Part 3 (1/2)

”Teachers' meeting,” said Marty. ”The Superintendent of Schools came over and they say we're going to have fortnightly lectures on Friday afternoons--mebbe ill.u.s.trated ones. Crackey! it don't matter what they have,” declared this careless boy, ”as long as 'tain't lessons.”

”Lectures?” repeated Walky. ”Do tell! What sort of lectures?”

”I heard Mr. Haley say the first one would proberbly be ill.u.s.trated by a collection of rare coins some rich feller's lent the State School Board. He says the coins are worth thousands of dollars.”

”Lectures on coins?” cackled Walky. ”I could give ye a lecture on ev'ry dollar me and Josephus ever airned! Haw! haw! haw!”

Walky rolled in his chair in delight at his own wit. Uncle Jason was watching him with some curiosity as he filled and lit his pipe.

”Walky,” he drawled, ”what was the very hardest dollar you ever airned?

It strikes me that you allus have picked the softest jobs, arter all.”

”Me? Soft jobs?” demanded Walkworthy, with some indignation. ”Ye oughter try liftin' some o' them drummers' sample-cases that I hatter wrastle with. Wal!” Then his face began to broaden and his eyes to twinkle. ”Arter all, it was a soft job that I airned my hardest dollar by, for a fac'.”

”Let's have it, Walky,” urged Marty. ”Get it out of your system.

You'll feel better for it.”

”Why, ter tell the truth,” grinned Walky, ”it was a soft job, for I carried five pounds of feathers in a bolster twelve miles to old Miz'

Kittridge one Winter day when I was a boy. I got a dollar for it and come as nigh bein' froze ter death as ever a boy did and save his bacon.”

”Do tell us about it, Walky,” said Janice, who was wiping the supper dishes for her aunt.

”I should say it was a soft job--five pounds of feathers!” burst out Marty.

”How fur did you haf to travel, Walky?” asked Aunt 'Mira.

”Twelve mile over the snow and ice, me without snowshoes and it thirty below zero. Yes, sir!” went on Walky, beginning to stuff the tobacco into his own pipe from Mr. Day's proffered sack. ”That was some job!

Miz Bob Kittridge, the old lady's darter-in-law, give me the dollar _and_ the job; and I done it.

”The old lady lived over behind this here very mountain, all alone on the Kittridge farm. The tracks was jest natcherly blowed over and hid under more snow than ye ever see in a Winter nowadays. I believe there was five foot on a level in the woods.

”There'd been a rain; then she'd froze up ag'in,” pursued Walky. ”It put a crust on the snow, but I had no idee it had made the ice rotten.

And with Mr. Mercury creepin' down to thirty below--jefers-pelters!

I'd no idee Mink Creek had open air-holes in it. I ain't never understood it to this day.

”Wal, sir! ye know where Mink Creek crosses the road to Kittridge's, Jason?”

Mr. Day nodded. ”I know the place, Walky,” he agreed.

”That's where it happened,” said Walky Dexter, nodding his head many times. ”I was crossin' the stream, thinkin' nothin' could happen, and 'twas jest at sunup. I'd come six mile, and was jest ha'f way to the farm. I kerried that piller-case over my shoulder, and slung from the other shoulder was a gun, and I had a hatchet in my belt.

”Jefers-pelters! All of a suddint I slumped down, right through the snow-crust, and douced up ter my middle inter the coldest water I ever felt I did, for a fac'!

”I sprung out o' that right pert, ye kin believe; and then the next step I went down ker-chug! ag'in--this time up ter my armpits.”

”Crackey!” exclaimed Marty. ”That was some slip. What did you do?”