"Good morrow, Peter."
"Good day to ye, sir," and they talked of crops and politics.
Presently Vandam said, "Rolf, come over here."
He came and was presented to the tall man, who was indeed very thin, and looked little better than an invalid. "This," said Peter, "is Master Henry van Cortlandt the son of his honour, the governor, and a very learned barrister. He wants to go on a long hunting trip for his health. I tell him that likely you are the man he needs."
This was so unexpected that Rolf turned red and gazed on the ground. Van Cortlandt at once began to clear things by interjecting: "You see, I'm not strong. I want to live outdoors for three months, where I can have some hunting and be beyond reach of business. I'll pay you a hundred dollars for the three months, to cover board and guidance. And providing I'm well pleased and have good hunting, I'll give you fifty dollars more when I get back to Albany."
"I'd like much to be your guide," said Rolf, "but I have a partner. I must find out if he's willing."
"Ye don't mean-that drunken Bill Bymus?"
"No! my hunting partner; he's an Indian." Then, after a pause, he added, "You wouldn't go in fly-time, would you?"
"No, I want to be in peace. But any time after the first of August."
"I am bound to help Van Trumper with his harvest; that will take most of August."
As he talked, the young lawyer sized him up and said to himself, "This is my man."
And before they parted it was agreed that Rolf should come to Albany with Quonab as soon as he could return in August, to form the camping party for the governor's son.
Chapter 55.
The Rescue of Bill
Bales were ready and the canoe newly gummed three days after their arrival, but still no sign of Bill. A messengers sent to the brother-in-law's home reported that he had not been seen for two days. In spite of the fact that Albany numbered nearly "six thousand living human souls," a brief search by the docksharps soon revealed the sinner's retreat. His worst enemy would have pitied him; a red-eyed wreck; a starved, sick and trembling weakling; conscience-stricken, for the letter intrusted to him was lost; the cargo stolen—so his comforters had said—and the raw country lad murdered and thrown out into the river. What wonder that he should shun the light of day! And when big Peter with Rolf in the living flesh, instead of the sheriff, stood before him and told him to come out of that and get into the canoe, he wept bitter tears of repentance and vowed that never, never, never, as long as he lived would he ever again let liquor touch his lips. A frame of mind which lasted in strength for nearly one day and a half, and did not entirely varnish for three.
They passed Troy without desiring to stop, and began their fight with the river. It was harder than when coming, for their course was against stream when paddling, up hill when portaging, the water was lower, the cargo was heavier, and Bill not so able. Ten days it took them to cover those eighty miles. But they came out safely, cargo and all, and landed at Warren's alive and well on the twenty-first day since leaving.
Bill had recovered his usual form. Gravely and with pride he marched up to Warren and handed out a large letter which read outside, "Bill of Lading," and when opened, read: "The bearer of this, Bill Bymus, is no good. Don't trust him to Albany any more. (Signed) Peter Vandam."
Warren's eyes twinkled, but he said nothing. He took
Rolf aside and said, "Let's have it." Rolf gave him the real letter that, unknown to Bill, he had carried, and Warren learned some things that he knew before.
Rolf's contract was for a month; it had ten days to run, and those ten days were put in weighing sugar, checking accounts, milking cows, and watching the buying of fur. Warren didn't want him to see too much of the fur business, but Rolf gathered quickly that these were the main principles: Fill the seller with liquor, if possible; "fire water for fur" was the idea; next, grade all fur as medium or second-class, when cash was demanded, but be easy as long as payment was to be in trade. That afforded many loopholes between weighing, grading, charging, and shrinkage, and finally he noticed that Albany prices were 30 to 50 per cent. higher than Warren prices. Yet Warren was reckoned a first-class fellow, a good neighbour, and a member of the church. But it was understood everywhere that fur, like horseflesh, was a business with moral standards of its own.
A few days before their contract was up, Warren said: "How'd ye like to renew for a month?"
"Can't; I promised to help Van Trumper with his harvest."
"What does he pay ye?"
"Seventy-five cents a day and board."
"I'll make it a dollar."
"I've given my word," said Rolf, in surprise.
"Hey ye signed papers?"
"They're not needed. The only use of signed papers is to show ye have given your word," said Rolf, quoting his mother, with rising indignation.
The trader sniffed a little contemptuously and said nothing. But he realized the value of a lad who was a steady, intelligent worker, wouldn't drink, and was absolutely bound by a promise; so, after awhile, he said: "Wall, if Van don't want ye now, come back for a couple of weeks."
Early in the morning Rolf gathered the trifles he had secured for the little children and the book he had bought for Annette, a sweet story of a perfect girl who died and went to heaven, the front embellished with a thrilling wood-cut. Then he crossed the familiar five-mile portage at a pace that in an hour brought him to the lake.
The greeting at Van's was that of a brother come home.
"Vell, Rolf, it's goood to see ye back. It's choost vat I vented. Hi, Marta, I told it you, yah. I say, now I hope ze good Gott send Rolf. Ach, how I am shpoil!"
Yes, indeed. The hay was ready; the barley was changing. So Rolf took up his life on the farm, doing work that a year before was beyond his strength, for the spirit of the hills was on him, with its impulse of growth, its joy in effort, its glory in strength. And all who saw the longlegged, long-armed, flat-backed youth plying fork or axe or hoe, in some sort ventured a guess: "He'll be a good 'un some day; the kind o' chap to keep friendly with.
Chapter 56.
The Sick Ox
The Thunder Moon passed quickly by; the hay was in; the barley partly so. Day by day the whitefaced oxen toiled at the creaking yoke, as the loads of hay and grain were jounced cumbrously over roots and stumps of the virgin fields. Everything was promising well, when, as usual, there came a thunderbolt out of the clear sky. Buck, the off ox, fell sick.
Those who know little about cattle have written much of the meek and patient ox. Those who know them well tell us that the ox is the "most cussedest of all cussed" animals; a sneak, a bully, a coward, a thief, a shirk, a schemer; and when he is not in mischief he is thinking about it. The wickedest pack mule that ever bucked his burden is a pinfeathered turtle-dove compared with an average ox. There are some gentle oxen, but they are rare; most are treacherous, some are dangerous, and these are best got rid of, as they mislead their yoke mates and mislay their drivers. Van's two oxen, Buck and Bright, manifested the usual variety and contrariety of disposition. They were all right when well handled, and this Rolf could do better than Van, for he was "raised on oxen," and Van's over voluble, sputtering, Dutch-English seemed ill comprehended of the massive yoke beasts. The simpler whip-waving and fewer orders of the Yankee were so obviously successful that Van had resigned the whip of authority and Rolf was driver.
Ordinarily, an ox driver walks on the hew (nigh or left) side, near the head of his team, shouting "gee" (right), "haw" (left), "get up," "steady," or "whoa" (stop), accompanying the order with a waving of the whip. Foolish drivers lash the oxen on the haw side when they wish them to gee—and vice versa; but it is notorious that all good drivers do little lashing. Spare the lash or spoil your team. So it was not long before Rolf could guide them from the top of the load, as they travelled from shook to shook in the field. This voice of command saved his life, or at least his limb, one morning, for he made a misstep that tumbled him down between the oxen and the wagon. At once the team started, but his ringing "Whoa!" brought them to a dead stop, and saved him; whereas, had it been Van's "Whoa!" it would have set them off at a run, for every shout from him meant a whip lick to follow.