Читать книгу Gulf and Glacier; or, The Percivals in Alaska - Willis Boyd Allen - Страница 1

“All aboard!”

It was a bright July morning, and its gladness was reflected in the faces of the throng that hurried to and fro, like an army of particularly busy ants, in the Boston and Lowell Depot.

Way trains puffed in and out, discharging their loads of out-of-town people, who poured through the doorway in an almost continuous stream, carrying baskets of lunch, bunches of pond lilies and the small parcels that tell of every-day trips to the city.

On the opposite side of the station stood a Canadian Pacific train. The massive trucks and heavy English build of the tawny cars distinguished them from the stock required for local traffic. This was the train which was to take a hundred or more passengers, without change, across the broad American Continent. From the windows of those very cars, the travelers were to look out upon the rolling Western prairies, the ravines and snowy summits of the Rocky Mountains, and at last, the blue waters of the Pacific. No wonder the people on this side of the station, those departing, as well as those to be left behind, wore a more serious and anxious look upon their faces than the light-hearted suburbans who chatted gaily on their brief daily trip of a dozen miles.

How curiously the hundred tourists looked into one another’s eyes? “Will he prove a delightful companion, I wonder?” they said to themselves. “Is she to be a life-long friend, dating from this moment when our paths meet for the first time?”

“All aboard!” shouts the conductor again.

It has been well said that a railway station is a fit emblem of human life, with its brief merriment and grief, its greetings and good-bys, its clamor of coming and going.

Be this as it may, it is probable that of the half a thousand people in the Lowell Depot that morning, but few abandoned themselves to moral reflections. Certainly Tom Percival was not occupied with philosophical meditation, as he stood on the lowest step of the car “Kamloops,” looking out eagerly over the crowd that surged to and fro on the platform beside the train.

“Halloo, Ran!” he shouted suddenly, waving his hat and beckoning to a young man of about his own age, who was making his way toward the car, valise in hand.

“All right, Tom,” responded the other. “Come along, Fred,” he added to a companion at his side. “Here’s the ‘old cabin home’ for the next week or so, I suppose.”

The three young fellows – or boys, as it is easier to call them, once for all – shook hands all round, and then, standing on the car platform, turned to the crowd again as the train started and slowly moved out of the station.

“Good-by! good-by!”

“Be sure to write!”

“Bring me a totem pole from Alaska!”

“Hurrah! hurrah!”

And amid a medley of shouts and frantic wavings of handkerchiefs the long train rumbled away, northward bound.

Randolph Burton made his way into the car, followed by his cousin Tom and their chum Fred Seacomb. Randolph had just passed his Sophomore examination successfully at Harvard, while Tom was rejoicing over his admission to the Freshman class, with only one condition. Fred was a pupil in a scientific school at Philadelphia. He was as dignified and scrupulously neat as ever, and his eyeglasses twinkled as of old.

“Where are the girls?” inquired Randolph, turning to Tom.

The car was filled with passengers, all talking at once, and besieging the porter with questions.

“In our ‘drawing-room,’ at the other end of the car,” replied Tom. “You know father and mother have a jolly little room all to themselves, but we shall use it as headquarters, the whole way to Vancouver.”

“Thomas alludes to Vancouver as if it were East Somerville or Braintree,” remarked Fred, eying that young man calmly. “How many times did you say you had crossed the Continent?”

“Don’t you concern yourself about me,” rejoined Tom. “If you’d ground up on this trip as I have, perhaps you’d feel on familiar terms with Assiniboia and Saskatchewan and” —

“Oh! here he comes, talking Indian as usual,” interrupted a merry voice. “Randolph and Fred are with him.”

“Glad to see you, Miss Sibley!” said Fred, with his most elegant bow.

“Oh! please,” laughed the sunny-haired girl, “I’m going to be just ‘Pet’ on this trip, any way. I sha’n’t be seventeen till November, you know.”

The boys seemed relieved at this declaration, and, perching on the arms of the car seats, entered into lively conversation with Pet, as well as Tom’s sisters, Kittie and Bess.

The whole party, it may now be explained, had started on a journey to Alaska. The young people had worked hard at their studies during the winter, and Mr. Percival, being a man of ample means, as well as of good sense and thoroughly kind heart, had included in his invitation Pet Sibley and Fred Seacomb, both of whom are familiar to the readers of the earlier volumes of this series.

They had been undecided where to go for the summer, when a friend of Mrs. Percival’s told her of this grand “Excursion,” which was to take its patrons from sea to sea, up the coast of Alaska, and back by way of Yellowstone Park, all within the space of seven weeks. Careful inquiries satisfied Mr. Percival and his wife that this was just the trip they were looking for; places were secured, and the start was now fairly made, as we have seen.

“Well, boys,” remarked Mr. Percival, coming up at this moment, “have you found your berths yet?”

“Not yet, father,” said Tom, throwing his arm lovingly over the man’s broad shoulder. They were very near to each other, these two, and the companionship of this long journey was destined to bring them together more closely than ever before.

“Randolph, you and Tom are next to our drawing-room, on the ‘starboard’ side. Fred comes next, taking the upper berth at night. Some gentlemen in the party will probably occupy the lower one. Kittie and Bess are directly opposite, and Miss Pet will come next.”

“How nice! Then we’re all together, right in this end of the car!”

“O, dear! I wish we had Bert and Sue Martin with us this year!” lamented Kittie. “They would just fill those two odd berths, one on each side.”

“Can’t have ’em, Kit,” replied her brother. “The whole family have gone out to Portland, Oregon, with their married sister. You know she and her husband are going to live there, where he is in business, and that left Bert and Sue here with only their grandmother.”

“We pass through Portland, I believe,” added Mr. Percival, “on our return trip. We’ll drop in on them if we can, for a short call.”

By this time the train was running at full speed, and the young people began to explore their surroundings. The country through which they were passing was so familiar that they found more objects of interest within the car than without.

There were a dozen other passengers in the “Kamloops,” all chattering briskly and settling themselves into the cosey quarters they were to call home for the next ten days.

Fred Seacomb, as usual, began making acquaintances at once. Before they reached Lowell he had raised an obstinate window for one of his nearest neighbors, had found a missing pair of spectacles for a sweet-faced old lady not far away, and had pointed out various objects of interest (though he knew less of them than any other member of his party) to a bashful boy and girl of about ten and twelve respectively, in the front seats.

People began to glance to the Percival end of the car, and their faces relaxed into genial smiles as Tom struck up “Annie Rooney,” the rest chiming in melodiously. Before long their company was increased by the two occupants of the vacant berths. They introduced themselves as Rev. Rossiter Selborne and his sister, Miss Adelaide Selborne. The young clergyman could not have been over thirty; his sister, a tall, pale, timid girl, was apparently of about Kittie’s age. The new-comers were evidently painfully conscious of the questioning glances with which they were greeted, and were anxious not to intrude; Adelaide, in particular, looking very shy and almost ready to cry when she saw what a large party she and her brother had unintentionally joined, and how thoroughly the others all knew one another.

Mrs. Percival soon broke the ice, however, by inviting Mr. Selborne and his sister into her drawing-room for a call, and in another fifteen minutes they were swept into the current of song. The young minister proved to have a fine baritone voice, and his sister soon won popularity by remembering second verses which everybody else had forgotten.

“Weirs! Weirs!” shouted the conductor. And out flew the young folks to the platform, only to be hustled back again, barely in time to miss being left behind. The train was special, and took no passengers beyond the favored hundred who constituted the Excursion.

The shores of fair Winnepesaukee were soon left behind, and the train drew up at the Pemigewasset House, in Plymouth.

Up the long flight of steps they scrambled, “Tom leading the way, as usual,” remarked dignified Fred, peering through his eyeglasses at the other’s heels, far in advance.

Down again to the train – how familiar and home-like the old “Kamloops” looks, already! “All aboard!” Hurrah! Off we go again! Singing once more – this time the “Soldier’s Farewell”; Tom striking it a third too high, and going all to pieces on the second “Farewell” – on and on and on, faster and faster and faster, up the beautiful Passumpsic Valley, along the shores of Memphremagog.

“Look!” cries Bess. “There’s a shower on the hills!”

The clouds hang, black and sullen, along the mountain-tops. Dash! comes the rain in long exclamation points all over the window-panes. A glittering flash of lightning, trees bowing in the wind, rain pouring in torrents.

Suddenly a brilliant light strikes again through the windows, resting on Pet’s golden hair – not lightning this time, but the blessed sunshine, in long, slanting rays from the west. Even the boys catch their breath with delight and something like awe as they see the clouds rolling away over the mountains.

At about sunset, the principal “conductor” of the Excursion, whom we will call Mr. Houghton – a jolly, good-natured gentleman, who won first the confidence and then the regard of his hundred charges, at the very outset – came through the car announcing that at about half-past eight they would be in Montreal, where the train would wait for them forty-eight hours, the next day being Sunday.

In due time the cars thundered over the long steel bridge between Caughnawaga and Lachine, the lights of Montreal twinkled out of the darkness, and our friends were soon on their way to the Windsor, where they were to spend the next two days.

Sunday was as fair as the most exacting traveler could wish. The large party scattered during the forenoon, most of them going to church. Randolph and Tom, with the girls, left the hotel early and walked for a mile or more through the streets of the city.

There were many French inhabitants, as the shop signs showed. In a little common, they saw the sign, “N’allez pas sur le gazon” – a polite way of putting our familiar “Keep off the grass.” The names of the streets carried them back to old times, when the whole province was held by France – “Ste. Monique,” “Ste. Genevieve,” etc. Funny little milk carts went bobbing along over the rough pavements, and funny little babies toddled along the uneven board sidewalks.

Their walk soon brought them to a lofty granite building with two square towers – the cathedral of Notre Dame.

People were flocking in at the doors, and the young Americans went with them.

It was like entering a great, dimly-lighted cavern. All the walls and pillars and ceiling were glowing with soft, dark crimson and golden colors. The church was crowded with worshipers, not only on the main floor, but in two immense galleries, one above the other. At the further end was the high altar and the figure of the crucified Saviour, beneath which the priests were conducting the service of the Roman Catholic Church. One could just hear their deep voices, mingling with the music of the choir and organ.

In front of the travelers was a swarthy Indian, with long, glossy black hair. Little children knelt on the marble pavement in the midst of the crowd. Members of wealthy French families passed down the aisle to their pews. All around were poor people, many of them following the service with their prayer-books.

Leaving Notre Dame, the Percivals turned their steps to St. George’s Church near the hotel, where there was an Episcopal service, and a good sermon by a bluff, hearty Scotchman, one of whose phrases clung to Tom’s memory for many a day.

“If you know of anything you ought to do,” said the good rector, “don’t sit down and think about it, but do ut!”

“‘Do ut!’” repeated Tom to himself as he left the church with the rest. “That’s a good motto for me, any way. ‘Do ut!’”

A quiet drive around Mount Royal – giving them a glorious view of Montreal – filled the afternoon.

As they looked down on the multitude of roofs and steeps, Mr. Percival reminded them that it was the chief city of Canada, with a population about half as large as that of Boston. In 1535 it was a little Indian village called Hochelaga, which was in that year visited by Jacques Cartier. Two hundred and fifty years ago, the French established a trading-post here, and its business has grown, until to-day its docks are lined with warehouses, its river front shows the black hulls of great ocean steamers, and railroads converge from east, west and south.

We will close this first chapter with an extract from Kittie’s letter to Susie Martin, written late Monday afternoon.

Montreal, July 21, 18 —.

Dear Sue:

Bess has written you about our starting away from Boston day before yesterday, and the splendid ride we had, and the showers, and everything. We are getting to like that quiet Mr. Selborne a good deal. His sister is dreadfully afraid of everything, and keeps saying, “O, Ross!” whenever he does anything out of the primmest kind of behavior. I guess we girls shock her awfully; but perhaps she needs electricity treatment; she isn’t strong, you know, poor thing.

This afternoon we all went out to Lachine in a queer little train of cars, and then went on board a big steamer for the return trip down the river. Such a scramble for good places! It was really wonderful, dear, going down those rapids. You felt the great ship settle under your feet, and once we headed so straight for a rock in the middle of the river that I said “Ow!” right out loud. The other passengers didn’t laugh much, either, and even Tom, poor fellow, really looked white.

Well, we have repacked our trunks which we sha’n’t open again until we reach some sort of a queer place called Banff, next Saturday. We go on board our train again at half-past seven. Bess and I are expecting lots of fun in our compartment. I do hope we shall see you in Portland…

Affectionately,

Kittie M. Percival.