Part 37 (1/2)

”I wrote some of the stuff in it.”

”Wrote some of th' stuff in it? Wrote it thaself ? How could tha, a common chap like thee?” he asked, more excited still, his ferret eyes snapping.

”I don't know how I did it,” Tembarom answered, with increased cheer and interest in the situation. ” It wasn't high-brow sort of work.”

Tummas leaned forward in his incredulous eagerness.

”Does tha mean that they paid thee for writin' it--paid thee?”

”I guess they wouldn't have done it if they'd been Lancas.h.i.+re, ”Tembarom answered.” But they hadn't much more sense than I had. They paid me twenty-five dollars a week-- that's five pounds.”

”I dunnot believe thee,” said Tummas, and leaned back on his pillow short of breath.

”I didn't believe it myself till I'd paid my board two weeks and bought a suit of clothes with it,” was Tembarom's answer, and he chuckled as he made it.

But Tummas did believe it. This, after he had recovered from the shock, became evident. The curiosity in his face intensified itself; his eagerness was even vaguely tinged with something remotely resembling respect. It was not, however, respect for the money which had been earned, but for the store of things ”doin'” which must have been required. It was impossible that this chap knew things undreamed of.

”Has tha ever been to th' Klondike ? ” he asked after a long pause.

”No. I've never been out of New York.”

Tummas seemed fretted and depressed.

”Eh, I'm sorry for that. I wished tha'd been to th' Klondike. I want to be towd about it,” he sighed. He pulled the atlas toward him and found a place in it.

”That theer's Dawson,” he announced. Tembarom saw that the region of the Klondike had been much studied. It was even rather faded with the frequent pa.s.sage of searching fingers, as though it had been pored over with special curiosity.

”There's gowd-moines theer,” revealed Tummas. ”An' theer's welly newt else but snow an' ice. A young chap as set out fro' here to get theer froze to death on th' way.”

”How did you get to hear about it?”

”Ann she browt me a paper onet.” He dug under his pillow, and brought out a piece of newspaper, worn and frayed and cut with age and usage.

”This heer's what's left of it.” Tembarom saw that it was a fragment from an old American sheet and that a column was headed ”The Rush for the Klondike.”

”Why didna tha go theer?” demanded Tummas. He looked up from his fragment and asked his question with a sudden reflectiveness, as though a new and interesting aspect of things had presented itself to him.

”I had too much to do in New York,” said Tembarom. ”There's always something doing in New York, you know.”

Tummas silently regarded him a moment or so.

”It's a pity tha didn't go,” he said.” Happen tha'd never ha' coom back.”

Tembarom laughed the outright laugh.

”Thank you,” he answered.

Tummas was still thinking the matter over and was not disturbed.

”I was na thinkin' o' thee,” he said in an impersonal tone. ”I was thinkin' o' t' other chap. If tha'd gon i'stead o' him, he'd ha' been here i'stead o' thee. Eh, but it's funny.” And he drew a deep breath like a sigh having its birth in profundity of baffled thought.

Both he and his evident point of view were ”funny” in the Lancas.h.i.+re sense, which does not imply humor, but strangeness and the unexplainable. Singular as the phrasing was, Tembarom knew what he meant, and that he was thinking of the oddity of chance. Tummas had obviously heard of ”poor Jem” and had felt an interest in him.

”You're talking about Jem Temple Barholm I guess,” he said. Perhaps the interest he himself had felt in the tragic story gave his voice a tone somewhat responsive to Tummas's own mood, for Tummas, after one more boring glance, let himself go. His interest in this special subject was, it revealed itself, a sort of obsession. The history of Jem Temple Barholm had been the one drama of his short life.