The door opened to disclose a remarkable figure framed in the entrance. Andy stood before them in the most ridiculous make-up of a butler. An old black coat of Gillis’s, cut off at the sides to form a “claw-hammer,” hung loosely over his narrow shoulders; side-whiskers of tree moss were stuck to his cheeks, and his face was as stolid as a graven image.
“Dinner is now being served in the main dining-’all, me lord,” he intoned slowly.
They applauded Andy’s effort heartily, and as they laughingly entered the cabin a scene met their eyes that was remarkably incongruous amid such drab surroundings.
A snow-white cloth covered the rough board table. A huge turkey, with bulging breast browned to a crispness, graced the centre of the board. Oysters in the shell, celery, salads, several kinds of vegetables, pies, cookies and fancy cheeses were in tempting abundance; and in a place of honour near the turkey reposed Andy’s birthday cake, its frosted surface covered with tiny candles.
Connie’s blue eyes opened wide with wonder. “Oh, Dad!” she cried joyously, “it’s just like stories, isn’t it?”
John tossed his hat to the floor in the corner. “You can deliver the goods, ol’ timer, sure enough,” he commended in a tone of respect.
It was an odd party that gathered in the log hut in the wilderness to celebrate Andy’s birthday—a wilderness whose silence was soon to be broken by the crash of trees and the clang of steel. A late blast, so near that the cabin trembled, caused the old trapper to shiver slightly.
“Trains will soon be running through your backyard, John,” observed Douglas.
The old man shook his head sadly. “Yes,” he concurred, “an’ I’ll hev’ to be hittin’ the trail agin before long.”
Andy’s banquet proceeded merrily, and when the last course was finished Donald took a bundle from the shelf and placed it in Connie’s hands. “Something I brought from town for you,” he smiled.