Part 11 (2/2)

After a brief wait at a rude quay we embarked on a launch and steamed out over the water. Mile after mile we pa.s.sed wooded sh.o.r.es that sloped up to mountains of prodigious height. Indeed the description of the Rocky Mountains, of which I take these to be a part, have not been overdrawn. From time to time, at the edge of the primeval forest, I could make out the rude shelters of hunter and trapper who braved these perils for the sake of a scanty livelihood for their hardy wives and little ones.

Cousin Egbert, beside me, seemed unimpressed, making no outcry at the fearsome wildness of the scene, and when I spoke of the terrific height of the mountains he merely admonished me to ”quit my kidding.”

The sole interest he had thus far displayed was in the t.i.tle of our craft--_Storm King_.

”Think of the guy's imagination, naming this here chafing dish the _Storm King_!” said he; but I was impatient of levity at so solemn a moment, and promptly rebuked him for having donned a cravat that I had warned him was for town wear alone; whereat he subsided and did not again intrude upon me.

Far ahead, at length, I could descry an open glade at the forest edge, and above this I soon spied floating the North American flag, or national emblem. It is, of course, known to us that the natives are given to making rather a silly noise over this flag of theirs, but in this instance--the pioneer fighting his way into the wilderness and hoisting it above his frontier home--I felt strangely indisposed to criticise. I understood that he could be greatly cheered by the flag of the country he had left behind.

We now neared a small dock from which two ladies brandished handkerchiefs at us, and were presently welcomed by them. I had no difficulty in identifying the Mrs. Charles Belknap-Jackson, a lively featured brunette of neutral tints, rather stubby as to figure, but modishly done out in white flannels. She surveyed us interestedly through a lorgnon, observing which Mrs. Effie was quick with her own.

I surmised that neither of them was skilled with this form of gla.s.s (which must really be raised with an air or it's no good); also that each was not a little chagrined to note that the other possessed one.

Nor was it less evident that the other lady was the mother of Mrs.

Belknap-Jackson; I mean to say, the confirmed Mixer--an elderly person of immense bulk in gray walking-skirt, heavy boots, and a flowered blouse that was overwhelming. Her face, under her grayish thatch of hair, was broad and smiling, the eyes keen, the mouth wide, and the nose rather a bit blobby. Although at every point she was far from vogue, she impressed me not unpleasantly. Even her voice, a magnificently hoa.r.s.e rumble, was primed with a sort of uncouth good-will which one might accept in the States. Of course it would never do with us.

I fancied I could at once detect why they had called her the ”Mixer.”

She embraced Mrs. Effie with an air of being about to strangle the woman; she affectionately wrung the hands of Cousin Egbert, and had grasped my own tightly before I could evade her, not having looked for that sort of thing.

”That's Cousin Egbert's man!” called Mrs. Effie. But even then the powerful creature would not release me until her daughter had called sharply, ”Maw! Don't you hear? He's a _man_!” Nevertheless she gave my hand a parting shake before turning to the others.

”Glad to see a human face at last!” she boomed. ”Here I've been a month in this d.i.n.ky hole,” which I thought strange, since we were surrounded by league upon league of the primal wilderness. ”Cooped up like a hen in a barrel,” she added in tones that must have carried well out over the lake.

”Cousin Egbert's man,” repeated Mrs. Effie, a little ostentatiously, I thought. ”Poor Egbert's so dependent on him--quite helpless without him.”

Cousin Egbert muttered sullenly to himself as he a.s.sisted me with the bags. Then he straightened himself to address them.

”Won him in a game of freeze-out,” he remarked quite viciously.

”Does he doll Sour-dough up like that all the time?” demanded the Mixer, ”or has he just come from a masquerade? What's he represent, anyway?” And these words when I had taken especial pains and resorted to all manner of threats to turn him smartly out in the walking-suit of a pioneer!

”Maw!” cried our hostess, ”do try to forget that dreadful nickname of Egbert's.”

”I sure will if he keeps his disguise on,” she rumbled back. ”The old horned toad is most as funny as Jackson.”

Really, I mean to say, they talked most amazingly. I was but too glad when they moved on and we could follow with the bags.

”Calls her 'Maw' all right now,” hissed Cousin Egbert in my ear, ”but when that begoshed husband of hers is around the house she calls her 'Mater.'”

His tone was vastly bitter. He continued to mutter sullenly to himself--a way he had--until we had disposed of the luggage and I was laying out his afternoon and evening wear in one of the small detached houses to which we had been a.s.signed. Nor did he sink his grievance on the arrival of the Mixer a few moments later. He now addressed her as ”Ma” and asked if she had ”the makings,” which puzzled me until she drew from the pocket of her skirt a small cloth sack of tobacco and some bits of brown paper, from which they both fas.h.i.+oned cigarettes.

”The smart set of Red Gap is holding its first annual meeting for the election of officers back there,” she began after she had emitted twin jets of smoke from the widely separated corners of her set mouth.

”I say, you know, where's Hyphen old top?” demanded Cousin Egbert in a quite vile imitation of one speaking in the correct manner.

”Fis.h.i.+ng,” answered the Mixer with a grin. ”In a thousand dollars'

worth of clothes. These here Eastern trout won't notice you unless you dress right.” I thought this strange indeed, but Cousin Egbert merely grinned in his turn.

”How'd he get you into this awfully horrid rough place?” he next demanded.

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