From complaints, the persecution passed to personal annoyances. Rob’s axe would be hidden, and he compelled to gather dry limbs to keep the fire going; one morning he found after the breakfast had been delayed and the bunk house filled with smoke, that the stovepipe had been filled with moss. At another time, his wool socks and felt boots disappeared, and he was compelled to go about all day in bare feet. Again, as he crawled into his bunk late one night, worn out, he found that the blanket and boughs had all been saturated with water, and he slept upon the hard floor in his overcoat.
At last, the ringleader in the meanness, John Dolve, a big Swede, coming in at night and not finding supper upon the table, although it was not yet time, declared he would fix it so that the boss would have to get another cook.
“Come on, boys,” he cried, “he’s too fresh. Let’s put him in pickle.” With the help of two or three of the others, he lifted the struggling lad and forced him down into one of the big barrels half filled with brine, from which the meat had been taken, and fastened on the cover. The rough men roared with laughter over the “good joke on the cook,” but the result might have been altogether serious had not Mr. Jackson opportunely arrived. With face gone white, as they explained the situation to him, he thrust the men right and left, and liberated the poor boy.
“Now, Rob,” said he, as he fitted the boy out in some of his own warm, dry clothing, “just keep yourself quiet; that’s the best way. Mr. Medford is due to be back from below and when he comes there will be a change in this camp for good.”
But Robert had not yet found that source of inner strength which kept the teamster undisturbed in the midst of fiery trial. The boy had reached the limit of human endurance. He kept his own counsel, but determined to submit no longer to such indignities. He would start for home that very night. That the way lay an hundred miles through what was practically a wilderness, mattered not. No fear of hunger nor cold, nor death itself, should keep him in the camp one day longer.
Mr. Medford, urging on his team the next day, in order to reach camp in good season, caught sight of a figure staggering along the tote road in the distance. At first he took it to be an Indian, but as he drew nearer there was something that appeared familiar about the person. What was his surprise as he came close, to discover that the traveler was Rob.
The lad was so nearly exhausted that he could scarcely speak, yet he endeavored to resist, as Mr. Medford, springing to him where he had sunk down in the snow, picked him up in his arms and placed him in the sleigh. More from what he guessed, than what he was able to get from Rob, did he get an idea of what had occurred.
“Now, young fellow,” said he, “we’re going back; it’s the only thing to do. You’ve good stuff in you, although the battle has been a severe one, and now I’ll see about bringing up the reserves.”
With the first out-going tote team went the brutal Dolve and two of his companions, and soon there came a change in the atmosphere of the camp, and the attitude of the men toward the cook was as friendly and appreciative as formerly it had been unjust and cruel.
Rob made good in his work, and the hearty commendation of Mr. Medford was as precious balm to heal his wounded spirit. When the four months were passed, and the camp broke up for the spring, the heart of the lad glowed with pleasure as Mr. Medford, handing him a check for two hundred dollars, said, “The extra is because you’ve been a extra good cook. If you’ll agree, I’ll sign you now for next winter at sixty-five dollars.”