play unless she did her best, and, under his watchful eye, she could not escape doing so. As I have said, the only way to equalize matters was for her to handicap herself, and even then I am compelled to say she was more often winner than loser.
Sitting on the block of wood tipped up on one end, Tim kept his eyes on the bits of metal, popping up in the air and softly dropping into the extended palm, and wondered again why it was so hard for him to do that which was so easy for her. Finally she made a slip, which looked honest, and resigned the stones to him.
Now, you know that in playing this game, you ought to sit on the floor or ground; for if your perch is higher, you are compelled to stoop further to snatch up the pieces and your position is so awkward that it seriously interferes with your success.
The very first scramble Tim made at the stones on the floor was not only a failure, but resulted in a splinter catching under the nail of one of his fingers. Maggie laughed.
“Why do you sit way up there?” she asked; “you can’t do half as well as when you are lower down like me.”
“I guess you’re right,” he replied, as he pushed the block away and imitated her. “I ’spose I’ll catch the splinters just the same.”
“There’s no need of it; you mustn’t claw the stones, but move your hand gently, just as I do. Now, watch me.”
“It’s a pity that no one else in the world is half as smart as you,” replied the brother with fine irony, but without ill nature. “Ah, wasn’t that splendid?”
Which remark was caused by the plainest kind of fluke on the part of Maggie, who in her effort to instruct her brother, forgot one or two nice points, which oversight was fatal.
“Well,” said she, “I didn’t fill my fingers with splinters.”
“Nor with jackstones either; if I can’t do any better than you I’m sure
I can’t do any worse.”
“Well, Smarty, what are you waiting for?”
“For you to pay attention.”
“I’m doing that.”
With cool, careful steadiness, Tim set to work, and lo! he finished the game without a break, performing the more difficult exploits with a skill that compelled the admiration of his sister.
“I’m glad to see that you’re not such a big dunce as you look; I’ve been discouraged in trying to teach you, but you seem to be learning at last.”
“Wouldn’t you like me to give you a few lessons?”
“No; for, if you did, I should never win another game,” was the pert reply; “I wonder whether you will ever be able to beat me again.”
“Didn’t you know that I have been fooling with you all the time, just as I fool a trout till I get him to take the hook?”
Maggie stared at him with open mouth for a moment and then asked in an awed whisper:
“No; I didn’t know that: did you?”
“Never mind; the best thing you can do is to tend to bus’ness, for I’m not going to show you a bit of mercy.”
During this friendly chaffing, both noticed that the wind was rising. It moaned around the barn, and enough of it entered the window far above their heads for them to feel it fan their cheeks. An eddy even lifted one of the curls from the temple of the girl. This, however, was of no special concern to them, and they continued their playing.
Each went through the next series without a break. Tim was certainly doing himself honor, and his sister was at a loss to understand it. But you know that on some days the player of any game does much better than on others. This was one of Tim’s best days and one of Maggie’s worst, for he again surpassed her, though there could be no doubt that she did her very best, and she could not repress her chagrin. But she was too fond of her bright brother to feel anything in the nature of resentment for his success.
“There’s one thing certain,” she said, shaking her curly head with determination; “you can’t beat me again.”
“I wouldn’t be so rash, sister; remember that I mean bus’ness today.”
“Just as if you haven’t always done your best; it’s you that are bragging, not I.”
Tim had taken the stones in his right hand with the purpose of giving them the necessary toss in the air, when a blast of wind struck the barn with a force that made it tremble. They distinctly felt the tremor of the floor beneath them. He paused and looked into the startled face of his sister with the question:
“Hadn’t we better run to the house?”
“No,” she replied, her heart so set on beating him that she felt less fear than she would have felt had it been otherwise; “it’s as safe here as in the house; one is as strong as the other; if you want to get out of finishing the game, why, I’ll let you off.”
“You know it isn’t that, Maggie; but the barn isn’t as strong as the house.”
“It has stood a good many harder blows than this; don’t you see it has stopped? Go on.”
“All right; just as you say,” and up went the pronged pieces and were caught with the same skill as before. Then he essayed a more difficult feat and failed. Maggie clapped her hands with delight, and leaned forward to catch up the bits and try her hand.
At that instant something like a tornado or incipient cyclone struck the barn. They felt the structure swaying, heard the ripping of shingles, and casting his eyes aloft, Tim saw the shingles and framework coming down upon their heads.
It was an appalling moment. If they remained where they were, both would be crushed to death. The door was too far away for both to reach it; though it was barely possible that by a quick leap and dash he might get to the open air in the nick of time, but he would die a hundred times over before abandoning his sister. The open window was too high to be reached from the floor without climbing, and there was no time for that.
The action of a cyclone is always peculiar. Resistless as is its power, it is often confined to a very narrow space. The one to which I am now referring whipped off a corner of the roof, so loosening the supports that the whole mass of shingles and rafters covering the larger portion came down as if flung from the air above, while the remainder of the building was left unharmed, the terrified horses not receiving so much as a scratch.
There was one awful second when brother and sister believed that the next would be their last. Then Tim threw his arm around the neck of Maggie and in a flash drew her forward so that she lay flat on her face and he alongside of her; but the twinkling of an eye before that he had seized the block of wood, rejected some time before as a chair, and stood it on end beside his shoulder, keeping his right arm curved round it so as to hold it upright in position, while the other arm prevented Maggie from rising.
“Don’t move?” he shouted amid the crashing of timbers and the roaring of the gale; “lie still and you won’t be hurt.”
She could not have disobeyed him had she tried, for the words were in his mouth when the fearful mass of timber descended upon them.
CHAPTER III.
Do you understand what Tim Hunter did? Had the mass of timber descending upon him and his sister been unchecked, they would not have lived an instant. Had it been shattered into small fragments by the cyclone, the ingenious precaution which a wonderful presence of mind enabled hint to make, would have been of no avail.
Take a block of seasoned oak, six inches through, and two feet in height, and interpose it squarely against an approaching body and it is almost as powerful in the way of resistance as so much metal. It would take an ironclad to crush it to pulp, by acting longitudinally or along its line of length. This block stood upright, and received a portion of the rafters, covered by the shingles and held them aloft as easily as you can hold your hat with your outstretched arm
. From this point of highest support, the debris sloped away until it rested on the floor, but the open space, in which the brother and sister lay, was as safe as was their situation, before the gale loosened the structure.
Tim called to his sister and found that not so much as a hair of her head had been harmed, and it was the same with himself. All was darkness in their confined quarters, but the wrenched framework gave them plenty of air to breathe.
Who can picture the feelings of the father, when he saw the collapse of the roof of the barn and knew that his two children were beneath? He rushed thither like a madman, only to be cheered to the highest thankfulness the next moment at hearing their muffled assurances that both were all right. A brief vigorous application of his axe and the two were helped out into the open air, neither the worse for their dreadful experience.
The parent could hardly believe what had been done by his boy, when Maggie told him, until an examination for himself showed that it was true. He declared that neither he nor anyone would have thought of the means and applied it with such lightning quickness. It certainly was an extraordinary exhibition of presence of mind and deserved all the praise given to it. The Brereton Intelligencer devoted half a column to a description of the exploit and prophesied that that “young man” would be heard from again. For weeks and months there was nothing at the disposal of Mr. Hunter which was too good for his boy and it is probable that the indulgence of that period had something to do with making Tim dissatisfied with the prospect of spending all his life as a “hewer of stone.”
Gradually as the effects of the remarkable rescue wore off, the impatience of the parent grew until we have seen him on the point of calling to account the boy who had really been the means of saving two lives, for his own was as much imperilled as the sister’s. Once more she appealed to that last recourse, and once more it did not fail her. When he recalled that dreadful scene, he could not help feeling an admiring gratitude for his boy. Although silent and reserved some time later, when the three gathered round the table for their evening meal, nothing unpleasant was said by the parent, though the sharp-witted Tim felt a strong suspicion of the cause of his father’s reserve.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 21
