Andy nodded his blond head vigorously in a silent signal to Donald for acceptance, and acceptance was instantly forthcoming.
The interior of the log cabin was rough in the extreme, but scrupulously clean, with chairs, tables and beds that had never issued from a furniture factory. The window-curtains were made of flour and sugar sacks, on which the names of the manufacturers could still be deciphered. On one wall were two bunks, set one above the other, on which were spread heavy Hudson Bay blankets. No sheets were in evidence, and the pillows were rough sacks stuffed with moss. The lower bunk showed the feminine touch in its drapery of cheap blue print, a pathetic attempt to brighten the coarse surroundings. Behind a small stove in the corner hung an array of cooking utensils, spotlessly clean, but of inferior quality. The one and only table, placed conveniently near the stove, was as white as a ship’s deck from constant scouring.
In direct antithesis to this seeming poverty, one end of the cabin was literally filled with books. These richly-bound volumes looked incongruous in conjunction with the rough tables, the uncomfortable chairs and the rude beds. Donald’s eyes roved over the books, arranged on the shelves standing and crosswise. Most of them were in English, but many were in German, French and Italian; some in what appeared to be Arabic, perhaps Sanskrit; and dozens were on botany, ornithology and natural history.
“A bookworm,” mused Donald, “a bookworm, and at the expense of his personal comfort.” He felt ashamed of his unwarranted criticism of their kind host.
“I built this cabin all alone,” informed Wainwright proudly.
Donald’s eyes rested on the speaker. Wainwright wore a shooting-jacket and riding-breeches of excellent cut and of rare material, but now worn threadbare and neatly patched. Donald knew that those rents had been mended by a woman’s hands. Wainwright’s æsthetic face was impressive. The marks of toil could not hide the delicacy of his thin hands with their long, tapering fingers. The hands of a dreamer or poet, thought Donald, not the hands to wield an axe. A quick admiration for this man’s gameness filled his heart. “A good job,” he lied, as he surveyed the sagging roof and bulging walls.
“As good an authority as Hillier told me that it was excellent work,” stated their host rather boastfully.
“Bless old John’s heart!” thought Donald fervently.
It was plain that Connie had anticipated their staying for lunch, as the table was set—with tin plates and cups—for four. She drew a pan of hot rolls from the tiny oven, and, her face a deep red from the heat and her exertions, she sat down to the table, using a canned goods box as a seat. Donald noticed that the two chairs had been given up to the guests, and he arose at once to offer his seat. Andy, not to be outdone in gallantry, successfully prevailed on Connie to make the change.
“Bit shorter ever day,” he grinned as he sank to the box. At this Connie lowered her head, her shoulders shaking with merriment.