"What are you all trying to say? One at a time, there. Let Otto talk. Otto, what's all this about a prize, and races, and the Squire?"
Otto drew a long, important breath, and began to talk fast so no one would interrupt him.
"There's going to be a big sled race on Christmas morning. All the boys are to start with their sleds at the Squire's gate at the top of the hill, and the first one who gets back to the big pine behind the Squire's vegetable garden on the other side of the house wins the prize—and—what is the prize? A big new sled . . ."
"With steel runners!" all the boys chorused delightedly.
"With steel runners!" echoed Nicholas in an awed whisper. "Go on, Otto. How are you supposed to go up a hill on a sled? And where else does the race go?"
Otto frowned at the others for silence, and continued. "Well, you coast down the long hill, and that will carry you across the frozen creek at the bottom. Then there's that patch of trees near the wood-cutter's cottage. Well, here's where the fun comes in. Every place you can't coast, you have to pull or carry your sled. There are about three fences to go over—the Groziks', the Bavrans', and the Pavlicks'; then you have to go through the Black Wood, where you know there are some clear, hilly stretches, and other places where you can't coast because of the trees. After you go through the wood, there's a long slide down to the village pasture; then you go back across the creek at the rapids, where it isn't frozen, then up the long hill behind the Squire's to the big pine. There, how's that for a race?"
Otto paused for breath triumphantly, and the others all started in again.
"Nicholas, you'll enter, won't you? That's not a bad sled you have, even if you did . . ."
"Hush, Jan," whispered another. "It isn't nice to remind Nicholas that he made his own sled, just because our fathers had ours made for us."
But Nicholas was not listening to the conversation. He was thinking swiftly. Finally he turned to the others and asked, "What time does the race begin?"
"Nine o'clock sharp on Christmas morning," was the answer.
Nicholas shook his head doubtfully.
"I don't know whether I can be there," he said slowly. He was thinking of the chest full of toys he had planned to deliver to almost every house in the village. He had so many chores to do when he got up in the morning, that he didn't see how he could possibly finish his work, make his rounds with the gifts, and still be in time for the start of the race at nine o'clock.
The other boys looked at him, suddenly silenced by the thought that came to every mind. They knew what Nicholas was thinking of when he said he wasn't sure that he'd be there, and although every child had come to expect a toy from Nicholas on Christmas morning, these boys were too embarrassed to put into words the fact that because Nicholas was so good to them, and especially to their smaller brothers and sisters, he might not be able to enter this race, which was so exciting to every boy's heart. And for all his gentleness, Nicholas was a real boy, and felt the desire to enter this race and win the big sled with steel runners, just as much as any boy present.
"By getting up very early, and hurrying, I could get there," he was thinking. "If it only weren't for the doll I have to bring to Elsa, away outside the village . . . Oh, I have it!" his eyes gleamed with excitement. He suddenly remembered that Elsa's father was the wood-cutter, and that their cottage was right in the path of the race. The doll could easily be dropped off in a few seconds, and he could continue.
"I'll be there! I'll be there! At nine o'clock sharp, and then you'd better watch out for the prize," he shouted gleefully. "My old home-made sled may be heavy for the pulls and the places we have to carry, but that will make it all the faster on the coasts. I'll go by you just like this!"
And he made a lunge past little Josef Ornoff, which tumbled the astonished little fellow into a deep snowbank. All the other boys laughingly piled Nicholas in with Josef, and the whole meeting broke up in a fast and furious snow battle.
* * * * * * *
When the children of the village arose on Christmas morning, they found a bright sun streaming in through the cottage windows and gleaming on the hard crusted snow on the roads. But they also found that Nicholas had been there, and probably even before the sun, because every doorway in the village was heaped with the little toys—the result of a whole year's work. After the excitement over the gifts, all the boys made an anxious last-minute inspection of their sleds, made a trial run or two, and then the whole village started in a body for the starting-point of the race.
Nicholas, meanwhile, was back in his little shed, desperately working on a broken runner. It had collapsed at the last house under the strain of the extra-heavy burden of wooden toys, and even as Nicholas was feverishly lashing heavy bits of rope and twisted cord around the bottom of his sled, he could hear the faint echo of the horn from the Squire's house at the top of the hill, announcing the start of the race. He could have sobbed with disappointment, because he knew that he never could get there in time to start with the others, but he also realized he had to get to the wood-cutter's house anyway, so he turned the mended sled upright, and made a mad dash for the hilltop, where he found the villagers already looking excitedly after a group of black specks speeding down the hill, and shouting words of encouragement at the racers. As Nicholas panted his way through the crowd, they all made way for him, with loud expressions of sympathy that he hadn't arrived there in time.
"Come on, Nicholas lad," shouted Jan Bavran. "I vow I'd rather see you win than my own Otto. Here, men, let's give him a good push. One—two—three—off he goes!"
And down the hill sped Nicholas, his face and eyes stinging in the swift rush of wind, his hands cleverly steering the heavy sled which gained more and more speed so that the wooden runners seemed hardly to touch the packed snow. On and on he went, swifter and swifter; and now his eyes glowed with excitement as he saw that the boys' figures ahead of him were black specks no longer, and that he must have gained a good bit of ground.
Then, as the hill sloped more gently and the pace slackened, he noticed something ahead which puzzled him. The boys had all stopped on the other side of the frozen creek! Instead of going on through the patch of woods on the other side, they had, one and all, calmly alighted from their sleds, and were now standing stock-still, watching Nicholas approach. As his sled slowed down, and finally stopped, he looked bewilderedly from one to another, and started "What in the world . . . "
"Come on, Nicholas," spoke up little Josef; "we would have waited for you at the top, but the Squire got impatient and made us start when the horn blew. But of course you knew we'd wait for you."
"Yes," shouted Otto, "go throw that doll in Elsa's doorway, and then let's go! And from now on, see how long we'll wait for you! First come, first served with the sled with the steel runners!"
Nicholas put his hand on the nearest boy's shoulder. His eyes glistened with moisture, but it must have been from the sharp wind on the coast. He didn't say anything, but he was so happy at this boyish way of showing friendship that his heart was full.
Twenty boys delivered a doll to astonished little Elsa, and then, with a wild shout, they were off again, dragging their sleds after them, knocking against tree-trunks, getting their ropes tangled in low scrubby bushes, stumbling over rocks, climbing over fences, jumping on now and then for a stretch of coasting, bumping each other—laughing, excited, eager, happy boys!
And Nicholas was the happiest of all, even though his sled was heavy to pull and clumsy to lift over fences. (His friends had waited for him!) Up would go the strong young arms and the sled was over the fence into the next field. (They did like him, even though he was an orphan and had no house of his own, but had to be passed around!) Over a steep grade he would drag the sled and then fling himself down for a wild rush. (And he had finished his morning's work too; every child in the village was playing with a toy Nicholas had made!) The long slide down to the village pasture with only one boy ahead of him! (I'll show them; I'll never let a Christmas pas
s without visiting every child in the village!) Now carrying the heavy sled on his shoulders while he felt slowly for a foothold on the flat stones of the part of the creek that was not frozen; he was the first boy to cross! (Up at the top of the hill, there's a beautiful sled with steel runners. It's big! It will hold twice as many toys as this old thing.) Up the hill, panting, hot, yellow locks flying in the wind, digging his toes in the hard snow, pulling for dear life at "the old thing," turning around excitedly once or twice to see how close the next boy was; then —suddenly, he heard the shouts of the villagers and he was at the top! He leaned against the big pine; he was home —he had won the race!
The big sled with steel runners was beautiful, but it was more beautiful still to see the defeated boys pulling Nicholas home on his prize, while the littler children hopped on behind and climbed lovingly all over the victor, and each mother and father smiled proudly as though it had been their own son who had won the race.
AFTER the crowd of villagers had dispersed on that merry Christmas Day of the race, Nicholas was stopped at the door of the fisherman's cottage he had lived in for a year, by a lean, dark-looking man who looked as though he had never smiled in his life. He had deep lines in his forehead, shaggy gray eyebrows which overhung and almost completely hid his deep-set gray eyes, and a mouth which went down at the corners, giving him an expression of grouchiness which never seemed to change. It was Bertran Marsden, the wood-carver of the village, and all the children called him Mad Marsden, because he lived alone, spoke to hardly anybody in the town, and chased the children away from his door with black looks and harsh words.
He now edged up to Nicholas, who was busy dragging his beloved new sled to his work-shed behind the house.
"You haven't forgotten, Nicholas, that you move to my house today," Marsden said gruffly.
Nicholas looked up. No, he had not forgotten, and he well knew why Marsden had offered to take him in for the last year of his life as a wandering orphan. The old wood-carver had no children for Nicholas to take care of, he did no farming or fishing, and therefore did not need a boy to help him out in that direction. The only reason he was willing, even eager, to feed and clothe the orphan was because for almost five years now he had watched the work Nicholas had been doing with his knife and carved woods, and realized that he could get a good apprentice cheap, without paying even a cent for the good work he knew he could get out of him.
Knowing all these things, and thinking of the bleak little cottage he would have to live in for a year, where there was no laughter and sound of children's voices, it was with a heavy heart that Nicholas piled up his few belongings in the new sled, said a grateful farewell to the family he was leaving, and followed Mad Marsden home to the low, mean-looking cottage on the outskirts of the village.
On entering the cottage, he stepped immediately into the main workroom of the wood-carver. Here were found his bench, his table, his tools, and his woods. A broad fireplace almost filled another side of the room, and black pots and greasy kettles showed plainly that no scouring housewife had set foot in the cottage for years. A pile of tumbled blankets in one corner was evidently Marsden's bed, and near the window was a table, littered with the remains of his morning meal. These and a few rickety chairs completed the furnishings of this one dark room.
Marsden led the way in and pointed to a door in the corner.
"You can stow your belongings in there," he said over his shoulder to Nicholas, who was standing in the middle of the untidy room, looking around him in dismay. "There's a cot you can sleep on, and you may as well put that pretty sled away for good. We have no time here to go romping in the snow."
Nicholas nodded silently, too puzzled at the old man's living quarters to be hurt by the harsh words. He could not understand why Marsden should live so meanly, because, as the only wood-carver in the village, he was kept busy all the time filling orders for his hand-carved tables, chairs, cabinets, bridal chests, sleighs, and several other useful household articles that the villagers were in constant need of. The poorer people paid him in flour, vegetables, fish—whatever they could send him; the more well-to-do gave him good gold coin for his work. Not only that, but it was a well-known fact that he did work for the people in two or three neighboring villages, where there was no other wood-carver. In spite of the fact, then, that he probably had more money than any of the poor fishermen in the village, his cottage was meaner and shabbier than any of the well-scrubbed houses in which Nicholas had spent the past nine years.
"Come now, Nicholas, don't stand there gawking. Put away your belongings; you have much to learn here. I'm going to make a good wood-carver of you. No time for silly little dolls and wooden horses; you'll have to earn your keep here. And mind you, I won't have this place filled with screaming little brats. You keep that tribe of young ones that's always following you about out of here, do you understand?"
His eyes gleamed fiercely beneath the shaggy brows. Nicholas stammered in a frightened voice, "Yes—yes, master. But," he pleaded, suddenly struck by the thought that he might not see any of his little friends any more, "but they don't do any harm, the children—they only like to watch me work, and I wouldn't let them get in your way or touch anything . . ."
"Silence!" roared the old man, shaking his fists in the air and glaring at the frightened boy. "I won't have 'em, do you understand? I want to be alone. I wouldn't have you here if the work didn't pile up so that I need a helper. But you'll have to work, and there'll be no time for Christmas visits to children and all that nonsense."
Nicholas bowed his head and went silently to work putting away his small bundle of clothing, his few books, his father's sea-chest and jack-knife. The year ahead of him stretched forth bleakly, and only the thought that he was now fourteen years old and almost a man kept him from crying himself to sleep that night in his dark, cold little room.
So Nicholas started to work for the mad old wood-carver, and learned many things. He learned that his father's old jack-knife was a clumsy tool compared with the beautiful sharp knives and wheels that Marsden used; he learned to work for hours, bent over the bench beside his master, patiently going over and over one stick of wood until it was planed to the exact hundredth of an inch that his teacher required; he learned to keep on working even though the back of his neck almost shrieked with pain, and the muscles of his arms and hands grew lame from so much steady labor. All this he grew used to in time, for he was a strong, sturdy lad, and young enough so that his muscles became accustomed to the hard work; but what he felt he never could get used to was the dreadful loneliness of the place. His friends, the children, gradually gave up trying to see him after they had been shooed away from the door by the cross old wood-carver; Marsden himself rarely talked, except to give brief instructions about the work, or to scold him for some mistake. So Nicholas was sad and lonely, and longed for the days when he had been in friendly cottages, surrounded by a laughing group of children.
In addition to his duties at the work-bench, he also attempted to straighten out the two miserable little rooms where they lived. Marsden was surprised one morning on awakening to discover that Nicholas, who had risen two hours earlier, had swept and scrubbed the floor and hearthstone, taken down the dirty hangings from the two little windows and had them airing in the yard, and was now busily scrubbing with clean sea-sand the dirt-incrusted pots and pans. The table was set in front of the fire with a clean white cloth and dishes, and the kettle was bubbling merrily on the hearth.
Marsden opened his mouth to speak, then closed it without saying a word. Nicholas took the kettle from the fire, poured the boiling water over the tea-leaves, spread some bread with fresh, sweet butter, and said simply, "Your breakfast, master."
MARSDEN OPENED HIS MOUTH TO SPEAK.
Marsden ate wordlessly, looking at Nicholas from under his wild eyebrows. The boy went on with his work, which consisted now in bundling up the tumbled bed-clothing and throwing it over a line in the yard. Marsden finished his breakfast and finally
spoke.
"You'll find some meal in that corner cupboard," he said. "We might have some porridge tomorrow morning." Nicholas nodded. "Now, stop all that woman's work and let's get on with that chest. I've promised it for next Wednesday, and even if that silly Enid Grondin is fool enough to get married, we must have our work out when it is promised."
But after that morning, Marsden was careful to shake out his bed-clothing after he arose, and to clean up the dishes after his breakfast. And the cottage gradually came to look more like a place where human beings could live.
One night, as Marsden sat in front of his fire, silently smoking his long pipe, he noticed that Nicholas was still bent over the work-bench.
"Here, lad," he said almost kindly, in his gruff voice, "I'm not such a hard master that I have you work night as well as day. What's that you're doing? Why don't you go to your bed, hey? "
Nicholas answered hastily. "It's just a piece of wood you threw away, master, and I thought I'd see if I could copy that fine chair you made for Mistress Grozik. This is a little one—a toy," he ended fearfully; for he well knew that the word "toy" would mean children to old Marsden, and for some strange reason just to mention a child in his presence sent him into a rage.
Tonight, however, he contented himself with merely a black look, and said, "Let me see it. Hmm—not bad, but you have that scroll on the back bigger on one side than the other. Here, give me that knife."
Nicholas hastened with the tool, and watched admiringly as the old wood-carver deftly corrected the mistake.
"There," Marsden said finally, holding his work away from him, "that's the way it should be done."
Then, instead of handing the little chair to Nicholas, who was waiting expectantly, he continued holding it in his hands, while a bitter and yet rather sad expression came into the fierce old eyes, and a smile,—Nicholas blinked and looked again,—yes, a real smile was tugging at the corners of that stern mouth which had been turned down for so many years.
The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus (Yesterday's Classics) Page 2