Part 12 (1/2)
”After you had made that chimney, you know, you were a kind of hero in his eyes.”
Mac looked away. ”The cabin's been cold,” he muttered.
”We are going to remedy that.”
”I didn't bring any liquor into camp. You must admit that I didn't intend--”
”I do admit it.”
”And when O'Flynn said that about keeping his big demijohn out of the inventory and apart from the common stores, I sat on him.”
”So you did.”
”I knew it was safest to act on the 'medicinal purposes' principle.”
”So it is.”
”But I wasn't thinking so much of O'Flynn. I was thinking of ... things that had happened before ... for ... I'd had experience. Drink was the curse of Caribou. It's something of a scourge up in Nova Scotia ... I'd had experience.”
”You did the very best thing possible under the circ.u.mstances.” Mac was feeling about after his self-respect, and must be helped to get hold of it. ”I realise, too, that the temptation is much greater in cold countries,” said the Kentuckian unblus.h.i.+ngly. ”Italians and Greeks don't want fiery drinks half as much as Russians and Scandinavians--haven't the same craving as Nova Scotians and cold-country people generally, I suppose. But that only shows, temperance is of more vital importance in the North.”
”That's right! It's not much in my line to s.h.i.+ft blame, even when I don't deserve it; but you know so much you might as well know ... it wasn't I who opened that demijohn first.”
”But you don't mind being the one to shut it up--do you?”
”Shut it up?”
”Yes; let's get it down and--” The Colonel swung it off the shelf. It was nearly empty, and only the Boy's and the Colonel's single bottles stood unbroached. Even so, Mac's prolonged spree was something of a mystery to the Kentuckian. It must be that a very little was too much for Mac. The Colonel handed the demijohn to his companion, and lit the solitary candle standing on its little block of wood, held in place between three half-driven nails.
”What's that for?”
”Don't you want to seal it up?”
”I haven't got any wax.”
”I have an inch or so.” The Colonel produced out of his pocket the only piece in camp.
Mac picked up a billet of wood, and drove the cork in flush with the neck. Then, placing upright on the cork the helve of the hammer, he drove the cork down a quarter of an inch farther.
”Give me your wax. What's for a seal?” They looked about. Mac's eye fell on a metal b.u.t.ton that hung by a thread from the old militia jacket he was wearing. He put his hand up to it, paused, glanced hurriedly at the Colonel, and let his fingers fall.
”Yes, yes,” said the Kentuckian, ”that'll make a capital seal.”
”No; something of yours, I think, Colonel. The top of that tony pencil-case, hey?”
The Colonel produced his gold pencil, watched Mac heat the wax, drop it into the neck of the demijohn, and apply the initialled end of the Colonel's property. While Mac, without any further waste of words, was swinging the wicker-bound temptation up on the shelf again, they heard voices.