CHAPTER XIII BOLSHY THE RUSSIAN
My young master crouched his head down to stare through the underbrush, and I stared over his shoulders.
What a sitting room! Enormous elms were the door-posts, climbing bittersweet flinging itself from one lofty branch to another was the ceiling; fallen logs and twisted tree limbs were the arm-chairs; delicate river grass cut short was the carpet, and a huge wisp of rushes hanging down into the river was the hearth-rug.
"I love this sitting-room, Prince," murmured my master in my ear. "Oh! how can boys play on dusty streets?"
"Ho, ho, my little master," I whispered back. "You are coming on. Soon you will be embracing these beloved trees."
But he did not understand me, and turned to gaze at the two men sitting on two of the rustic arm-chairs, and staring at the river highway with as much interest as if it had been a city street.
Opposite them was a wide green meadow where some red cows were grazing. A brown canoe was drawn up among the white water lilies, and a woman was feeding salt to some of the cows.
Occasionally ducks and big bluish cranes flew overhead, their funny feet sticking out behind, and once in a while a boat went gliding by.
One of the men was a big heavy low-browed creature. I knew he must be the Russian. He was smoking stolidly, and sometimes took his pipe from his mouth and, wrinkling his brow like a monkey, looked as if he were thinking about something that puzzled him.
His companion was a slender dark young man in khaki-coloured knickerbockers, and a green woollen shirt, and he sat quite still, his eyes sad and dreamy, his hands on his knees.
"That's Denty, the warden's son," whispered Cassowary. "He was wounded at Vimy Ridge and has had shell-shock. His father has to be away from home a good deal, and one reason he keeps the Russian is to give Denty something to do."
"Is the warden French?" asked Dallas.
"Half—his mother was Ontario born, his father came from Quebec. His name is Dentais but we call his son Denty."
Like all woodsmen, the young man had good ears, and at this moment he turned his head, got up slowly and came to greet us.
His sad face became quite bright at sight of Cassowary, "Glad to see you, Mademoiselle," he said, taking off his cap, and holding it in his hand.
"How are you to-day?" she asked.
"Better—my head is almost all right now, thanks to him," and he pointed to the Russian who was staring at us.
"Is he much trouble now?" asked Cassowary in a low voice.
"No, not now, he is getting into line—what's the matter, Bolshy?"
The Russian, pawing the air with one big hand, was shaking his loose cotton shirt with the other. "He's thanking you for it," said Denty.
"Oh! that's nothing," remarked Cassowary shyly. "I was glad to make it for him. I'm afraid the stitches are pretty big though. I hate to sew."
"He wouldn't notice that—but what's he doing?"
The Russian, after gazing intently at my young master, had begun to pace round him like a big bear.
He did not give me one glance. Evidently he did not care for ponies.
"Bolshy," said the soldier, "what's biting you?"
The Russian stopped short, made a most imploring noise in his throat, and seemed to fairly drink in the light from my young master's eyes.
I put myself between him and Dallas, for I felt that the boy was rather nervous about this big fellow tramping round him.
The Russian was moaning now, and putting his big feet down more and more heavily. He had dropped his pipe, and both hands were clutching his thatch of shaggy hair.
"He's thinking of his home," said Denty kindly.
"How well you understand him," observed Cassowary.
"We're together all day, and I've got so I can read his thoughts. At first I didn't know a word of Russian, but he's taught me a lot."
"Do you ever have to shut him up?"
"Hardly ever. He made a bit of a fuss over his bath a few days ago, because I wanted him to learn to swim. I suppose you heard him howling. Hey! Bolshy, old top—what's got you?"
The Russian was plucking the soldier by the sleeve. He had straightened out something in his bewildered brain, for his face was contented and he was clicking his teeth comfortably. The soldier watched his gestures. "He's seen someone with eyes like this boy's somewhere overseas."
"That reminds me," said Cassowary. "I didn't introduce my cousin. His name is Dallas Duff and he is visiting us."
The soldier nodded, then he turned again to the Russian. "He says he was very very sick in a hospital in France. He had been hurt in a great battle. He did not know what it was about. A beautiful woman nursed him. She had peculiar eyes like faint stars on a dark night, but they warmed one, and her hair was shining and very sleek and bound round her head in waves."
Cassowary's lips parted, and she fairly hung on the soldier's words.
Bolshy was now fumbling at his shirt that hung quite loose outside his trousers.
"He's going fishing," said the soldier. "I'll bet it's for some souvenir the lady gave him."
We all pressed forward. The Russian's big paw was trembling as he brought to light a dirty little bag on a dirty little string around his neck. Fumbling at it, he managed to extract an American nickel.
We were all intensely interested in his movements, and the soldier remarked, "The lady was not French, he says, nor English, but everybody loved her. He wants to know whether the boy has a mother or an older sister."
Dallas shook his head sadly, but Cassowary said nothing.
The Russian snatched his treasure from the soldier who was examining it too closely to suit him. Then picking up his pipe he relighted it and smoked furiously for a few minutes. However, something was still worrying him, for every few seconds he turned to Dallas and wrinkled his heavy eye-brows.
"I believe," said the soldier, "that Bolshy is all mixed up in his mind. He was brought up to humble himself before rich people. Then men came who told him that his mud-walled hut and his starving wife and children were due to the rich who had taken his money. Finally his wife and children starved to death. He was angry, and went into the army, and tried to kill, kill, kill—but instead of killing he was nearly killed himself. Then the beautiful lady saved his life. And now he loves the boy because he has her eyes. But the beautiful lady could not read. He never saw her with a book in her hand—look at him."
Bolshy, snarling disagreeably, was making a face at his idol, and coming toward him in an ungainly way, pulled something from his pocket.
The soldier's hand was on the Russian's wrist. He must have hurt him, for Bolshy cried out and dropped the little paper-covered volume.
"My riddle-book!" exclaimed Dallas. "I brought it to amuse the children."
The soldier returned it to him, and said, "Bolshy began to throw all our books in the river till I made him play water-dog and retrieve them—Bolshy, apologise to Miss Cassowary's cousin for your impudence."
The Russian became angry and with rude gestures threatened the soldier until he saw his hand go to his side.
There was a holster there, and Mr. Bolshy soon became civil and uttered some queer-sounding words that we all knew meant that he was not sorry but he said he was.
"Try kindness," said Cassowary softly. "Treat him as the beautiful lady did. You sing, don't you, Dallas? Do you know any French songs? They might appeal to him, for Russian society people use that language so much."
Dallas hesitated, then he said, "I will, if you wish it. I can sing a little sad song about a young man who was going to die and be buried in the cold ground, and he begged his dear young sweetheart to walk among the rustling leaves over his grave, and think about him."
Cassowary nodded encouragingly, and the boy threw back his young head and in his sweet pathetic voice begged and prayed some dear French girl to remember him.
"Rappelle-moi, rappelle-moi," he sang, and the sound was so sweet and piercing that it affected my ears sadly. I twitched and twitched them and finally had to rub them against the bark of a young elm. Ponies and dogs too can hear so much more acutely than human beings, that music is sometimes like needle points to our ears.
However, my emotion was nothing to the Russian's. He trembled on his strong legs, his mouth gaped, he took off his cap and threw it on the grass. When the boy's voice was at last still, the Russian lifted his head. Tears were running down his cheeks, and he poured out a lot of talk to the soldier, who smiled and said with an apologetic glance at the young girl,
"Bolshy thinks that the boy sings as well as a man—much better than the beautiful lady did, though she had a voice like a bird's."
"That's because they have men's singing only in the Greek churches," remarked Cassowary. "I don't believe the boy would sing better than——" Then she stopped suddenly and pointed to Bolshy.
The big man was coming slowly over the grass, and reaching my young master he took the hem of his coat and pressed it to his lips.
"Glory be!" said the soldier. "That's what we've been working for. Something to break his crust. I'll bet he's thinking of home and mother."
Poor creature! he evidently was, for he was pointing away to the east, and pouring forth a most troubled account of something to Dallas, who nodded sympathetically.
The soldier turned to Dallas. "You'll help me a lot if you tell him to trust me. I mean well by him."
My young master's face was lighted by a charming smile. He reached up, put his hand on the shaggy head of the subdued man, and patted it as if he had been a big dog, then he signed to him to follow, and leading him over to the soldier he said, "Maître!"
At the French word, Bolshy trembled, and when Dallas began jabbering in that language he was in a transport of delight. He didn't understand a word of it, but the sound was comforting as he had heard it in his native land. He shook his head a great many times, and when Dallas finished he went and stood humbly in front of the soldier.
"Gee!" said the young man, "this is fine; sit down. Bolshy," and he pointed to a log.
The Russian did as he was told, and the soldier heaved a sigh. "Usually there's an argument about everything he's to do—thank you, young man," he said gratefully to Dallas.
Dallas was exploring his pockets, and after bringing out a bar of chocolate he went over and put it between Bolshy's teeth.
This capped the climax, and the poor Russian sat munching the sweet stuff and laughing with delight in a funny jerky way.
"Here comes the launch" exclaimed Cassowary, and we all turned to the water.
Their big motor-boat, the Heron of Fawn Lake, was rounding the Old Woman's Islands, and came in with a flourish through a bed of yellow and white water lilies to the warden's crib.
Mr. Devering was running it, and smiling as he saw us, his white teeth gleaming against the brown of his skin.
As the Heron grazed the landing, the children swarmed ashore, dragging Drunkard after them. Like a flock of wild ducks they spread over the place, fluttering about the soldier and the Russian who surveyed them kindly, but not in the worshipful way in which he had greeted my young master. Not one of the children touched his fancy as Dallas did.
"We're starving—can't we have our picnic, Mother?" they cried, and Mrs. Devering said to her husband, "You've kept them too long on the lake; they're more quicksilvery than ever."
"Who'll boss about the fire?" called Champ shrilly. "Speak, Mother, quick, please."
"Is thy servant a dog?" she asked good-naturedly, then she added, "Big Chief, with Cassowary for first assistant."
Didn't those children scurry about in search of firewood, though the soldier motioned them politely to his wood-pile!
Dallas and I trotted after them. The bush was full of broken branches and trees lying across each other.
"Oh! the poor people in the big cities," I thought, "if they could only have some of these nice dry sticks."
Back of the green sitting-room was a huge rock with a kind of natural fireplace. Here Big Chief started the fire with birch bark and dry twigs, and soon there was a roaring blaze tearing up the stone chimney.
When the coals were nice and red, Big Chief sent Champ to dip in the river the sticks from which the water kettle was to be suspended, then Cassowary got out the frying-pan and began doing the bacon.
How it sizzled and snapped as she turned it with her long-handled fork! Her face got redder and redder, but she would yield her place to no one, although poor little Dovey begged humbly for permission to roast her young self.
"That's right, my daughter," said Mr. Devering to Cassowary, "stick to whatever you undertake, no matter how much smoke you breathe, but give Dovey a share. Great generals always leave details to subordinates."
"Set the two tables," ordered Cassowary full of importance. "You know how to put the food on one, and the dishes on the other. Let Sojer and Big Wig bring cushions and rugs from the boat and arrange in a semi-circle."
Dovey went away quite happy, and Cassowary and Big Chief, managing the fire-place, found when the food was all cooked that plates and cups and saucers were ready for it.
Bolshy was tremendously interested in this, evidently his first picnic in Canada, for as Mr. Devering said in a low voice to his wife, "Probably in the internment camp there were few diversions."
The big fellow strolled about, his small eyes twinkling, his hands working nervously. The soldier grinning cheerfully had to keep tapping him with the end of a long stick to remind him to get out of the way of the hurrying children, and not to hang too lovingly over the tables.
Finally Mr. Devering gently pushed the poor fellow to a seat on a rug, and gave him a plate and knife and fork to hold.
Bolshy beat a tune with the fork on his plate, just like a happy hungry child, then when everybody sat down and he was offered bacon he grunted like a pig, saying, "No! No!" then pointing with his knife to the cold chicken flapped his arms like wings and said, "Yes! Yes!"
The children shrieked with laughter, and the soldier said, "Bolshy doesn't get much chicken here, for we don't keep them. I guess he's tired of bacon."
"He's like a child," said Mrs. Devering, "he wants a change of diet, and our dishes are new to him. Are you as good a cook as your Father, Denty?"
"No, ma'am," said the soldier, "not by a long shot—I say, Bolshy, stop stirring your coffee with that chicken leg. We use spoons in this country."
It was quite impossible to offend the beaming Bolshy, and cheerfully licking the chicken leg he threw it over his shoulder into the river, then getting up took his plate in both hands and going humbly to Mrs. Devering begged for more chicken, pointing to the breast of one that she was just beginning to carve.
"Nothing modest about you, old bear," said Denty. "I say, come back—you've had enough," and he motioned to the rug.
This second plateful disappeared with the rapidity of the first, and as the children were so convulsed with Bolshy's antics that they could not eat, Mr. Devering got up, took a platter with two carcasses on it, and leading Bolshy to the bush, left him there crunching the bones and enjoying himself hugely.
The soldier did not eat much and Mr. and Mrs. Devering looked at him anxiously. Presently, blinking at the sun, he said, "It is most time for the White Phantom. If you'll excuse me, I'll go meet her."
How I pricked up my ears. Now I should learn who the creature was that had been mentioned in such affectionate dying tones by the expiring stick of wood.