by Jack London
"I've never forgotten the drip of the seed-amethysts, though I
don't remember your mother's name."
"It was Daisy--" Saxon began.
"No; Dayelle," Mrs. Mortimer corrected with quickening
recollection.
"Oh, but nobody called her that."
"But she signed it that way. What is the rest?"
"Daisy Wiley Brown."
Mrs. Mortimer went to the bookshelves and quickly returned with a
large, soberly-bound volume.
"It's 'The Story of the Files,'" she explained. "Among other
things, all the good fugitive verse was gathered here from the
old newspaper files." Her eyes running down the index suddenly
stopped. "I was right. Dayelle Wiley Brown. There it is. Ten of
her poems, too: 'The Viking's Quest'; 'Days of Gold';
'Constancy'; 'The Caballero'; 'Graves at Little Meadow'--"
"We fought off the Indians there," Saxon interrupted in her
excitement. "And mother, who was only a little girl, went out and
got water for the wounded. And the Indians wouldn't shoot at her.
Everybody said it was a miracle." She sprang out of Billy's arms,
reaching for the book and crying: "Oh, let me see it! Let me see
it! It's all new to me. I don't know these poems. Can I copy
them? I'll learn them by heart. Just to think, my mother's!"
Mrs. Mortimer's glasses required repolishing; and for half an
hour she and Billy remained silent while Saxon devoured her
mother's lines. At the end, staring at the book which she had
closed on her finger, she could only repeat in wondering awe:
"And I never knew, I never knew."
But during that half hour Mrs. Mortimer's mind had not been idle.
A little later, she broached her plan. She believed in intensive
dairying as well as intensive farming, and intended, as soon as
the lease expired, to establish a Jersey dairy on the other ten
acres. This, like everything she had done, would be model, and it
meant that she would require more help. Billy and Saxon were just
the two. By next summer she could have them installed in the
cottage she intended building. In the meantime she could arrange,
one way and another, to get work for Billy through the winter.
She would guarantee this work, and she knew a small house they
could rent just at the end of the car-line. Under her supervision
Billy could take charge from the very beginning of the building.
In this way they would be earning money, preparing themselves for
independent farming life, and have opportunity to look about
them.
But her persuasions were in vain. In the end Saxon succinctly
epitomized their point of view.
"We can't stop at the first place, even if it is as beautiful and
kind as yours and as nice as this valley is. We don't even know
what we want. We've got to go farther, and see all kinds of
places and all kinds of ways, in order to find out. We're not in
a hurry to make up our minds. We want to make, oh, so very sure!
And besides. . . ." She hesitated. "Besides, we don't like
altogether flat land. Billy wants some hills in his. And so do
I."
When they were ready to leave Mrs. Mortimer offered to present
Saxon with "The Story of the Files"; but Saxon shook her head and
got some money from Billy.
"It says it costs two dollars," she said. "Will you buy me one,
and keep it till we get settled? Then I'll write, and you can
send it to me."
"Oh, you Americans," Mrs. Mortimer chided, accepting the money.
"But you must promise to write from time to time before you're
settled."
She saw them to the county road.
"You are brave young things," she said at parting. "I only wish I
were going with you, my pack upon my back. You're perfectly
glorious, the pair of you. If ever I can do anything for you,
just let me know. You're bound to succeed, and I want a hand in
it myself. Let me know how that government land turns out,
though I warn you I haven't much faith in its feasibility. It's
sure to be too far away from markets."
She shook hands with Billy. Saxon she caught into her arms and
kissed.
"Be brave," she said, with low earnestness, in Saxon's ear.
"You'll win. You are starting with the right ideas. And you were
right not to accept my proposition. But remember, it, or better,
will always be open to you. You're young yet, both of you. Don't
be in a hurry. Any time you stop anywhere for a while, let me
know, and I'll mail you heaps of agricultural reports and farm
publications. Good-bye. Heaps and heaps and heaps of luck."
CHAPTER IV
Bill sat motionless on the edge of the bed in their little room
in San Jose that night, a musing expression in his eyes.
"Well," he remarked at last, with a long-drawn breath, "all I've
got to say is there's some pretty nice people in this world after
all. Take Mrs. Mortimer. Now she's the real goods--regular old
American."
"A fine, educated lady," Saxon agreed, "and not a bit ashamed to
work at farming herself. And she made it go, too."
"On twenty acres--no, ten; and paid for 'em, an' all
improvements, an' supported herself, four hired men, a Swede
woman an' daughter, an' her own nephew. It gets me. Ten acres!
Why, my father never talked less'n one hundred an' sixty acres.
Even your brother Tom still talks in quarter sections.--An' she
was only a woman, too. We was lucky in meetin' her."
"Wasn't it an adventure!" Saxon cried. "That's what comes of
traveling. You never know what's going to happen next. It jumped
right out at us, just when we were tired and wondering how much
farther to San Jose. We weren't expecting it at all. And she
didn't treat us as if we were tramping. And that house--so clean
and beautiful. You could eat off the floor. I never dreamed of
anything so sweet and lovely as the inside of that house."
"It smelt good," Billy supplied.
"That's the very thing. It's what the women's pages call
atmosphere. I didn't know what they meant before. That house has
beautiful, sweet atmosphere--"
"Like all your nice underthings," said Billy.
"And that's the next step after keeping your body sweet and clean
and beautiful. It's to have your house sweet and clean and
beautiful."
"But it can't be a rented one, Saxon. You've got to own it.
Landlords don't build houses like that. Just the same, one thing
stuck out plain: that house was not expensive. It wasn't the
cost. It was the way. The wood was ordinary wood you can buy in
any lumber yard. Why, our house on Pine street was made out of
the same kind of wood. But the way it was made was different. I
can't explain, but you can see what I'm drivin' at."
Saxon, revisioning the little bungalow they had just left,
repeated absently: "That's it--the way."
The next morning they were early afoot, seeking through the
suburbs of San Jose the road to San Juan and Monterey. Saxon's
limp had increased. Beginning with a burst blister, her heel was
skinning rapidly. B
illy remembered his father's talks about care
of the feet, and stopped at a butcher shop to buy five cents'
worth of mutton tallow.
"That's the stuff," he told Saxon. "Clean foot-gear and the feet
well greased. We'll put some on as soon as we're clear of town.
An' we might as well go easy for a couple of days. Now, if I
could get a little work so as you could rest up several days it'd
be just the thing. I '11 keep my eye peeled."
Almost on the outskirts of town he left Saxon on the county road
and went up a long driveway to what appeared a large farm. He
came back beaming.
"It's all hunkydory," he called as he approached. "We'll just go
down to that clump of trees by the creek an' pitch camp. I start
work in the mornin', two dollars a day an' board myself. It'd
been a dollar an' a half if he furnished the board. I told 'm I
liked the other way best, an' that I had my camp with me. The
weather's fine, an' we can make out a few days till your foot's
in shape. Come on. We'll pitch a regular, decent camp."
"How did you get the job," Saxon asked, as they cast about,
determining their camp-site.
"Wait till we get fixed an' I'll tell you all about it. It was a
dream, a cinch."
Not until the bed was spread, the fire built, and a pot of
beans boiling did Billy throw down the last armful of wood and
begin.
"In the first place, Benson's no old-fashioned geezer. You
wouldn't think he was a farmer to look at 'm. He's up to date,
sharp as tacks, talks an' acts like a business man. I could see
that, just by lookin' at his place, before I seen HIM. He took
about fifteen seconds to size me up.
"'Can you plow?' says he.
"'Sure thing,' I told 'm.
"'Know horses?'
"'I was hatched in a box-stall,' says I.
"An' just then--you remember that four-horse load of machinery
that come in after me?--just then it drove up.
"'How about four horses?' he asks, casual-like.
"'Right to home. I can drive 'm to a plow, a sewin' machine, or a
merry-go-round.'
"'Jump up an' take them lines, then,' he says, quick an' sharp,
not wastin' seconds. 'See that shed. Go 'round the barn to the
right an' back in for unloadin'.'
"An' right here I wanta tell you it was some nifty drivin' he was
askin'. I could see by the tracks the wagons'd all ben goin'
around the barn to the left. What he was askin' was too close
work for comfort--a double turn, like an S, between a corner of a
paddock an' around the corner of the barn to the last swing. An',
to eat into the little room there was, there was piles of manure
just thrown outa the barn an' not hauled away yet. But I wasn't
lettin' on nothin'. The driver gave me the lines, an' I could see
he was grinnin', sure I'd make a mess of it. I bet he couldn't
a-done it himself. I never let on, an away we went, me not even
knowin' the horses--but, say, if you'd seen me throw them leaders
clean to the top of the manure till the nigh horse was scrapin'
the side of the barn to make it, an' the off hind hub was cuttin'
the corner post of the paddock to miss by six inches. It was the
only way. An' them horses was sure beauts. The leaders slacked
back an' darn near sat down on their singletrees when I threw the
back into the wheelers an' slammed on the brake an' stopped on
the very precise spot.
"'You'll do,' Benson says. 'That was good
work.'
"'Aw, shucks,' I says, indifferent as hell. 'Gimme something real
hard.'
"He smiles an' understands.
"'You done that well,' he says. 'An' I'm particular about who
handles my horses. The road ain't no place for you. You must be a
good man gone wrong. Just the same you can plow with my horses,
startin' in to-morrow mornin'.'
"Which shows how wise he wasn't. I hadn't showed I could plow."
When Saxon had served the beans, and Billy the coffee, she stood
still a moment and surveyed the spread meal on the blankets--the
canister of sugar, the condensed milk tin, the sliced corned
beef, the lettuce salad and sliced tomatoes, the slices of fresh
French bread, and the steaming plates of beans and mugs of
coffee.
"What a difference from last night!" Saxon exclaimed, clapping
her hands. "It's like an adventure out of a book. Oh, that boy I
went fishing with! Think of that beautiful table and that
beautiful house last night, and then look at this. Why, we could
have lived a thousand years on end in Oakland and never met a
woman like Mrs. Mortimer nor dreamed a house like hers existed.
And, Billy, just to think, we've only just started."
Billy worked for three days, and while insisting that he was
doing very well, he freely admitted that there was more in
plowing than he had thought. Saxon experienced quiet satisfaction
when she learned he was enjoying it.
"I never thought I'd like plowin'--much," he observed. "But it's
fine. It's good for the leg-muscles, too. They don't get exercise
enough in teamin'. If ever I trained for another fight, you bet
I'd take a whack at plowin'. An', you know, the ground has a
regular good smell to it, a-turnin' over an' turnin' over. Gosh,
it's good enough to eat, that smell. An' it just goes on, turnin'
up an' over, fresh an' thick an' good, all day long. An' the
horses are Joe-dandies. They know their business as well as a
man. That's one thing, Benson ain't got a scrub horse on the
place."
The last day Billy worked, the sky clouded over, the air grew
damp, a strong wind began to blow from the southeast, and all the
signs were present of the first winter rain. Billy came back in
the evening with a small roll of old canvas he had borrowed,
which he proceeded to arrange over their bed on a framework so as
to shed rain. Several times he complained about the little finger
of his left hand. It had been bothering him all day he told
Saxon, for several days slightly, in fact, and it was as tender
as a boil--most likely a splinter, but he had been unable to
locate it.
He went ahead with storm preparations, elevating the bed on old
boards which he lugged from a disused barn falling to decay on
the opposite bank of the creek. Upon the boards he heaped dry
leaves for a mattress. He concluded by reinforcing the canvas
with additional guys of odd pieces of rope and bailing-wire.
When the first splashes of rain arrived Saxon was delighted.
Billy betrayed little interest. His finger was hurting too much,
he said. Neither he nor Saxon could make anything of it, and both
scoffed at the idea of a felon.
"It might be a run-around," Saxon hazarded.
"What's that?"
"I don't know. I remember Mrs. Cady had one once, but I was too
small. It was the little finger, too. She poulticed it, I think.
And I remember she dressed it with some kind of salve. It got
awful bad, and finished by her losing the nail. After that it got
well quick, and a new
nail grew out. Suppose I make a hot bread
poultice for yours."
Billy declined, being of the opinion that it would be better in
the morning. Saxon was troubled, and as she dozed off she knew
that he was lying restlessly wide awake. A few minutes afterward,
roused by a heavy blast of wind and rain on the canvas, she heard
Billy softly groaning. She raised herself on her elbow and with
her free hand, in the way she knew, manipulating his forehead and
the surfaces around his eyes, soothed him off to sleep.
Again she slept. And again she was aroused, this time not by the
storm, but by Billy. She could not see, but by feeling she
ascertained his strange position. He was outside the blankets and
on his knees, his forehead resting on the boards, his shoulders
writhing with suppressed anguish.
"She's pulsin' to beat the band," he said, when she spoke. "It's
worsen a thousand toothaches. But it ain't nothin' . . . if only
the canvas don't blow down. Think what our folks had to stand,"
he gritted out between groans. "Why, my father was out in the
mountains, an' the man with 'm got mauled by a grizzly--clean
clawed to the bones all over. An' they was outa grub an' had to
travel. Two times outa three, when my father put 'm on the horse,
he'd faint away. Had to be tied on. An' that lasted five weeks,
an' HE pulled through. Then there was Jack Quigley. He blowed off
his whole right hand with the burstin' of his shotgun, an' the
huntin' dog pup he had with 'm ate up three of the fingers. An'
he was all alone in the marsh, an'--"
But Saxon heard no more of the adventures of Jack Quigley. A
terrific blast of wind parted several of the guys, collapsed the
framework, and for a moment buried them under the canvas. The
next moment canvas, framework, and trailing guys were whisked
away into the darkness, and Saxon and Billy were deluged with
rain.
"Only one thing to do," he yelled in her ear. "--Gather up the
things an' get into that old barn."
They accomplished this in the drenching darkness, making two
trips across the stepping stones of the shallow creek and soaking
themselves to the knees. The old barn leaked like a sieve, but
they managed to find a dry space on which to spread their
anything but dry bedding. Billy's pain was heart-rending to
Saxon. An hour was required to subdue him to a doze, and only by
continuously stroking his forehead could she keep him asleep.
Shivering and miserable, she accepted a night of wakefulness
gladly with the knowledge that she kept him from knowing the
worst of his pain.
At the time when she had decided it must be past midnight, there
was an interruption. From the open doorway came a flash of
electric light, like a tiny searchlight, which quested about the
barn and came to rest on her and Billy. From the source of light
a harsh voice said:
"Ah! ha! I've got you! Come out of that!"
Billy sat up, his eyes dazzled by the light. The voice behind the
light was approaching and reiterating its demand that they come
out of that.
"What's up?" Billy asked.
"Me," was the answer; "an' wide awake, you bet."
The voice was now beside them, scarcely a yard away, yet they
could see nothing on account of the light, which was
intermittent, frequently going out for an instant as the
operator's thumb tired on the switch.
"Come on, get a move on," the voice went on. "Roll up your
blankets an' trot along. I want you."
"Who in hell are you?" Billy demanded.
"I'm the constable. Come on."
"Well, what do you want?"
"You, of course, the pair of you."
"What for?"
"Vagrancy. Now hustle. I ain't goin' to loaf here all night."
"Aw, chase yourself," Billy advised. "I ain't a vag. I'm a
workingman."
"Maybe you are an' maybe you ain't," said the constable; "but you
can tell all that to Judge Neusbaumer in the mornin'."