Chapter II

A few days later Sam passed through my yard, where Ned Harvey was warmly engaged in persuading me not to have my crimson clover turned under, but to hog it off. He had carried some of my farm books to the barn, and the phrase “hog it off” had him in its power. Lucie’s eyes approved shiningly.

“And you know, Dolly,” she said, “after all, Ned is a realtor, not a farmer.”

“But, Mis’ Harvey,” said Sam, “we don’t fatten hogs round here in the spring; an’ clover makes soft meat--sorter like bear’s meat. An’ that makes me think now--hain’t ye heard about that bear runnin’ on Pitcher Mountain? Hit come down from Smoky.”

“You’ve bears here?” asked Ned, turning a captured ear.

“Oh, ay, they’s a few left. They come down from the bear-ground on Smoky oncet in a while. It’s only eleven miles straight through to Pitcher. If I can git Tom Bowles to plough fer me, I’m goin’ to have a look at this feller.”

He passed on, leaving Harvey intently gazing at nothing. His bride caught his arm.

“You are not going, Ned?”

“Not without your consent, Lucie. It’s an opportunity, of course. I have never shot a bear.”

His thoughts wandered. We could see that he was already back at home telling the boys about it.

“If only you would be very, _very_ careful, dear!”

“Oh, that’s all right, thank you, darling!” And he set off after Sam. When he returned, he was enthusiastic about his guide. “I like him! He hung back at first, and I finally found that Bowles wouldn’t plough for him without the money; so I paid him ten dollars in advance. That’s all he is charging to take me. We shall be gone only three or four days. He knows all the trails; and we can get our bacon and meal at a little store on Siler’s creek, and not have to carry a heavy pack from here.”

“If only you had an intelligent companion!” said Lucie with foreboding.

“Oh, Sam’s a fine fellow! And he knows a lot of old songs. You know I want to make a collection.”

“Do get ‘London City’ for me if you can,” I said. “He will never give me more than a snatch of it.

‘In London City where I did dwell
A merchant boy I loved so well----’

I am sure it has been sung under the very bonnet of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, ‘City’ not ‘town’; ‘merchant,’ not ‘soldier’ or ‘sailor.’”

“It’s a link,” said Harvey. “Think of it! This remote spot where nothing ever happened, and old London! I’ll get it for you.”

I wasn’t hopeful, knowing Sam’s disposition to sing only at his own instance; but I could not discourage any one so gallantly sure as Harvey.

The next twenty-four hours were spent by the bear-hunters in making ready. I asked Sam where he intended to get a bear-dog, and was surprised to hear that they had decided not to take one.

“One o’ them big dogs’ll eat three men’s rations,” said Sam. “We’d have to carry a heap more stuff, an’ pay five dollars fer the hire of him, too. Anyways, if we took a bear-dog, he’d git all the credit for the killin’, when like as not he’d be back in camp eatin’ up our victuals.”

“It’s settled, Sam,” said Harvey. “A gun’s the clean thing.”

“I knowed you wanted to shoot bear, not claw ’em out like Jed Weaver does.”

As preparations went on, Lucie shrank to a wife’s place in the background; but near the starting-moment she slipped a pair of her husband’s best silk socks into his kit.

“They will rest your feet, dear,” she said, suppressing a crinkly catch in her voice.

The kiss she received was absent-mindedly given; but when a hundred yards on his way, Harvey turned thoughtfully and waved a marital hand broadly rearward.

The fifth morning thereafter, Lucie, who had been on watch at the curve of the road, came running in.

“Dolly,” she cried, “I thought tramps never got up here!”

“They don’t,” I said.

“But look!”

She turned again and gazed out; then stood framed in eerie silence. I saw, and she saw, that it was Ned. He came up with an unrelaxing smile, but looking as if he had not slept since his departure. Certainly he had not shaved, though I had seen him carefully pack his safety razor, and remembered his remark that even in the woods a man could be a gentleman. He had on Sam’s ragged coat, and under it we had glimpses of Sam’s still more ragged, and once blue, cotton shirt. His head was bare.

Lucie was white-lipped and wide-eyed. “Did the bears--” she began.

“No, Lucie, the bears did not get me,” he said; and preceded her to the barn.

Two or three hours afterward she returned to tell me that Ned was sleeping and did not wish to be awakened until next morning. He appeared at breakfast, neat and smiling, but his face was still marked by experience.

“He has suffered,” said Lucie, helping his plate with tender liberality.

“Oh, it was nothing,” said Ned. “Sam took a bad cold, and seemed threatened with pneumonia. As my clothes were warmer than his, of course I exchanged with him.”

“Your best silk socks, too?” cried Lucie.

“Certainly. He had _none_.”

Then he told us about it. “We climbed steadily, and the second day reached a height of four thousand feet or more. There was a fierce wind, and it was bitter cold. We had to keep a fire at night, and as Sam was not well, I attended to that, which cut out my sleep. _Don’t_ moan like that, please, dearest. I am glad I went. I feel better prepared for many things. I really do.”

And truly he did seem to have added to his stature. He had been very likable; but now I began to admire him.

“I didn’t get a bear, but I made some notes. You know I have always been interested in forest life. I ought to have been a woodsman.”

“I hope you won’t have to limp very long,” said Lucie; and a slight silence followed.

“Did Sam sing for you?” she continued, her usual discernment failing.

“Yes--a little--one song.”

“Oh, I hope you took it down!”

“It was very _cold_, Lucie. I did no unnecessary writing.”

“But you remember it?”

“I shall never forget it,” he said, and, to my ears, his voice held a slight acridity. I was glad when Lucie fell into her sweetest manner and they went off together.

As I moved about the deserted table, I noticed a note-book lying on the floor. The floor being frequently a repository for my own note-books, I picked this one up, to see what subject had lost my devotion. On the first page I read: “Night of the 15th: very cold; no sleep. 16th: very cold; no sleep. 17th: very cold; no sleep.” The rest was blank. I laid the book on the floor, a little under Harvey’s chair. Then I went to find Sam.