Part 14 (1/2)

”Anything you have for me to do, grandpa,” replied Pen.

”I don't see's I can send ye to school.”

”I'd rather not go to school. I'd rather work--do ch.o.r.es, anything.”

”All right! I guess we can keep ye from rustin'. They's plenty to do, and I ain't so soople as I was at sixty.”

He looked the embodiment of physical comfort, with his round, fresh face, and the fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, as he sat at ease in his big chair by the window, puffing lazily at his pipe.

So Pen stayed. There was no doubt but that he earned his keep. He did ch.o.r.es. He chopped wood. He brought water from the well. He fed the horse and the cows, the chickens and the pigs. He drove Old Charlie in the performance of any work requiring the a.s.sistance of a horse. He was busy from morning to night. He slept in a cold room, he was up before daylight, he was out in all kinds of weather, he did all kinds of tasks. There were sore muscles and aching bones, indeed, before he had hardened himself to his work; for physical labor was new to him; but he never s.h.i.+rked nor complained. Moreover he was treated kindly, he had plenty to eat, and he shared in whatever diversions the family could afford. Then, too, he had his mother to comfort him, to cheer him, to sympathize with him, and to be, ever more and more, his confidante and companion.

And Grandpa Walker, relieved of nearly all laborious activities about the place, much to his enjoyment, spent his time reading, smoking and dozing through the days of late winter and early spring, and discussing politics and big business in the country store at the cross-roads of an evening.

One afternoon, about the middle of March, as the old man was rousing himself from his after-dinner nap, two men drove up to the Walker homestead, tied their horse at the gate, came up the path to the house and knocked at the door. He, himself, answered the knock.

”Yes,” he said in response to their inquiry, ”I'm Enos Walker, and I'm to hum.”

The spokesman of the two was a tall young man with a very black moustache and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

”We're glad to see you, Mr. Walker,” he declared. ”My name is Hubert Morrissey, and the gentleman who is with me is Mr. Frank Campbell.

We're on a hunting expedition.”

”Perty late in the season fer huntin', ain't it? The law's on most everything now.”

”I don't think the law's on what we're hunting for.”

”What ye huntin' fer?”

”Spruce trees.”

”Eh?”

”Spruce trees. Or, rather, one spruce tree.”

”Well, ye wouldn't have to shoot so allfired straight to hit one in these parts. I've got a swamp full of 'em down here.”

”So we understand. But we want a choice one.”

”I've got some that can't be beat this side the White mountains.”

”We've learned that also. We took the liberty of looking over your spruce grove on our way up here.”

”Well; they didn't n.o.body hender ye, did they?”

”No. We found what we were looking for, all right.”

”Jes' so. Come in an' set down.”

Grandpa Walker moved ponderously from the doorway in which he had been standing, to his comfortable chair by the window, seated himself, picked up his pipe from the window-sill, filled it, lighted it and began puffing. The two men entered the room, closing the door behind them, and found chairs for themselves and occupied them. Then the conversation was renewed.