XIX
Shortly after Bob's return in the early spring, George Pollock rode toAuntie Belle's in some disorder to say that the little girl, now about ayear old, had been taken sick.
"Jenny has a notion it's something catching," said he, "so she won't letJim send Mary over. There's too many young-uns in that family to run anyrisks."
"How does she seem?" called Auntie Belle from the bedroom where she waspreparing for departure.
"She's got a fever, and is restless, and won't eat," said Georgeanxiously. "She looks awful sick to me."
"They all do at that age," said Auntie Belle comfortably; "don't youworry a mite."
Nevertheless Auntie Belle did not return that day, nor the next, nor thenext. When finally she appeared, it was only to obtain certain suppliesand clothes. These she caused to be brought out and laid down where shecould get them. She would allow nobody to come near her.
"It's scarlet fever," she said, "and Lord knows where the child got it.But we won't scatter it, so you-all stay away. I'll do what I can. I'vebeen through it enough times, Lord knows."
Three days later she appeared again, very quietly.
"How's the baby?" asked Bob. "Better, I hope?"
"The poor little thing is dead," said Auntie Belle shortly, "and I wantyou or somebody to ride down for the minister."
The community attended the funeral in a body. It was held in the openair, under a white oak tree, for Auntie Belle, with unusual caution andknowledge for the mountains, refused to permit even a chance ofspreading the contagion. The mother appeared dazed. She sat through theservices without apparent consciousness of what was going on; shesuffered herself to be led to the tiny enclosure where all the Pollocksof other generations had been buried; she allowed herself to be led awayagain. There was in the brief and pathetic ceremony no meaning and nopain for her. The father, on the other hand, seemed crushed. So brokenwas his figure that, after the services, Bob was impelled to lay hishand on the man's shoulder and mutter a few incoherent but encouragingwords. The mountaineer looked up dully, but sharpened to comprehensionand gratitude as his eyes met those of the tall, vigorous young manleaning over him.
"I mean it," said Bob; "any time--any place."
On the way back to Sycamore Flats Auntie Belle expressed her mind to theyoung man.
"Nobody realizes how things are going with those Pollocks," said she."George sold his spurs and that Cruces bit of his to get medicine. Hewouldn't take anything from me. They're proud folks, and nobody'd have achance to suspect anything. I tell you," said the good lady solemnly,"it don't matter where that child got the fever; it's Henry Plant, theold, fat scoundrel, that killed her just as plain as if he'd stuck a gunto her head. He has a good deal to answer for. There's lots of folkseating their own beef cattle right now; and that's ruinous. I supposeWashington ain't going to do anything. We might have known it. I don'tsuppose you heard anything outside about it?"
"Only that Thorne had resigned."
"That so!" Auntie Belle ruminated on this a moment. "Well, I'm rightglad to hear it. I'd hate to think I was fooled on him. Reckon 'resign'means fired for daring to say anything about His High-and-mightiness?"she guessed.
Bob shook his head. "Couldn't say," said he.
The busy season was beginning. Every day laden teams crawled up theroad bringing supplies for the summer work. Woodsmen came in twos, inthrees, in bunches of a dozen or more. Bob was very busy arranging thedistribution and forwarding, putting into shape the great machinery ofhandling, so that when, a few weeks later, the bundles of sawn lumbershould begin to shoot down the flume, they would fall automatically intoa systematic scheme of further transportation. He had done this twicebefore, and he knew all the steps of it, and exactly what would berequired of him. Certain complications were likely to arise, requiringeach their individual treatments, but as Bob's experience grew thesewere becoming fewer and of lesser importance. The creative necessity wassteadily lessening as the work became more familiar. Often Bob found hiseagerness sinking to a blank; his attention economizing itself to thebare needs of the occasion. He caught himself at times slipping awayfrom the closest interest in what he had to do. His spirit, although hedid not know it, was beginning once more to shake itself restlessly, todemand, as it had always demanded in the past from the time of his toyprinting press in his earliest boyhood, fresh food for the creativeinstinct that was his. Bobby Orde, the child, had been thorough. Nosuperficial knowledge of a subject sufficed. He had worked away at themechanical difficulties of the cheap toy press after Johnny English, hispartner in enterprise, had given up in disgust. By worrying the problemlike a terrier, Bobby had shaken it into shape. Then when the commercialpossibilities of job printing for parents had drawn Johnny back ablazewith enthusiasm, Bobby had, to his partner's amazement, lost completelyall interest in printing presses. The subject had been exhausted; he hadno desire for repetitions.
So it had gone. One after another he had with the utmost fervour takenup photography, sailing, carpentry, metal working--a dozen and oneoccupations--only to drop them as suddenly. This restlessness ofchildhood came to be considered a defect in young manhood. It indicatedinstability of character. Only his mother, wiser in her quiet way, sawthe thoroughness with which he ransacked each subject. Bobby would readand absorb a dozen technical books in a week, reaching eagerly for thevital principles of his subject. She alone realized, although but dimly,that the boy did not relinquish his subject until he had grasped thosevital principles.
"He's learning all the time," she ventured.
"'Jack of all trades: master of none,'" quoted Orde doubtfully.
The danger being recognized, little Bobby's teaching was carefullydirected. He was not discouraged in his varied activities; but thebigger practical principles of American life were inculcated. These maybe very briefly stated. An American must not idle; he must direct hisenergies toward success; success means making one's way in life; ninetimes out of ten, for ninety-nine men out of a hundred, that means thebusiness world. To seize the business opportunity; to develop thatopportunity through the business virtues of attention to detail,industry, economy, persistence, and enthusiasm--these represented theplain and manifest duty of every citizen who intended to "be somebody."
Now Bob realized perfectly well that here he was more fortunate thanmost. A great many of his friends had to begin on small salaries inindoor positions of humdrum and mechanical duty. He had started on acongenial out-of-door occupation of great interest and picturesqueness,one suited to his abilities and promising a great future. Nevertheless,he had now been in the business five years. He was beginning to seethrough and around it. As yet he had not lost one iota of his enthusiasmfor the game; but here and there, once in a while, some of the necessarydelays and slow, long repetitions of entirely mechanical processes lefthim leisure to feel irked, to look above him, beyond the affairs thatsurrounded him. At such times the old blank, doped feeling fell acrosshis mind. It had always been so definite a symptom in his childhood ofthat state wherein he simply could not drag himself to blow up theembers of his extinguished enthusiasm, that he recoiled from himself inalarm. He felt his whole stability of character on trial. If he couldnot "make good" here, what excuse could there be for him; what was thereleft for him save the profitless and honourless life of the dilettanteand idler? He had caught on to a big business remarkably well, and itwas worse than childish to lose his interest in the game even for thefraction of a second. Of course, it amounted to nothing but that. Henever did his work better than that spring.
A week after the burial of the Pollock baby, Mrs. Pollock was reportedseriously ill. Bob rode up a number of times to inquire, and kepthimself fully informed. The doctor came twice from White Oaks, but thenceased his visits. Bob did not know that such visits cost fifty dollarsapiece. Mary, Jim's wife, shared the care of the sick woman with George.She was reported very weak, but getting on. The baby's death, togetherwith the other anxieties of the last two years, had naturally pulled herdown.
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The Rules of the Game Page 44