The Rules of the Game

by Stewart Edward White

  III

  When Saturday evening came the men washed and shaved and put on cleangarments. Bob, dog tired after a hard day, was more inclined to lie onhis back.

  "Ain't you-all goin' over to-night?" asked Jack Pollock.

  "Over where?"

  "Why," explained the younger man, "always after supper Saturdays all theboys who are in camp go over to spend the evenin' at headquarters."

  Aggressively sleek and scrubbed, the little group marched down throughthe woods in the twilight. At headquarters Amy Thorne and her brotherwelcomed them and ushered them into the big room, with the stonefireplace. In this latter a fire of shake-bolts leaped and roared. Themen crowded in, a trifle bashfully, found boxes and home-made chairs,and perched about talking occasionally in very low tones to the nearestneighbour. Amy sat in a rocking chair by the table lamp, sewing onsomething, paying little attention to the rangers, save to throw out anoccasional random remark. Thorne had not yet entered. Finally Amydropped the sewing in her lap.

  "You're all as solemn as a camp-meeting," she told them severely. "Howmany times must I tell you to smoke up and be agreeable? Here, Mr. Ware,set them a good example."

  She pushed a cigar box toward the older man. Bob saw it to be half fullof the fine-flaked tobacco so much used in the West. Thus encouraged,Ware rolled himself a cigarette. Others followed suit. Still othersproduced and filled black old pipes. A formidable haze eddied throughthe apartment. Amy, still sewing, said, without looking up:

  "One of you boys go rummage the store room for the corn popper. Thecorn's in a corn-meal sack on the far shelf."

  Just then Thorne came in, bringing a draft of cold air with him.

  "Well," said he, "this is a pretty full house for this time of year."

  He walked directly to the rough, board shelf and from it took down abook.

  "This man Kipling will do again for to-night," he remarked. "He knowsmore about our kind of fellow than most. I've sent for one or two otherthings you ought to know, but just now I want to read you a story thatmay remind you of something you've run against yourself. We've a fewwild, red-headed Irishmen ourselves in these hills."

  He walked briskly to the lamp, opened the volume, and at once began toread. Every once in a while he looked up from the book to explain aphrase in terms the men would understand, or to comment pithily on somesimilarity in their own experience. When he had finished, he lookedabout at them, challenging.

  "There; what did I tell you? Isn't that just about the way they hand itout to us here? And this story took place the other side of the world!It's quite wonderful when you stop to think about it, isn't it? Listento this--"

  He pounced on another story. This led him to a second incursion on themeagre library. Bob did not recognize the practical, rather hard Thorneof everyday official life. The man was carried away by his eagerness tointerpret the little East Indian to these comrade spirits of the West.The rangers listened with complete sympathy, every once in a whilethrowing in a comment or a criticism, never hesitating to interrupt wheninterruption seemed pertinent.

  Finally Amy, who had all this time been sewing away unmoved, ahalf-tender, half-amused smile curving her lips, laid down her work withan air of decision.

  "I'll call your attention," said she, "to the fact that I'm hungry. Shutup your book; I won't hear another word." She leaned across the table,and, in spite of Thorne's half-earnest protests, took possession of thevolume.

  "Besides," she remarked, "look at poor Jack Pollock; he's been poppingcorn like a little machine, and he must be nearly roasted himself."

  Jack turned to her a face very red from the heat of the leaping pinefire.

  "That's right," he grinned, "but I got about a dishpan done."

  "You'll be in practice to fight fire," some one chaffed him.

  "Oh, he'll fight fire all right, if there's somethin' to eat the otherside," drawled Charley Morton.

  "It's plenty," said Amy, referring to the quantity of popcorn.

  "Why," spoke up California John in an aggrieved and surprised tone,"ain't there nobody going to eat popcorn but me?"

  Amy disappeared only to return bearing a cake frosted with chocolate.The respect with which this was viewed proved that the men appreciatedto the full what was represented by chocolate cake in this altitude oftiny stoves and scanty supplies. Again Amy dove into the store room.This time she bore back a huge enamel-ware pitcher which she set in themiddle of the round table.

  "There!" she cried, her cheeks red with triumph.

  "What you got, Amy?" asked her brother.

  Ross Fletcher leaned forward to look.

  "Great guns!" he cried.

  The men jostled around, striving for a glimpse, half in joke, half ingenuine curiosity.

  "Lemonade!" cried Ware.

  "None of your lime juice either," pronounced California John; "look atthe genuine article floatin' around on top."

  They turned to Amy.

  "Where did you get them?" they demanded.

  But she shook her head, smiling, and declined to tell.

  They devoured the popcorn and the chocolate cake to the last crumb, andemptied the pitcher of genuine lemonade. Then they went home. It was allsimple enough: cheap tobacco; reading aloud; a little rude chaffing;lemonade, cake and popcorn! Bob smiled to himself as he thought of theconsternation a recital of these ingredients would carry to thesophisticated souls of most of his friends. Yet he had enjoyed theparty, enjoyed it deeply and thoroughly. He came away from it glowingwith good-fellowship.