Part 17 (1/2)

”Maybe,” answered the foreman, ”but Andy will have something to live on, and that is more important.”

”But I'll help Andy,” cried the boy enthusiastically. ”I'm used to the lighting up now. I can do all the work. Can't the mill hands go on paying him just the same as ever? Can't they, Andy? I'll do the lamp-lighting for you, and we'll just keep old Grey. Won't you, Andy?

Won't you?”

The boy was at Andy's shoulder, his thin young fingers clutched the old s.h.i.+rt-sleeve excitedly, his voice arose, high and shrill and earnest.

”Why, boy,” said the old Frenchman, ”I didn't know you cared so much.

_I_ don't want to sell Grey, and I _won't_ sell him if you help me with my work for the mill hands.”

Alick Duncan rose to his feet, his big, hearty laugh ringing out as Jacky seized his hand with the words, ”There, Mr. Duncan, Andy _won't_ sell Grey. He says so. You heard him.”

The big foreman stooped, picked up the boy, and swung him on his shoulder as if he had been a kitten.

”All right, little Jack o' Lantern, do as you like. We mill hands will go on with Andy's pay, only you help him all you can--and maybe he'll keep the old grey--just for luck.”

”I _know_ it's for luck,” laughed Jacky. ”The grey knows so much. Why, Mr. Duncan, he knows _everything_; he knows as much as the mill hands.”

”I dare say,” said the big foreman, dryly. ”If he didn't he wouldn't have even horse sense.”

”But why do you call me that--'Jack o' Lantern'?” asked the boy from his perch on the big man's shoulder.

”Because I thought the name suited you,” smiled the foreman. ”I've often seen the little Jack o' Lantern hovering above the marshes and swales, a dancing, pretty light, moving about to warn woodsmen of danger spots, just as your lantern, Jacky, warns the rivermen of that nasty 'wildcat'

place in the river.”

”But,” said the boy, ”dad has always told me that the Jack o' Lantern is a foolish light, that it deceives people, that it misleads them, that sometimes they follow it and then get swamped in the marshes.”

”Yes, but folks know enough to _not_ follow your lantern, boy,” answered the foreman seriously. ”Your light is a warning, not an invitation.”

”Well, the warning light will always be there, as long as I have legs to carry it,” a.s.sured Jacky, as the big foreman set him down on the floor.

Then--”And when I fail, I'll just send the grey.”

They all laughed then, but none of them knew that, weeks later, the boy's words would come true.

II

It was late in January, and the blackest night that the river had ever known. A furious gale drove down from the west and the very stars were shut in behind a gloomy sky. Little Jacky Moran trimmed his lantern, filled it with oil, whistled for Grey, and set forth as the black night was falling. The oncoming darkness seemed to outdo itself. Before he was half way up the river, night fell, and he found that he could see but a very few feet before him, although it was not yet half-past five o'clock. At six the men would leave the mill over the river, and, journeying afoot across the ice, would reach home in safety if the lantern were lighted, and if not, any or all of them might be plunged into the treacherous ”Wild Cat,” with no hope of ever reaching sh.o.r.e alive.

”He called me Jack o' Lantern,” the boy said to himself. ”It's a dancing, deceiving light, but he'll find to-night that I'll deceive n.o.body.” And through the darkness the child plodded on. Behind him walked the stiff-kneed old horse, solemn-faced and faithful, following the lantern with stumbling gait, his soft nose, as ever, very near the boy's shoulder. The way seemed endless, and Jacky, with stooped and huddled shoulders, bent his head to the wind and forged on. Then, just as he was within fifty yards of the turn that led up to the danger spot, an unusually wild gust swept his cap from his head and sent it bounding off the narrow footpath. Boylike, he reached for it, and failing to recapture it, started in pursuit. In the darkness he did not see the little ledge of earth and rock that hung a few feet above a ”dip” on the left side, and in his hurried chase he suddenly plunged forward, and was hurled abruptly to a level far below the footpath. He fell heavily, badly. One foot got twisted somehow, and as he landed he heard a faint sharp ”crack” in the region of his shoe. Something seemed to grow numb right up to his knee. He tried to struggle to his feet, but dropped down into a wilted little heap. Then he realized with horror that he was unable to stand. For a moment he was bewildered with pain and the utter darkness, for in his fall the lantern had rolled with him, then gone out. The boy struck a match, and with but little difficulty lighted the lantern. It seemed strange that the gale had ceased so suddenly, until, in looking about, he saw that he was in a hollow, and the wind was roaring above his head. He was quite sheltered where he lay, but his brief grat.i.tude for this gave way to horrified dismay when he discovered that the light, too, was sheltered--that the ledge of earth and rock arose between him and the river bank, that he could never reach the dreaded danger spot with his warning light, and, near to it though he was, the flame was completely obscured from the sight of anyone crossing the ice.

For a moment the situation overwhelmed him. He sat and s.h.i.+vered. The agony of his injured foot was now a.s.serting itself above the first numbness, and the realization that he was failing to warn the mill hands, that he was only a Jack o' Lantern after all, seized on his young heart and brain like a torturing claw. Despair settled down on him, blacker, more terrible than the coming night. He fancied he could hear the mill hands crash through the death hole, and he called wildly, ”Help! Oh, somebody help me!” all the time knowing that the shanties were too far away for anyone there to hear, and that the footpath above him was too lonely for any chance lumberman to be taking at this hour.

No one ever pa.s.sed that way but himself, and in the old days Andy and the grey--oh, he had not thought of the grey--where had the animal gone?

Instantly he whistled, called, whistled again, and over the ledge above his head looked a long, serious face, with great solemn eyes, and a soft, warm nose. The very sight gave the boy courage, and at his next whistle the old horse carefully picked his way down the bank, and reaching down his long neck, felt Jacky's shoulder with his velvety muzzle.

”Oh, Grey,” cried the boy, ”you must help me. You must do something, oh, something, to help!” Then he made an attempt to stand, to get on the animal's back, but his poor foot gave out, and he huddled down to the ground again in pitiful, hopeless pain. The horse's nose touched his ear, starting him from a fast oncoming stupor. At the same instant the six o'clock whistle blew at the mill across the frozen river. In a few moments the men would be coming home, crossing the ice, perhaps to their death instead of to the warm supper awaiting them at their shanty homes.

The thought of it all gripped Jacky's young heart with fear, but he was powerless to warn them. He could not take a single step, and he was rapidly becoming paralyzed with cold and pain. Once more the soft nose of the old horse touched his ear. With the nearness of the warm, friendly nose, his quick wit returned.

”Grey!” he almost shouted, ”Grey-Boy, do you think _you_ could take the lantern? Oh, Grey-Boy, help me think! I'm getting so numb and sleepy.

Oh, couldn't _you_ carry it for me?” With an effort the boy struggled to his knees, and slipping his arms about the neck of his old chum, he cried, ”Oh, Grey, I saved you once from dying at the logging camp.