“Misther Thompson, ye ould nigger-stealer, will ye tind yer own affairs. I know what I’m doin’. Go awn, boys.” But no more marks were changed while Mr. Thompson stayed.
“Well, boys,” said Uncle Henry, “it’s no use for us to get into a fight with that mob. I’m too old now, and you are too young.”
“Uncle Henry,” spoke up Rob, “How much nearer is it to Necedah by the woods trail than by the prairie road?”
“A matter of four miles,” replied Mr. Thompson; “but there is no crossing at Little Yellow.”
“But I can swim it, even if the water is cold. Four from sixteen miles leaves but twelve, and I believe I can make it with the ‘long trot’ in two hours. We’ve just got to get Mr. Fitts here. Those logs that Larry Phelan is rolling into the river are his.”
“Good, lad! I believe you can do it. The roads are something fearful, but if old man Fitts learns that Larry Phelan is stealing his timber, he’ll drive his buckskins here if he has to swim ’em through the mud half way and run ’em over stumps the other half.”
There remained yet two hours of daylight as Rob swung into the forest trail on the long trot his Indian friend Kalichigoogah had taught him. Little Yellow was reached, and in spite of the numbing cold of the water, was safely crossed, the lad swimming with one hand, while he held the bundle of his clothes high and dry in the other. Then on he sped in the long race of eight more miles.
The sun had been down for half an hour when the gruff old lumberman opened his door at Rob’s knock. “Well, an’ what do ye want? We don’t feed tramps here. What! What’s that ye say! My logs—an’ ’tis that blackguard gambler Larry Phelan puttin’ his brand on ’em and bankin’ ’em!” And, to tell the truth, the language of the old man was as explosive as had been that of Larry himself.
“Jim, put the buckskins to the light ‘democrat.’ But lad, you’re hungry an’ tired. Come in, come in an’ have a snack. Ran it in two-thirty, did ye? An’ swam the river! Well, well! But we’ll tend to the rascal this night.”
However, as the old man cooled down, the needlessness of a night ride over the waste of ruined roads and flood-piled debris convinced him of the wisdom of waiting until the light of day to make the journey. By the time the birds were fairly awake, Mr. Fitts and Rob were well upon their way, and Rob had broached the matter of securing the job of hauling the logs into the river. The old man turned his keen eyes upon the boy. “An’ what would ye do with all the money if ye got the job? College! What for would a likely lad with good sense and good arms fool away his time in college? Humph! Well, we’ll see.”