by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER X IN SEARCH OF A GRANDFATHER
Nothing very serious had happened to the blue and gray plane that wascarrying Mary and her friends toward their home.
"A loose wire connection, that's all," the pilot explained as he read theworry wrinkles on the girl's brow. "Have it fixed before you know it. Andthen--"
"Home," Mary breathed. How she loved that word. Would she ever want toleave that home again?
A half hour later they were once again in the air. One more half hour andtheir skis touched the frozen surface of their own small lake.
"Welcome home," Dave shouted as he came racing toward them. "Just in timefor a feast. Tim Barber got a deer yesterday. We're having a roast of itfor dinner, your mother and--"
"And Madam Chicaski?"
"Oh, sure!" Dave laughed. "You couldn't drive her away. And who'd wantto? She's been a splendid help to your mother, milked the cow, fed thehorse, hauled wood, everything. And now," he laughed, "I think she'sfixing to run a trap-line. From somewhere she's dug out a lot of rustytraps and is shining them up."
"Has she--" Mary hesitated.
"Revealed her secrets--copper kettle, golden candlesticks, all that? Nota word.
"But Mary," Dave took both her hands. "How good it is to see you back."
"I--I'm glad to be back, David," Mary blushed in spite of herself.
"And how about me?" Bill demanded in a bantering tone. "You should beglad I'm back."
"We are, Bill," Mrs. Hughes said with a friendly smile. "Awfully glad tohave you back."
"But you'll not have me long. Boo!" Bill shuddered. "I'm off with thewild birds for a warmer climate."
"You'll be back, Bill," the elder McQueen rumbled. "You've been a pioneerfor a summer. After that you may not want to be a pioneer, but you'll beone all the same. The snow-peaked mountains, the timber that turns togreen in spring and gold in autumn, the lure of gold, the call of thewild will bring you back."
"I don't know about that." For once Bill's face took on a sober look.
Turning about, Mrs. Hughes led them all, like a brood of chicks, to thecabin where the delicious odor of roast venison greeted their nostrils.Over that venison, now turning it, now testing, and now turning again,large, silent, mysterious, hovered Madam Chicaski.
"So you're going to Nome by plane?" the eyes of Mrs. Maver, Florence'sgray-haired hostess at Anchorage, shone. "Going with the Bowmans? Why,that's splendid. They are old friends of ours. We knew them before theywent to Nome. I must have them over to dinner." And she did.
"So you're going north with us?" Mrs. Bowman, a round, jolly person,beamed on Florence as they entered the small parlor to await theannouncement of dinner. "Never been there before, have you?"
"No, I--"
"You'll enjoy it. Why, you're just the sort of girl for that country.Healthy! Look at her cheeks, John," Mrs. Bowman turned to her husband.
"You'd make a grand prospector," Mr. Bowman, a large, ruddy-faced man,laughed. "Going after gold, I suppose."
"I--I might," Florence admitted timidly. "But first I must find mygrandfather."
"Your grandfather?" Mrs. Bowman stared at her. "Is he in Nome?"
"Yes, I--"
"Look, John!" Mrs. Bowman broke in excitedly. "This is Tom Kennedy'sgranddaughter. She, why, she's the living image of him!"
"You are right, my dear," the husband admitted.
"Oh! And do I truly look like him?" Florence's mind went into a wildwhirl. "I am his granddaughter, but who'd have thought--"
"That we could tell it? That is strange. But such things do happen. Shallwe be seated?" Mrs. Bowman took a chair.
"Let me tell you," she leaned forward, "your grandfather is a wonderfulman, truly remarkable."
"He--he is?" Florence stared. "I thought--"
"That he was just an old sourdough prospector," Mr. Bowman put in. "Not abit of it. He is a prospector, has been for thirty-five years. Found goldonce and lost it again to save his partner's life. Yes, a prospector, buta long beard, hair to the shoulders, beer guzzler always dreaming aboutthe past? Not a bit of it! Tom Kennedy is young, young as a boy. Keen asany youngster, too."
"And clean," Mrs. Bowman put in. "Never drinks a drop. I don't think heeven smokes.
"Just now," her voice dropped to conversational tone, "he's doing a trulywonderful thing. He's got the notion that our young people are growingsoft."
"They are, too," Mr. Bowman grumbled.
"Tom Kennedy's trying to bring back some of our glorious past, dog-teams,long, moonlit trails, the search for gold. He's trying to interest theyoung people in all that," added Mrs. Bowman.
"He's doing it, too," Bowman nodded his head. "Look at the dog race. Theyreally think they'll win," he laughed good-naturedly. "Of course theywon't. Smitty Valentine's going to beat 'em, by an hour or two. Goodthing to have them try, though."
"You see," Mrs. Bowman explained, "we have an annual dog race. It endswith a big feast in honor of the winner. Your grandfather has gotten theyoung people interested in that race, made them think they can win.They've put their best dogs together into a team. A boy named JodieJoleson is going to drive it. I surely wish they could win. But this man,Smitty Valentine, who is backed by all the pool halls and men's clubs intown, has won so many years hand running, that we've lost track."
"Belongs to the Sourdough Club," Bowman explained. "Sort of old timers'club."
"And now these young people have what they call the 'Fresh Dough Club' ofyoung timers," Mrs. Bowman laughed.
"And now I think you may all come in and sit down at the table." It wastheir hostess who brought to an end this--to Florence--amazingrevelation.
"So that is what he's like," she whispered to herself. "How strange! Howwonderful! And yet--"
It was a sober Florence who, after sending word to her cousins regardingthis, her proposed journey, climbed aboard the large gray monoplane."This," she was thinking, "is to be my most exciting adventure. I wonderhow it will end?" How indeed? Seldom does a girl go in search of hergrandfather. And how her ideas of that grandfather had changed! She hadalways known, in a sketchy manner, the story of her grandfather's life. Abig, boisterous, fun-loving youth, little more than a boy, he had lovedand married a beautiful, frail girl from a proud well-to-do family. Thatgirl became Florence's grandmother.
Tom Kennedy was not loved by his wife's parents. They made life hard forhim. When at last life under his own roof became unbearable, he had foundescape by joining the gold rush to Alaska.
Alaska brought more hardships, cold, hunger, and disappointment. Andafter that, months on the way, a letter reached him, saying that his wifewas dead and that, without his consent, her parents had adopted his onlychild, a girl. That girl had been Florence's mother.
From that day, Tom Kennedy was lost to the outside world. "But Alaska,"Florence thought, with a tightening at the throat, "Alaska, it wouldseem, came to know and love him. And now--"
Ah, yes--and now. She had always thought of Tom Kennedy as a typicalprospector, like Malcomb Dale, who had lured Bill from his ranch. And nowhere he was, not rich, but loved and respected. She was going to him. Thelarge gray plane, drumming steadily onward, carried her over broadstretches of timber, frozen lakes, arms of the sea, on and on and on,toward Tom Kennedy, her grandfather. And how would he receive her?
The answer to this question came when, four days later, a littlebreathless, but quite determined, she stood at the door of aweather-beaten cabin, on the outskirts of Nome.
"Come in!" a large, hearty voice roared.
It was with uncertain movements that she lifted the iron latch, pushedthe door open and stepped inside.
"I--I beg your pardon, Miss." A tall man, with keen gray eyes thatmatched his well-trimmed beard, rose hastily to his feet. "I thought itwas one of the boys. And it's you, a stranger and a girl."
"Not a stranger," the girl's voice was low with emotion. "I--I amFlorence Huyler, your granddaughter."
The e
ffect on the old man was strange. Taking a step backward, he drew ahand across his face, then spoke as in a dream:
"My granddaughter? No! It cannot be. And yet, it could be so. I had awife. She was beautiful.... I loved her.... She died.... All this waslong ago. I could not go back. The call of gold got me, and--
"So you are my granddaughter," his voice changed. The notion seemedunreal but pleasing to him. "My granddaughter! How strange!"
"They say," Florence tried to smile, "that we look alike."
"That so?" Tom Kennedy looked at her long and earnestly. "Big for agirl," he murmured. "You look strong as a man."
"I am," Florence admitted frankly.
At that, Tom Kennedy looked at himself in a glass by the window. "Yes,"his eyes brightened, "yes, we do look alike. Welcome, child! Welcome toyour grandfather's cabin." Seizing her hand, he held it for a moment witha grip that hurt.
"One more member for that gang of young pirates that haunt this cabin ofmine," he laughed. "You must meet them all, meet them and get to knowthem. They're a fine lot, my gang. First thing I know you'll be theirleader, I'm bound. You're a Kennedy and that means a lot."
"Yes," Florence replied with a smile, "I am sure it means a very greatdeal."
And so it was that Florence found her grandfather, and at once a wholenew wonderful life opened up for her.