Читать книгу Green Timber Thoroughbreds - Theodore Goodridge Roberts - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Old Dave Hinch awoke with the bitter trickle of smoke in his nose; and his first idea was that he must have fallen asleep with his pipe in his mouth, lost his grip on it and set fire to his beard. That appendage, and the whiskers and mustache which mingled with it, were dear to him; and rightly so, for they covered everything of his face except his nose and eyes and receding strip of brow. So he clapped a hand to his beard even before he sat up, and opened his eyes. Beard and whiskers and mustache were all there, and all right. Reassured on this point, yet still distressingly conscious of the tang of smoke, he hoisted head and shoulders from the pillow and opened his eyes. The room was in utter darkness, for the blinds were down. With fumbling hands he struck a match, and lit the lamp which stood on the chair beside the bed. Then he saw something—the same thing that he had smelled—a thin, bluish haze in the close and chilly air.

Old Dave Hinch forgot all about his whiskers, and leapt out of bed with an agility which belied their venerable hoariness. He slid his legs into trousers and jammed his bare feet into boots and jumped to the door. He snatched it open, admitting a stifling roll of smoke which instantly enveloped him. He retreated, slithered across the bed and dived to the nearest window. He tore town the blind, threw up the lower sash, and thrust forth his head.

Smoke oozed out past his shoulders into the cold starshine. He yelled “Fire! Fire! Help! Help!” at the top of his voice until his throat ached. He got no response. All his neighbors were sound asleep, of course.

He withdrew from the open window and saw the draft between door and window had extinguished the narrow flame of the lamp. He stumbled and fumbled his way to the door, through choking swirls of heavy smoke. He sank to his hands and knees and looked down the narrow staircase with smarting eyes. He saw a lurid, pulsing glow away down, behind swirling depth of hot and acrid fumes, and whisperings and cracklings and a sound like the snoring of many sleepers came up to his stricken ears.

He crawled back to the window, and again set up his desperate outcry. But all the inhabitants of Forkville were sound asleep.

A stranger arrived at Forkville at 1:20 a.m., Tuesday, February the tenth. He carried a light pack on his shoulders, and his snowshoes atop the pack. The road was good. He topped a rise, rounded a sharp elbow of second growth spruce and fir, and saw the covered bridge, the village and the white fields laid out before him in the faint but enchanting light of frosty stars.

“It looks like an illustration for a fairy-story,” he said; and just then he became aware of the fact that something seemed to be wrong with the charming picture. The fault lay with the nearest house of the village. Smoke arose from it, white as frosted breath, and lurid gleams and glows wavered and flickered about its lower windows. He paused for a few seconds, staring, strangely horrified by the sight and the thought of a dwelling blazing unheeded and unsuspected in that scene of peace and fairy beauty. Then he ran. He went flying down the short dip and through the tunnel of the barn-like bridge, and, as he slackened his pace on the rise beyond, he heard old Dave Hinch’s frantic yells. He recognized the sound only as a human cry, for he did not know Hinch or the voice of Hinch. He responded with an extra burst of speed—ignoring the slope—and with a ringing shout.

The stranger soon spotted the window from which the yells issued. A minute later, by means of a ladder, he rescued the old man.

Just then three of the villagers arrived on the scene. They had been aroused from their slumber by the stranger’s shouts. They looked at Dave, then at the stranger, then back at Dave.

“Where’s Joe?” asked one of them.

The old man’s lower jaw sagged. He pointed at a window, an upper window of the main house.

“Reckon Joe’s still abed,” he said.

The neighbors swore. The stranger ran to the ladder, flopped it across and along to the window indicated, cast off his pack, and ascended like a sailor or a professional fireman. Upon reaching the window, he smashed glass and thin wood with his double-clad fists. A thin reek of smoke came out. He wound his scarf about his throat, pulled his fur cap down over ears and eyes and went head first through the shattered window. Down at the foot of the ladder, Dave Hinch cried out at sight of that destruction, and one of his neighbors cursed him for a fool and worse.

The stranger picked himself up from the floor of the dark room into which he had plunged. He couldn’t see anything, and the air was deadly with heat and smoke. He turned and kicked what little was left of the window sash clear out of the frame. Turning again, he dropped on his hands and knees, and went in search of the bed and the unfortunate Joe. The bare floor was warm. He found the bed almost immediately by bumping his head against the wooden side of it. He got to his feet, reached over and felt a human figure in the bed. He pulled it toward him, sheets, blankets, and all, clutched it to his laboring breast and made for the window. He was thankful that Joe was a lightweight. He found one of the natives at the top of the ladder and passed his unconscious burden out to him.

“Here he is,” he shouted. “Dead, I shouldn’t wonder. Asphyxiated for sure. Take him home. Get a doctor.”

He leaned far out the window, gasping for clean air. As soon as the ladder was clear he slid to the snowy ground, recovered his pack and snowshoes, reeled and fell, then crawled dizzily away from the burning house in which he had lost all interest for the moment.

The stranger crawled to the high road, turned there and looked back at the scene of his humane and disinterested exploits. He saw that the house was fated. All the lower windows within his field of vision belched smoke and flames. The ell from which the old man had escaped was blazing to the eaves. There was no wind, and the smoke went straight up. A dozen or more people now ran aimlessly about in the glare, or stood in helpless groups. The old man’s voice still rang above the roaring and snapping of the fire, cracked and raspy. No one paid any attention to the man who had performed the rescue.

The stranger moved up the road, glancing right or left at each house as he came to it. The village was of the simplest possible design—two lines of dwellings and stores and snow-drifted front yards facing one another across the white high road. Behind the houses and stores on both hands were barns and sheds, a few white-topped stacks of straw, and snowy fields climbing up to the edges of black forest.

The stranger had not gone more than halfway through the village when he spotted the thing he was looking for, and turned to his left off the road. This was a building two and a half stories high, square, hooded in front with a narrow veranda and an upper gallery, and flanked on the right with an impressive extent of attached sheds and stables—all in need of paint. By these physical features, and by its general aid of rakish unconcern of public opinion, it proclaimed itself the village hotel. The stranger stepped up onto the worn flooring of the veranda, which snapped frostily to his tread. He saw, dimly, antlered heads of moose and caribou on his right and left, out-thrust from the clapboarded walls, as if the monarchs of forest and barren had been imprisoned in the house and were now making their escape without wasting any time in looking for the door. He was not intimidated, for he had seen the same style of decoration in this province before. He crossed the veranda, and hammered on the door with his mittened fist. The door opened in half a minute, disclosing a tall man with a blanket draped about his shoulders, a lamp in his hand and a stoop in his back.

“What’s all the row?” asked the man of the house. “I heared hollerin’, didn’t I? Or was I dreamin’?”

“You weren’t dreaming,” replied the stranger. “There’s a house a-fire, down near the bridge. Have you a room for me?”

“You don’t say so! Whose house?”

“I don’t know. I’m a stranger here. Good-sized white house with an ell, first on your right heading this way from the bridge.”

“Old Dave Hinch’s!” cried the other exultantly. “Hope it catches Dave himself, darn his measly hide! But step inside, mister, an’ shut the door. I’ll go git into some pants an’ things.”

The man with the lamp went swiftly up a flight of uncarpeted stairs, with the stranger at his heels. He entered a bedroom; and the stranger was still with him. He dropped the blanket and dressed with amazing speed.

“You won’t be in time to save it,” said the stranger. “The whole ground floor is a-fire and roaring. A chemical engine couldn’t save it now.”

“Save it! I don’t want to save nothin’. I want to watch it burn. But say—did you hear anything about Joe? Did Joe git out?”

“Yes, I got Joe out myself—unconscious. And the old man, too—but he was all right.”

“The old man! You went an’ got him out? Hell! Say, it’s easy to see you’re a stranger round these parts, mister. Well, I’m goin’, anyhow. Maybe I’ll git a chance to push him back into it.”

“But what about a room for me?”

“A room? Sure you can have a room. You’ll find plenty right on this floor. Help yerself. Here, you can have the lamp. See you later.”

He thrust the lamp into the other’s hand, fumbled his way down the dark stairs, and dashed from the house.

The first room into which the stranger looked, shading the lamp with his left hand, was already occupied by someone who snored in a high and rasping key; the second was occupied by someone who instantly inquired “Who’s that?” in a feminine voice; but the third was empty. It was also cold and large and dreary. He examined it carefully by the feeble light of the smoky little lamp, and came to the conclusion that it was a room of state, a chamber of pride. There were white curtains looped at the windows, with dust in their chilly folds. There was a carpet on the floor with a design in yellow and red which seemed to jump up at you and wriggle. There were several chairs of several designs and shapes, all upholstered in wine-red plush. There was a small center-table with a marble top and walnut legs, and on it stood a tall vase full of dusty paper flowers. There were several framed pictures on the walls. There was a bed with a high headboard of glistening yellow wood. There was a little open-faced stove of iron and nickel. Its open face was filled by a large, dusty fan of pea-green paper. Beside it stood a dusty basket full of short, dusty sticks of rock-maple.

The stranger set the lamp on the center-table, lowered his pack and snowshoes to the carpet, cast off his mittens and muffler and cap and went over and gave the bed a second and closer inspection. He removed the lace-edged pillow sham, which was coated with dust. He shook up the pillows and turned them over, then opened up the bedding for inspection and airing. Returning to the stove, he started a fire with the help of the paper fan and paper flowers. The dry maple caught and flamed as if by magic. He discarded several outer articles of clothing, pulled one of the fat chairs up to the stove, and slumped into it; filled and lit his pipe. And thus the tall man with the stoop found him half an hour later.

“Here you be,” said the man of the house, with a grin. “You chose a good one, that’s sure.”

“The first one I came to that wasn’t already taken,” replied the stranger. “How’s the fire? Hope you didn’t carry out your murderous intentions.”

“Didn’t carry out a danged thing. The roof’s fell in. And say, if you want to see a man real mad you’d ought to see Dave Hinch. I’d of paid five dollars for the show if it wasn’t free. But about this room, mister. To-night don’t count, for I ain’t such a hell of a business man as all that—but if you stop in it it’ll set you back one dollar an’ fifty cents a day, or nine dollars by the week.”

“Pretty good rent for a room in the country, isn’t it?”

“Rent? Well, I throw in three or four meals a day.”

“In that case, consider me as a fixture for weeks and weeks.”

“That suits me, mister—but what’s your name?”

“Vane,” answered the stranger.

“Vane,” returned the other. “Then you’re not from hereabouts, mister?”

“I’m from New York—and other places.”

“That so? Well, I reckon I’ve read it in the newspaper. My name’s Jard Hassock, an’ I’m the proprietor of this here hotel, which is known far an’ wide as Moosehead House.” He pulled up a chair and sat down, then leaned over confidentially. “Maybe you’ve seen Strawberry Lightnin’?” he queried.

“No—but I have heard of her,” returned Vane.

“I bred her,” said Hassock with a rapt look in his eyes. “Bred her, owned her an’ trained her. And the Willy Horse! He was her sire—I owned him, too. His dam died when he was only four days old, an’ I got him cheap an’ raised him on a bottle. He was the best horse ever bred in this province, an’ then some! Sold for twenty thousand—but that wasn’t the time I sold him. Oh, no! Four hundred was the price I got. Can you beat it?”

“Sounds tough. I’ve heard of the Willy Horse, too.”

“He was a wonder! But I didn’t have the chance to try him out like I did the mare. She was good! Her mother was a little bit of speed I got in a trade up to Woodstock. She was sure a winner, that Strawberry Lightnin’! I raced her two years, an’ then I sold her for a thousand. Had to do it. It ain’t the money you make that counts in that game, but the money you spend. I’m content to live quiet enough here in Forkville, but when I’m racin’, an’ away from home an’ the like of that, mister, the Derby winner couldn’t keep my pockets full a week.”

Vane yawned and quickly apologized for it.

“Guess I’d best be goin’,” said Hassock, rising slowly to his feet.

“I’m sleepy, I must admit,” returned Vane. “Out all day in the fresh air, you know.”