The Best Ballantyne Westerns. R. M. Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ muscular man—a Scotchman—very good-humoured, yet a man whose under-lip met the upper with that peculiar degree of precision that indicated the presence of other qualities besides that of good-humour. He was book-keeper and accountant, and managed the affairs entrusted to his care with the same dogged perseverance with which he would have led an expedition of discovery to the North Pole. He was thirty or thereabouts.

      The second was a small man—also a Scotchman. It is curious to note how numerous Scotchmen are in the wilds of North America. This specimen was diminutive and sharp. Moreover, he played the flute—an accomplishment of which he was so proud that he ordered out from England a flute of ebony, so elaborately enriched with silver keys that one’s fingers ached to behold it. This beautiful instrument, like most other instruments of a delicate nature, found the climate too much for its constitution, and, soon after the winter began, split from top to bottom. Peter Mactavish, however, was a genius by nature, and a mechanical genius by tendency; so that, instead of giving way to despair, he laboriously bound the flute together with waxed thread, which, although it could not restore it to its pristine elegance, enabled him to play with great effect sundry doleful airs, whose influence, when performed at night, usually sent his companions to sleep, or, failing this, drove them to distraction.

      The third inhabitant of the office was a ruddy, smooth-chinned youth of about fourteen, who had left home seven months before, in the hope of gratifying a desire to lead a wild life, which he had entertained ever since he read “Jack the Giant Killer,” and found himself most unexpectedly fastened, during the greater part of each day, to a stool. His name was Harry Somerville, and a fine, cheerful little fellow he was, full of spirits, and curiously addicted to poking and arranging the fire at least every ten minutes—a propensity which tested the forbearance of the senior clerk rather severely, and would have surprised any one not aware of poor Harry’s incurable antipathy to the desk, and the yearning desire with which he longed for physical action.

      Harry was busily engaged with the refractory fire when Charley, as stated at the conclusion of the last chapter, burst into the room.

      “Hollo!” he exclaimed, suspending his operations for a moment, “what’s up?”

      “Nothing,” said Charley, “but father’s temper, that’s all. He gave me a splendid description of his life in the woods, and then threw his pipe at me because I admired it too much.”

      “Ho!” exclaimed Harry, making a vigorous thrust at the fire, “then you’ve no chance now.”

      “No chance! what do you mean?”

      “Only that we are to have a wolf-hunt in the plains tomorrow; and if you’ve aggravated your father, he’ll be taking you home to-night, that’s all.”

      “Oh! no fear of that,” said Charley, with a look that seemed to imply that there was very great fear of “that,”—much more, in fact, than he was willing to admit even to himself. “My dear old father never keeps his anger long. I’m sure that he’ll be all right again in half an hour.”

      “Hope so, but doubt it I do,” said Harry, making another deadly poke at the fire, and returning, with a deep sigh, to his stool.

      “Would you like to go with us, Charley?” said the senior clerk, laying down his pen and turning round on his chair (the senior clerk never sat on a stool) with a benign smile.

      “Oh, very, very much indeed,” cried Charley; “but even should father agree to stay all night at the fort, I have no horse, and I’m sure he would not let me have the mare after what I did to-day.”

      “Do you think he’s not open to persuasion?” said the senior clerk.

      “No, I’m sure he’s not.”

      “Well, well, it don’t much signify; perhaps we can mount you.” (Charley’s face brightened.) “Go,” he continued, addressing Harry Somerville—“go, tell Tom Whyte I wish to speak to him.”

      Harry sprang from his stool with a suddenness and vigour that might have justified the belief that he had been fixed to it by means of a powerful spring, which had been set free with a sharp recoil, and shot him out at the door, for he disappeared in a trice. In a few minutes he returned, followed by the groom Tom Whyte.

      “Tom,” said the senior clerk, “do you think we could manage to mount Charley to-morrow?”

      “Why, sir, I don’t think as how we could. There ain’t an ’oss in the stable except them wot’s required and them wot’s badly.”

      “Couldn’t he have the brown pony?” suggested the senior clerk.

      Tom Whyte was a cockney and an old soldier, and stood so bolt upright that it seemed quite a marvel how the words ever managed to climb up the steep ascent of his throat, and turn the corner so as to get out at his mouth. Perhaps this was the cause of his speaking on all occasions with great deliberation and slowness.

      “Why, you see, sir,” he replied, “the brown pony’s got cut under the fetlock of the right hind leg; and I ’ad ’im down to L’Esperance the smith’s, sir, to look at ’im, sir; and he says to me, says he, ‘That don’t look well, that ’oss don’t,’—and he’s a knowing feller, sir, is L’Esperance, though he is an ’alf-breed—”

      “Never mind what he said, Tom,” interrupted the senior clerk; “is the pony fit for use? that’s the question.”

      “No, sir, ’e hain’t.”

      “And the black mare, can he not have that?”

      “No, sir; Mr Grant is to ride ’er to-morrow.”

      “That’s unfortunate,” said the senior clerk.—“I fear, Charley, that you’ll need to ride behind Harry on his gray pony. It wouldn’t improve his speed, to be sure, having two on his back; but then he’s so like a pig in his movements at any rate, I don’t think it would spoil his pace much.”

      “Could he not try the new horse?” he continued, turning to the groom.

      “The noo ’oss, sir! he might as well try to ride a mad buffalo bull, sir. He’s quite a young colt, sir, only ’alf broke—kicks like a windmill, sir, and’s got an ’ead like a steam-engine; ’e couldn’t ’old ’im in no’ow, sir. I ’ad ’im down to the smith t’other day, sir, an’ says ’e to me, says ’e, ‘That’s a screamer, that is.’ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘that his a fact.’ ‘Well,’ says ’e—”

      “Hang the smith!” cried the senior clerk, losing all patience; “can’t you answer me without so much talk? Is the horse too wild to ride?”

      “Yes, sir, ’e is,” said the groom, with a look of slightly offended dignity, and drawing himself up—if we may use such an expression to one who was always drawn up to such an extent that he seemed to be just balanced on his heels, and required only a gentle push to lay him flat on his back.

      “Oh, I have it!” cried Peter Mactavish, who had been standing during the conversation with his back to the fire, and a short pipe in his mouth: “John Fowler, the miller, has just purchased a new pony. I’m told it’s an old buffalo-runner, and I’m certain he would lend it to Charley at once.”

      “The very thing,” said the senior clerk.—“Run, Tom; give the miller my compliments, and beg the loan of his horse for Charley Kennedy.—I think he knows you, Charley?”

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