Chapter XIII: Part II: The Pillar of Fire by Night (4)

But Jane did not answer.

“Jane,” I said happily, “you see, the Chinaman's head--”

“If you say Chinaman to me again,” returned my wife, sleepily, “I'll leave you. There are six pieces missing from that laundry.”

And she never knew.

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

1. What is the character of the speaker? How does the speaker's
personality contribute to the humor of the story?

2. What sort of story did he contemplate writing?

3. What is the character of the speaker's wife? How does her
personality contribute to the humor of the story?

4. What gives humor to Theodore's remarks?

5. Why is the incident of meeting the policeman mentioned early in
the story?

6. What gives humor to Mrs. Revis's remarks?

7. What misunderstandings give humor to the story?

SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

1. Adventures of an Amateur 11. Conducting a Meeting
Detective
2. Going on My Travels 12. Making an Excuse
3. Reading Aloud at Home 13. Cooking Experiences
4. A Mysterious Package 14. Housecleaning
5. The Lost Dog 15. Buying a Dress
6. My Pet Snakes 16. Speaking a Foreign Language
7. Writing a Composition 17. My First Speech
8. Graduation 18. Little Brother
9. Being an Editor 19. Being Careful
10. Doing an Errand 20. My Letter Writing

DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

Found your story on some actual interest that you have. Write in the first person, as realistically as possible. Do not over-use exaggeration, but make your story unusual. You will gain the best effects if you base your humor on natural misunderstanding, and on remarks or events that are incongruous. Confine your story to two or three principal incidents, and bring the narrative to a natural conclusion that will give the effect of climax.

GETTING UP TO DATE
By ROBERTA WAYNE

_An American short story writer and contributor to magazines._

=A realistic story differs from a romantic story in that it concerns
the events of ordinary life. Its characters are the people whom
we know,--those who move about us in daily life. Its plot centers
around everyday events. Naturally a realistic story depends largely
upon character interest.=

=_Getting Up To Date_ concerns such a simple thing as storekeeping,
and the methods of attracting customers. Job Lansing, in the story,
represents the type of person who clings to old ways. His niece,
Ellie, represents the spirit of youth and progress,--the spirit of
adaptability.=

=The simplicity and familiarity of such a story is just as
interesting as is wild adventure in the most vivid romance.=

Old Job Lansing stood, hatchet in hand, and stared down into the big packing-case that he had just opened.

“El-lee,” he called, “come here quick.” And as footsteps were heard and the shutting of a door, he continued: “They've sent the wrong stuff. This isn't what we ordered!”

The girl buried her head in the box from which she brought forth bolt after bolt of dress goods, voiles with gay colors, dainty organdies, and ginghams in pretty checks and plaids. As she rose, her eyes glowed and instinctively she straightened her shoulders. “Yes, Uncle, it is what we ordered. I sent for this!”

“You _did_!” The old man trembled with rage.

“But, Uncle, they're so pretty and I think--”

“You can think and think as much as you please, but those goods will never sell. They'll just lie on the shelves. _You_ may think they're pretty, but an Injin won't buy a yard of 'em, and it's Injins we're trading with.”

“But there's no reason why the squaws shouldn't buy pretty dresses instead of ugly calico. There's more money in this, and it's a pleasure to sell such dainty stuff. Besides, we can sell to the white people. There's Mrs. Matthews--”

“I've heard all your arguments before, and I tell you, you'll never sell it.”

Old Job had never married. For many years he had lived alone in the rooms behind his store, and he had become self-centered and a bit fussy and intolerant. If he had realized how much his life was to be upset, he could never have brought himself to offer his widowed sister and her family a home; for he valued his quiet life, and, above all, he wanted to do things in his own way.

He was never at ease with the two nephews, who soon left to make their own way in the world.

But with Ellie it was different. Her affectionate ways won Job's heart. They were chums, often going together on long horseback rides to distant peaks that looked inviting. And as the girl developed, he loved to have her with him as he worked and he was delighted at her interest in everything in the little store. She even learned the prices of the goods and helped him.

Old Job had kept this store at the “summit” for thirty years, and he was sure he knew every side of the business. As long as he kept a good supply of beans and flour, that was all that was necessary. A good-sized Indian village lay down the creek about a mile, and it was from this settlement that Job Lansing got most of his trade.

The old man had come to the age when he lived mostly in the past. He liked to talk of the “glorious” days. “Things were lively around here then,” he used to say. “Why, for every dollar's worth I sell now, then I used to sell fifty dollars. They were the good old times!”

“But why?” questioned Ellie, bringing him sharply back to the present. “There are a lot more people here now and we should do better.” Then, with a gesture of impatience, “Uncle, there's no sense in it. We've got to get up to date. I don't blame Joe and Glenn for leaving. There's no future here.”

“Shucks!” said Job Lansing. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

But Ellie always managed to have the last word. “I'm going to do _something_! See if I don't!”

And she had done it!

For weeks, now, Job Lansing had been quite pleased with her. She had never been so reasonable. She had taken a great notion to cleaning up the store. Not that he approved of her moving the goods around; but still, it was a woman's way to be everlastingly fussing about with a dust-cloth. You couldn't change them.

He had decided that this new interest on Ellie's part came from the feeling of responsibility he had put upon her two months before when he had been called to Monmouth. His old mining partner was ill and wanted to see him. Before he went he gave his niece a few directions and told her how to make up the order for goods, that had to go out the next day. He rode away feeling that the business would be all right in her hands.

Now, as he stormed around the store, he realized why she had taken such an interest in the arrangement of the shelf space; why a gap had been left in a prominent place. It was for this silly stuff that wouldn't sell! He wanted to send it back, but, as it had been ordered, he would have to pay express on it both ways.

Ellie stood her ground, a determined expression in her face. She unpacked the heavy box and put the gay organdies and voiles in the places she had arranged for them. One piece, of a delicate gray with small, bright, magenta flowers in it, she left on the counter; and to the astonishment of the old man, she let a length of the dainty goods fall in graceful folds over a box placed beneath it.

This was one of the notions she had brought back from Phœnix, where she had gone on a spring shopping trip with Mrs. Matthews, wife of the superintendent at the Golden Glow mine. How she had enjoyed that day! Her eager eyes noted every up-to-date detail in the big stores where they shopped; but to her surprise, Mrs. Matthews had bought only such things as they might easily have carried in her uncle's store--plain, but pretty, ginghams for the Matthews' children, a light-blue organdie for herself, a box of writing-paper, and a string of beads for Julie's birthday.

Ellie's pretty little head was at once filled with ideas that coaxed for a chance to become solid facts. Her uncle's trip to Monmouth gave her an opportunity, and, after weeks of waiting, the boxes had been delivered and the storm had broken.

When they closed the store for the night, Ellie was tired. She was not so sure of success as she had been. But, at least, she had made an effort to improve things. How she longed for her mother, absent on a two months' visit to one of her sons!

With the morning came new courage, even exhilaration, for unconsciously she was finding joy in the struggle; not as a diversion in the monotony and loneliness of her life, for Ellie did not know what monotony meant, and she felt herself rich in friends. She had two.

One was Louise Prescott at Skyboro, only ten miles away, daughter of a wealthy ranchman. They often visited each other, for each had her own pony and was free to come and go as she wished. And the other was Juanita Mercy, down the cañon in the opposite direction. Now, for the last two years, Louise had been away at school. But she was always thrilled at getting back to the mountains. She had returned the day before, and Ellie knew that early the next morning she would be loping her pony over the steep road that led to the little mountain store.

And it was when Ellie was standing guard over her new goods, fearing that her uncle might, in a moment of anger, order them to be sent back, that Louise rode up, and, throwing her reins forward over her pony's neck, leaped from the saddle and rushed into the store.

“Oh, Ellie! it's good to get back, and I have four months of vacation. Won't we have a grand time!--Why, you've been fixing up the store, Mr. Lansing; and how lovely it looks! I must have Mama come up and see these pretty summer things.” Turning again to Ellie, she threw her arms around her and whispered: “Come on out and sit on our dear old bluff. I just can't get enough of the hills to-day, and I want to talk and talk and talk.”

But it was not Louise who did the talking this time. While her eyes were feasting on the gorgeous scenery before her, the dim trails that led up and up the steep mountain on the other side of the creek, Ellie unburdened herself of her troubles. She told how she had ordered the goods on her own responsibility.

“Why, Ellie, how could you do it? I'd never have had the courage!”

“But I just _had_ to, Lou. I don't want to leave the mountains, and I don't want to be poor all our lives. Uncle's getting old and set in his ways, and he can't seem to see that things are going behind all the time. Dear old uncle! He's been so good to us! And now I'd like to help him. I'm just trying to save him from himself.”

“And you will. I think it's fine!”

“Yes, it's fine, if--if--if!” exploded Ellie, who was not quite so optimistic as she had been in the morning. Several Indian women had come into the store, and while they stared in astonishment at the pretty goods displayed on the counter, they had gone out without buying anything.

Job Lansing had shrugged his shoulders, and while not a word had escaped him, his manner had said emphatically, “I told you so!”

“But where is there any _if_, I'd like to know. You just have to sell all that stuff as fast as you can, and that will show him.”

“But if the squaws won't buy? They didn't seem wild about it this morning.”

“Well, you're not dependent on the squaws, I should hope. I'm going to tell Mother, and she'll come up, if I say so, and buy a lot of dresses.”

“Now, Lou Prescott, don't you dare! That will spoil everything. Uncle would say it was charity. You see _we_ are trading with squaws. Don't laugh, Louise! I must make good! I just _must_! But how am I going to make those squaws buy what I want them to buy? If Uncle would only plan and work with me, I know we could make a success of it. But he won't!”

“You should have invested in beads, reds and blues and greens, all colors, bright as you could get them.”

“That's a good idea, Lou. I'll do it. But they can't buy a string of beads without buying a dress to match it! I'll do it, Lou Prescott!”

An hour later, when they returned to the store, Job Lansing looked up from the counter, his face wrathful. He had just measured off six yards of pink organdie and was doing it up in a package for Joe Hoan's daughter. Job Lansing hated to give in. He had tried to get Lillie Hoan to wait until Ellie returned, but she had insisted, and so the old man was the first to sell a piece of the pretty goods. He did it ungraciously.

Ellie and Louise stood still and stared at each other. Then Ellie whispered: “It's a good omen. I'm going to succeed.”

And that night a second order was dispatched. Job Lansing made no objection, but he did not ask her what she had sent for.

The next two days were busy ones for Ellie. Her uncle fretted to himself, for not once did she come inside the store to help him. Louise came each day, and the two girls spent their time in Ellie's room, where the rattling sound of the old sewing-machine could be heard.

But on the third day Ellie was up early and was already dusting out the store when her uncle entered. It was Saturday, always a busy day. This pleased Job Lansing. “That girl has a pile of good sense along with this other nonsense,” he said to himself as he watched her.

About nine o'clock Louise arrived and entered quickly, throwing down a square package. “Here they are, Ell. He brought them last night. I came right over with them, but I have to hurry back. They are beauties, all right.”

The girls disappeared once more into the bedroom, where they could be heard laughing and exclaiming.

When Ellie emerged no one would have known her, for the little cowboy girl was dressed in a dainty voile with pink blossoms in it, and around her neck was a long string of pink beads that matched perfectly the flowers in her gown.

Job Lansing started as if he were going to speak, then suppressed the words and went on with his work. Ellie tried to act as if everything was the same as usual. Selecting some blues and pinks and greens among her ginghams and voiles, she draped them over boxes and tubs. Then across each piece she laid a string of beads that matched or contrasted well with the colors in the material, and waited for results.

And the result was that when Joe Phinney's wife, the squaw who helped them in the kitchen, came in with the intention of buying beans and flour, she took a long look, first at Ellie, then at the exhibit, and without a word turned and left. She did not hurry, but she walked straight back to the Indian village.

“Guess she was frightened,” commented Job.

Ellie was disappointed. She had depended on old Mary, and it was through her that she hoped to induce the other squaws to come. Some of them had never been in the store. They were shy, and left their men to do the buying.

Their sole visitor for the next hour was Phil Jennings, the stage-driver, who stopped in for the mail. “Well, well, what's all this about! Are you trying to outshine the stores in town, Miss Ellie? And how pretty you look this morning.”

“Yes, Mr. Jennings. We're going to have a fine store here by this time next year. Uncle's thinking of enlarging it and putting in an up-to-date stock. On your way down, you might pass the word along that our summer goods are in and that I have some beautiful pieces here for dresses, just as good as can be bought in Tucson or Phœnix. It's easier than sending away to Chicago.”

“Well, I sure will, Miss Ellie. Mother was growling the other day because she would have to go to Monmouth to buy ginghams for the kids.”

“Please tell her that next week I'm expecting some ready-made clothes for children, and it will pay her to come up and see them.”

“I'll tell her,” said Phil Jennings, as he cracked his whip and started off. All he could talk about that day was “that clever little girl of Job Lansing's” who was going to make a real store at the summit and keep the mountain trade where it belonged.

“Where are you, Uncle?” called Ellie, as she came back into the store.

“I'm hiding!” said Job. “Ashamed to be seen. Enlarge the store! It's more than likely I'll have to mortgage it. And you drumming up trade that way. It isn't ladylike.”

“Well, it simply has to be done. He'll give us some good advertising down the road to-day. I wish there was some one I could send down the creek. I wonder if you couldn't ride down, yourself.”

But Job Lansing pretended not to hear.

Ellie did not feel as brave as her words indicated. She knew that their trade from day to day came from the Indian settlement, and looked disconsolately out of the window. But in a moment she gave an exclamation of joy and found herself shaking her uncle's arm. “Here they come, Uncle, dear! Here they come!”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“The squaws! They're here in full force. Mary, the old darling, she's brought the whole tribe, I do believe!”

Ellie busied herself at the counter, trying to appear at ease when the Indian women filed into the store and stood gazing about them. She was impatient to know if they were pleased, but their impassive faces told nothing. She would just have to let them take their time. So she pretended not to notice them as they drew near to the counter, fingering the beads and dress-goods.

“How do you like my new dress, Mary?” Ellie turned on them suddenly. The squaws approached slowly and began to feel the cloth. Mary took hold of the beads and said, “Uh!” Then in a moment, “How much?”

Ellie's impulse was to throw her arms around Mary and hug her, but she was very dignified and grown-up as she answered calmly: “We don't sell the beads. They are not for sale!”

“Well of all things! Not for sale!” muttered Job, as he slipped through the rear door into the store-room and slammed it vehemently.

“They are not for sale, but we give a string of them to any one who buys a dress.”

Five of the squaws bought dresses, and each time a long string of beads was passed over.

In the afternoon, Ellie's watchful eyes caught the first glimpse of them as the same squaws, accompanied by others, rounded the curve in the path and came single file up the steep short-cut to the store.

Ellie counted her profits that night and was satisfied. Still, there were some twenty or twenty-five squaws in the settlement who had never been inside the store, and she made up her mind that they must be persuaded to come.

The next week a large packing-case arrived. Ellie was the one to wield the hatchet this time, for her uncle was still in an ungracious mood. The box was larger than she expected, but this was explained when it was opened. Two large dolls were inside--one with curly short hair and boyish face, and the other a real “girly” doll. A letter explained that with an order for children's ready-to-wear clothes it might be an advantage to have dolls on which to display them.

“I wonder!” said Ellie, to herself. “Look here, Uncle,” she called, as the old man came into the store; “see what they've sent me! Look at these pink and white dolls, when we're trading with Indians. Isn't it a joke?”

“A coat of brown paint is what you want,” said old Job, laughing a cynical laugh.

“You've hit it, Uncle! You certainly have dandy ideas! I shouldn't have thought of it.”

Then in a moment he heard her at the telephone giving a number. It was the Prescott ranch. “Hello, is that you, Louise? Can you come up to-day? I need you. All right. And Lou, bring your oil paints. It's very important.”

It was with much giggling and chattering that the two girls began their transformation of the pink-and-white dolls. Their bisque faces were given a thin coating of brown paint. The old man watched them from across the store and almost gasped as he saw them rip off the wigs. Then they retreated to the kitchen. He was so curious that he made several trips to the door and peeked through a crack.

What he saw was the two girls bending over a pot on the stove, which they were stirring furiously. Once in a while Ellie raised the stick with something black on the end, and finally the two dripping dolls' wigs were hung over the stove to dry. Of course the boiling had taken all the curl out of the hair, but that was what they wanted, for the two dolls were now brown-faced, dark-haired figures. They were arrayed in the ready-to-wear clothes, and the girls stood back to survey them.

“They look fine, Ellie! That is, yours does; but my girl here doesn't look quite right.”

Job Lansing was pretending to be busy. He turned and at once broke into a roar of laughter. “Well, when did you ever see a blue-eyed Injin?”

“Oh that's it, Ellie. Your doll had brown eyes, but mine are blue. What shall we do? It looks silly this way.”

“Paint 'em black!” chuckled the old man.

“Of course!” said Ellie. Then in a tone loud enough to carry across the store, “Isn't Uncle quick to notice things?” Ellie meant him to hear what she said, but she was none the less sincere, for she did have a high regard for her uncle's ability. She had said to Louise often in the last few days, “When I get Uncle started, there'll be no stopping him.” Still, the remark had been sent forth with a purpose.

Job Lansing gave the girl a quick glance. She was daubing brown paint on the girl-doll's eyes. He was pleased by her praise and no less by her readiness to take his advice.

The little dresses and suits sold quickly. Mrs. Matthews bought a supply, and told others about them.

But they were mostly white women who purchased these things; and while Ellie was glad to get their trade, she still had the fixed idea that

(_page 250_)

she must get the squaws in the habit of coming in to do their own shopping.

The quick sale of the new goods made a deep impression on Job Lansing, and he seemed especially pleased at the sales made to the white women at the mines. One morning he approached his niece with the suggestion that she had better keep her eyes open and find out what the women around the mountains needed. Ellie had been doing this for weeks. She had a big list made out already, but she saw no need of telling her uncle. She looked up, her face beaming.

“That's a capital idea, Uncle. I think we might just as well sell them all their supplies.” Ellie was exultant. She knew her troubles were over, that her plan was working out.

Still, she wasn't quite satisfied. A few of the shy squaws had been induced to come up and look at things from the outside, peering into the shop through the door and windows. But there were probably twenty who had not been in the store. If only she could persuade them to come once, there would be no more trouble.

The final stroke which brought the Indians, both men and women, into the store was a bit of good luck. Ellie called it a miracle.

It was after a very heavy rain-storm in the mountains that Jennings, the stage-driver, shouted to her one evening: “Do you mind if I leave a big box here for young Creighton over at the Scotia mine? The road's all washed out by Camp 3, and I don't dare take this any farther. It's one of those phonygrafts that makes music, you know. And say, Miss Ellie, will you telephone him that it's here?”

“Yes,” answered Ellie in an absent-minded way. “I'll telephone him. She was still half dreaming as she heard young Creighton's voice at the other end of the line, but at once she became eager and alert. “I want to ask a favor of you, Mr. Creighton? Your phonograph is here. They can't take it up on account of the washout. May I open it and play on it. I'll make sure that it is boxed up again carefully.”

“Why, certainly, Miss Ellie! I'll be glad to have you enjoy the music. The records and everything are in the box. Perhaps I'll come over and hear it myself.”

The next evening, about eight o'clock, Will Creighton arrived on horseback, and found such a throng of Indians close about the door that he had to go in by the kitchen. He heard the strains of the phonograph music and had no need to ask the cause of the excitement. All the squaws were inside the store. Occasionally one would extend a hand and touch the case or peer into the dark box, trying to discover where the sound came from.

Creighton approached Ellie, who was changing a needle. She turned her flushed face to him with a smile. “Isn't this great! They're here, every one of them! You're awfully good to let us use the phonograph. I've ordered one like it for ourselves. These blessed squaws do enjoy music so much!”

Job Lansing was standing near the machine, enjoying it as much as any one. A new record had been put on, the needle adjusted, and the music issued forth from that mysterious box. It was one of those college songs, a “laughing” piece. And soon old Job was doubled over, with his enjoyment of it. The squaws drew closer together. At first they scowled, for they thought that the queer creature in the polished case was laughing at _them_. Then one began to giggle, and soon another and finally the store was filled with hysterical merriment. Sometimes it would stop for a moment, and then, as the sounds from the phonograph could be heard, it would break forth again.

Ellie stood for hours, playing every record four or five times, and when she finally shut up the box, as a sign that the concert was over, the taciturn Indians filed silently out of the store and went home without a word.

But the girl knew that they would return. She had won!

Another triumph was hers when the springtime came again. One day her uncle approached her and hesitatingly said, “Ellie, we're going to be awfully cramped when our new summer goods arrive. Guess I'd better have Hoan ride over and give me an estimate on an addition to the store.”

Ellie suppressed the desire to cry out, “I told you so!” Instead she said very calmly: “Why, that's a fine idea, Uncle. Business _is_ picking up, and it would be nice to have more room. I'm glad you thought of it.”

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

1. Why does the story begin so abruptly?

2. What is the character of Job Lansing?

3. What is the character of Ellie?

4. How does the author explain that Ellie has views that do not
harmonize with her uncle's views?

5. What advantage does the author gain from the setting of the
story?

6. How does the author make the story seem real?

7. Why did the author introduce subordinate characters?

8. Divide the story into its component incidents.

9. At what point is the reader's interest greatest?

10. At what point is Ellie's success certain?

11. Which incident has the greatest emphasis?

12. How does the author make Ellie the principal character?

13. What is the effect of the quick conclusion?

14. How does the author make use of conversation as a means of
telling events?

15. On what one idea is the story founded?

SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

1. Re-Arranging the House 11. Our Piazza
2. Fixing Up the Office 12. The Flower Garden
3. Increasing Sales 13. Selling Hats
4. The New Clerk 14. Building Up Trade
5. The Old Store Made New 15. Father's Desk
6. Our Dooryard 16. Making Study Easy
7. A Back-Yard Garden 17. Making a Happy Kitchen
8. Making Over the Library 18. A Successful Charity Fair
9. Father's Stable 19. The Window Dresser
10. Decorating the School Room 20. A Good Advertisement

DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

Write about a subject with which you are familiar, and with which your readers are familiar. Make your principal character a young person. Make your story concern the contrast of two methods of accomplishment, one of which will represent the old and least successful method; the other, the new and more successful. Write a series of three or four briefly told incidents that will lead to a climax. Make free use of conversation. Notice that the author of _Getting Up to Date_ has left out much that might have been said, and has thereby made the story crisp and emphatic. Make your own story condensed and to the point. Pay particular attention to writing a strong ending.

THE LION AND THE MOUSE
By JOSEPH B. AMES

_(1878-). An American engineer and author. After his graduation
from Stevens Institute Mr. Ames at first devoted himself entirely
to engineering. He has been prominent in promoting the work of the
Boy Scouts. Among his books are the following:_ The Mystery of Ram
Island; Curly of the Circle Bar; Curly and the Aztec Gold; Pete the
Cowpuncher; Under Boy Scout Colors; Shoe-Bar Stratton; The Emerald
Buddha.

=Realism and romance may be combined in a story of school life as
well as in a story of any other kind. _The Lion and the Mouse_
tells, in part, of ordinary, everyday events, and in part, of
events that are distinctly out of the ordinary. The characters are
the characters of school life,--two boys of entirely different
natures but, after all, one at heart,--and subordinate characters
who belong in the realm of real life. Many of the events of the
story are commonplace enough. On this basis of reality there has
been founded a story of quick event, a story of the unusual,
entirely probable, centering around character and character
development.=

Big Bill Hedges scowled out of the locker-room window and groaned softly. There was something about that wide, unbroken sweep of snow which affected him disagreeably. If only it had been crisscrossed by footprints, or the tracks of snow-shoes or toboggans, he wouldn't have minded it nearly so much. But there it lay, flat, white, untrodden, drifting over low walls and turning the clumps of shrubbery into shapeless mounds. And of a sudden he found himself hating it almost as much as the dead silence of the endless, empty rooms about him. For it was the fourth day of the Christmas vacation, and, save the kitchen staff, there were only two other human beings in this whole great barracks of a place.

“And neither of them is really human,” grunted Hedges, turning restlessly from the window.

With a disgusted snort he recalled the behavior of those two, whom so far he had met only at meal-time. Mr. Wilson, the tutor left in charge of the school, consumed his food in a preoccupied sort of daze, rousing himself at rare intervals to make some plainly perfunctory remark. He was writing some article or other for the magazines, and it was all too evident that the subject filled his waking hours. And “Plug” Seabury, with his everlasting book propped up against a tumbler, was even worse. But then Hedges had never expected anything from him.

Crossing to his locker, the boy pulled out a heavy sweater, stared at it dubiously for a moment, and then let it dangle from his relaxed fingers. For once the thought of violent physical exertion in the open failed to arouse the least enthusiasm. Ever since the departure of the fellows, he had skeed and snow-shoed and tramped through the drifts--alone; and now the monotony was getting on his nerves. He flung the sweater back, and, slamming the locker door, strolled aimlessly out of the room.

One peep into the cold, lofty, empty “gym” effectually quelled his half-formed notion of putting in an hour or two on the parallel bars. “I'm lonesome!” he growled; “just--plumb--lonesome! It's the first time I've ever wished I didn't live in Arizona.”

But the thought of home and Christmas cheer and all the other vanished holiday delights was not one to dwell on now; he tried instead to appreciate how absurd it would have been to spend eight of his twelve holidays on the train.

A little further dawdling ended in his turning toward the library. He was not in the least fond of reading. Life ordinarily, with its constant succession of outdoor and indoor sports and games, was much too full to think of wasting time with a book unless one had to. But the thought occurred to him that to-day it might be a shade better than doing absolutely nothing.

Opening the door of the long, low-ceiled, book-lined room, which he had expected to find as desolately empty as the rest, he paused in surprise. On the brick hearth a log fire burned cheerfully, and curled up in an easy chair close to the hearth, was the slight figure of Paul Seabury.

“Hello!” said Hedges, gruffly, when he had recovered from his surprise. “You've sure made yourself comfortable.”

Seabury gave a start and raised his head. For a moment his look was veiled, abstracted, as if his mind still lingered on the book lying open in his lap. Then recognition slowly dawned, and a faint flush crept into his face.

“The--the wood was here, and I--I didn't think there'd be any harm in lighting it,” he said, thrusting back a straggling lock of brown hair.

“I don't s'pose there is,” returned Hedges, shortly. Unconsciously, he was a little annoyed that Seabury should seem so comfortable and content. “I thought you were upstairs.”

He dragged a chair to the other side of the hearth and plumped down in it. “What you reading?” he asked.

Seabury's eyes brightened. “Treasure Island,” he answered eagerly. “It's awfully exciting. I've just got to the place where--”

“Never read it,” interrupted the big fellow, indifferently. Lounging back against the leather cushions, he surveyed the slim, brown-eyed, rather pale-faced boy with a sort of contemptuous curiosity. “Do you read _all_ the time?” he asked.

Again the blood crept up into Seabury's thin face and his lids drooped. “Why, no--not all the time,” he answered slowly. “But--but just now there's nothing else to do.”

Hedges grunted. “Nothing else to do! Gee-whiz! Don't you ever feel like going for a tramp or something? I s'pose you can't snow-shoe, or skee, but I shouldn't think you'd want to stay cooped up in the house all the time.”

A faint, nervous smile curved the boy's sensitive lips. “Oh, I can skee and snow-shoe all right, but--” He paused, noticing the incredulous expression which Hedges was at no pains to hide. “Everybody does, where I live in Canada,” he explained, “often it's the only way to get about.”

“Oh, I see.” Hedges' tone was no longer curt, and a sudden look of interest had flashed into his eyes. “But don't you _like_ it? Doesn't this snow make you want to go out and try some stunts?”

Seabury glanced sidewise through the casement windows at the sloping, drifted field beyond. “N--no, I can't say it does,” he confessed hesitatingly; “it's such a beastly, rotten day.”

His interest in Plug's unexpected accomplishments made Hedges forbear to comment scornfully on such weakness.

“Rotten!” he repeated. “Why, it's not bad at all. It's stopped snowing.”

“I know; but it looks as if it would start in again any minute.”

“Shucks!” sniffed Hedges. “A little snow won't hurt you. Come ahead out and let's see what you can do.”

Seabury hesitated, glancing with a shiver at the cold, white field outside and back to the cheerful fire. He did not feel at all inclined to leave his comfortable chair and this enthralling book. On the other hand, he was curiously unwilling to merit Bill Hedges' disapproval. From the first he had regarded this big, strong, dominating fellow with a secret admiration and shy liking which held in it no touch of envy or desire for emulation. It was the sort of admiration he felt for certain heroes in his favorite books. When Hedges made some spectacular play on the gridiron or pulled off an especially thrilling stunt on the hockey-rink, Seabury, watching inconspicuously from the side-lines, got all hot and cold and breathlessly excited. But he was quite content that Hedges should be doing it and not himself. Sometimes, to be sure, he wondered what it would be like to have such a person for a friend. But until this moment Hedges had scarcely seemed aware of his existence, and Seabury was much too shy to make advances, even when the common misfortune of too-distant homes had thrown them together in the isolation of the empty school.

“I--I haven't any skees,” he said at length.

Hedges sprang briskly to his feet. “That's nothing. I'll fix you up. We can borrow Marston's. Come ahead.”

Swept along by his enthusiasm, Seabury closed his book and followed him out into the corridor and down to the locker room. Here they got out sweaters, woolen gloves and caps, and Hedges calmly appropriated the absent Marston's skees.

Emerging finally into the open, Seabury shivered a little as the keen, searching wind struck him. It came from the northeast, and there was a chill, penetrating quality about it which promised more snow, and that soon. By the time Seabury had adjusted the leather harness to his feet and resumed his gloves, his fingers were blue and he needed no urging to set off at a swift pace.

In saying that he could skee, the boy had not exaggerated. He was, in fact, so perfectly at home upon the long, smooth, curved-up strips of ash, that he moved with the effortless ease and grace of one scarcely conscious of his means of locomotion. Watching him closely, Hedges' expression of critical appraisement changed swiftly to one of unqualified approval.

“You're not _much_ good on them, are you?” he commented. “I suppose you can jump any old distance and do all sorts of fancy stunts.”

Seabury laughed. He was warm again and beginning to find an unwonted pleasure in the swift, gliding motion and the tingling rush of frosty air against his face.

“Nothing like that at all,” he answered. “I can jump some, of course, but I'm really not much good at anything except just straight-away going.”

“Huh!” grunted Hedges, sceptically. “I'll bet you could run circles around any of the fellows here. Well, what do you say to taking a little tramp. I've knocked around the grounds till I'm sick of them. Let's go up Hogan Hill,” he added, with a burst of inspiration.

Seabury promptly agreed, though inwardly he was not altogether thrilled at the prospect of such a climb. Hogan Hill rose steeply back of the school. A few hay-fields ranged along its lower level, but above them the timber growth was fairly thick, and Paul knew from experience that skeeing on a wooded slope was far from easy.

As it turned out, Hedges had no intention of tackling the steep slope directly. He knew of an old wood-road which led nearly to the summit by more leisurely twists and curves, and it was his idea that they take this as far as it went and then skee down its open, winding length.

By the time they were half-way up, Seabury was pretty well blown. It was the first time he had been on skees in nearly a year, and his muscles were soft from general lack of exercise. He made no complaint, however, and presently Hedges himself proposed a rest.

“I wish I could handle the things as easily as you do,” he commented. “I work so almighty hard that I get all in a sweat, while you just glide along as if you were on skates.”

“I may glide, but I haven't any wind left,” confessed Seabury. “It's only practice you know. I've used them ever since I was a little kid, and compared to some of the fellows up home, I'm nowhere. Do you think we ought to go any farther? I felt some snow on my face just then.”

“Oh, sure!” said Hedges, bluffly. “A little snow won't hurt us, anyhow, and we can skee down in no time at all. Let's not go back just yet.”

Presently they started on again, and though Seabury kept silent, he was far from comfortable in his mind. He had had more than one unpleasant experience with sudden winter storms. It seemed to him wiser to turn back at once, but he was afraid of suggesting it again lest Hedges think him a quitter.

A little later, still mounting the narrow, winding trail, they came upon a rough log hut, aged and deserted, with a sagging, half-open door; but the two boys, unwilling to take off their skees, did not stop to investigate it.

Every now and then during the next half mile trifling little gusts of stinging snowflakes whirled down from the leaden sky, beat against their faces, and scurried on. Seabury's feeling of nervous apprehension increased, but Hedges, in his careless, self-confident manner merely laughed and said that the trip home would be all the more interesting for little diversions of that sort.

The words were scarcely spoken when, from the distance, there came a curious, thin wailing of the wind, rising swiftly to a dull, ominous roar. Startled, both boys stopped abruptly, and stared up the slope. And as they did so, something like a vast, white, opaque curtain surged over the crest of the hill and swept swiftly toward them.

Almost before they could draw a breath it was upon them, a dense, blinding mass of snow, which whirled about them in choking masses and blotted out the landscape in a flash.

“Wough!” gasped Hedges. “Some speed to that! I guess we'd better beat it, kid, while the going's good.”

But even Hedges, with his easy, careless confidence, was swiftly forced to the realization that the going was very far from good even then. It was impossible to see more than a dozen yards ahead of them. As a matter of course, the older fellow took the lead, but he had not gone far before he ran off the track and only saved himself from a spill by grabbing a small tree.

“Have to take it easy,” he commented, recovering his balance. “This storm will let up soon; it can't possibly last long this way.”

Seabury made no answer. Shaking with nervousness, he could not trust himself to speak.

Regaining the trail, Hedges started off again, cautiously enough at first. But a little success seemed to restore his confidence, and he began to use his staff as a brake with less and less frequency. They had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when a sudden heavier gust of stinging flakes momentarily blinded them both. Seabury instantly put on the brake and almost stopped. When he was able to clear his eyes, Hedges was out of sight. An instant later there came a sudden crash, a startled, muffled cry, and then--silence!

Horrified, Seabury instantly jerked his staff out of the snow and sped forward. At first, he could barely see the tracks of his companion's skees, but presently the storm lightened a trifle and of a sudden he realized what had happened. Hedges had misjudged a sharp curve in the trail and, instead of following it, had plunged off to one side and down a steep declivity thickly grown with trees. At the foot of this little slope Seabury found him lying motionless, a twisted heap, face downward in the snow.

Sick with horror, the boy bent over that silent figure. “Bill!” he cried, “what has--”

His voice died in a choking sob, but a moment later his heart leaped as Hedges stirred, tried to rise, and fell back with a stifled groan.

“It's--my ankle,” he mumbled, “I--I've--turned it. See if you can't--”

With shaking fingers, Seabury jerked at the buckles of his skees and stepped out of them. Hedges' left foot was twisted under him, and the front part of his skee was broken off. As Paul freed the other's feet from their encumbering straps, Bill made a second effort to rise, but his face turned quite white and he sank back with a grunt of pain.

“Thunder!” he muttered. “I--I believe it's sprained.”

For a moment or two he sat there, face screwed up, arms gripping his knees. Then, as his head cleared, he looked up at the frightened Seabury, a wry smile twisting the corners of his mouth.

“I'm an awful nut, kid,” he said. “I forgot that curve and was going too fast to pull up. Reckon I deserve that crack on the head and all the rest of it for being so awfully cocky. Looks as if we were in rather a mess, doesn't it?”

Seabury nodded, still unable to trust himself to speak. But Hedges' coolness soothed his jangled nerves, and presently a thought struck him.

“That cabin back there!” he exclaimed. “If we could only manage to get that far--”

He paused and the other nodded. “Good idea,” he agreed promptly. “I'm afraid I can't walk it, but I might be able to crawl.”

“Oh, I didn't mean that. If we only had some way of fastening my skees together, you could lie down on them and I could pull you.”

A gleam of admiration came into the older chap's dark eyes. “You've got your nerve with you, old man,” he said. “Do you know how much I weigh?”

“That doesn't matter,” protested Seabury. “It's all down hill; it wouldn't be so hard. Besides, we can't stay here or--or we'll freeze.”

“Now you've said something,” agreed Hedges.

And it was true. Already Seabury's teeth were chattering, and even the warmer blooded Hedges could feel the cold penetrating his thick sweater. He tried to think of some other way out of their predicament, but finally agreed to try the plan. His heavy, high shoes were laced with rawhide thongs, which sufficed roughly to bind the two skees together. There was no possibility, however, of pulling them. The only way they could manage was for Hedges to seat himself on the improvised toboggan while Seabury trudged behind and pushed.

It was a toilsome and painful method of progress for them both and often jolted Hedges' ankle, which was already badly swollen, bringing on a constant succession of sharp, keen stabs. Seabury, wading knee-deep in the snow, was soon breathless, and by the time they reached the cabin, he felt utterly done up.

“Couldn't have kept that up much longer,” grunted Hedges, when they were inside the shelter with the door closed against the storm.

His alert gaze traveled swiftly around the bare interior. There was a rough stone chimney at one end, a shuttered window at the back, and that was all. Snow lay piled up on the cold hearth, and here and there made little ridges on the logs where it had filtered through the many cracks and crevices. Without the means of making fire, it was not much better than the out-of-doors, and Hedges' heart sank as he glanced at his companion, leaning exhausted against the wall.

“It's sure to stop pretty soon,” he said presently, with a confidence he did not feel. “When it lets up a little, we might--”

“I don't believe it's going to let up.” Seabury straightened with an odd, unwonted air of decision. “I was caught in a storm like this two years ago and it lasted over two days. We've got to do something, and do it pretty quick.”

Hedges stared at him, amazed at the sudden transformation. He did not understand that a long-continued nervous strain will sometimes bring about strange reactions.

“You're not thinking of pushing me all the way down the road, are you?” he protested. “I don't believe you could do it.”

“I don't believe I could, either,” agreed the other, frankly. “But I could go down alone and bring back help.”

“Gee-whiz! You--you mean skee down that road? Why, it's over three miles, and you'd miss the trail a dozen times.”

“I shouldn't try the road,” said Seabury, quietly. His face was pale, but there was a determined set to the delicate chin. “If I went straight down the hill back of this cabin, I'd land close to the school, and I don't believe the whole distance is over half a mile.”

Hedges gasped. “You're crazy, man! Why, you'd kill yourself in the first hundred feet trying to skee through those trees.”

“I don't think so. I've done it before--some. Besides, most of the slope is open fields. I noticed that when we started out.”

“But they're steep as the dickens, with stone walls, and--”

Seabury cut short his protests by buttoning his collar tightly about his throat and testing the laces of his shoes. He was afraid to delay lest his resolution should break down.

“I'm going,” he stated stubbornly; “and the sooner I get off, the better.”

And go he did, with a curt farewell which astonished and bewildered his companion who had no means of knowing that it was a manner assumed to hide a desperate fear and nervousness. As the door closed between them, Seabury's lips began to tremble; and his hands shook so that he could scarcely tighten up the straps of his skees.

Back of the cabin, poised at the top of the slope, with the snow whirling around him and the unknown in front, he had one horrible moment of indecision when his heart lay like lead within him and he was on the verge of turning back. But with a tremendous effort he crushed down that almost irresistible impulse. He could not bear the thought of facing Hedges, an acknowledged coward and a quitter. An instant later a thrust of his staff sent him over the edge, to glide downward through the trees with swiftly increasing momentum.

Strangely enough, he felt somehow that the worst was over. To begin with, he was much too occupied to think of danger, and after he had successfully steered through the first hundred feet or so of woods, a growing confidence in himself helped to bolster up his shrinking spirit. After all, save for the blinding snow, this was no worse than some of the descents he had made of wooded slopes back there at home. If the storm did not increase, he believed that he could make it.

At first he managed, by a skilful use of his staff, to hold himself back a little and keep his speed within a reasonable limit. But just before he left the woods, the necessity for a sudden side-turn to avoid a clump of trees through which he could not pass nearly flung him off his balance. In struggling to recover it, the end of his staff struck against another tree and was torn instantly from his grasp.

His heart leaped, then sank sickeningly, but there was no stopping now. A moment later he flashed out into the open, swerved through a gap in the rough, snow-covered wall, and shot down the steep incline with swiftly increasing speed.

His body tense and bent slightly forward, his straining gaze set unwaveringly ahead, striving to pierce the whirling, beating snow, Seabury felt as if he were flying through the clouds. On a clear day, with the ability to see what lay before him, there would have been a rather delightful exhilaration in that descent. But the perilous uncertainty of it all kept the boy's heart in his throat and chained him in a rigid grip of cold fear.

Long before he expected it, the rounded, snow-covered bulk of a second wall seemed to leap out of the blinding snow-curtain and rush toward him. Almost too late, he jumped, and, soaring through the air, struck the declining slope again a good thirty feet beyond.