The Pirate of Jasper Peak

by Cornelia Meigs

Very carefully he carried his prize back to the house, slipping and stumbling on the wet path, but taking the greatest care that not a drop should be spilled. He felt prouder of having milked Hulda without assistance than of anything he had ever before achieved; he did wish that Oscar would come home to see. He stood a minute by the cabin door, trying with vain eyes to peer through the darkness. Nothing was visible, hardly even the hand he held before his face, nothing would pierce that heavy blackness but the rushing of the flooded stream and the calling of the wind. With a great sigh he turned at last, fumbled for the latch of the door and stepped inside.

The fire had burned up during his absence, making the room look warm and cozy, a welcome sight after the storm and rain without. He lit the lamp upon the table, then looked up uneasily at the clock on the wall. Its hands pointed to nine. He carried the lamp to the window, drew back the curtains and set it on the sill.

“I wish Oscar would come,” he said aloud.

So busy had he been that he had not had his supper yet. His unaccustomed hands and his great hunger both served to make the process a lengthy one, so that when he had finished and set things in order again, it was nearly eleven. To tell the truth, he had kept himself occupied as long as he could in an effort to ignore the fact that the storm, bad as it had been all day, was growing worse. Rain thundered on the roof of the cabin with a noise that was almost deafening, paused a moment, then came pouring down again. The windows shook and the lamp flared and flickered in the sudden gusts that seemed to be trying to snatch the little dwelling from its foundations. Once during a momentary pause in the tumult he heard the sharp crack and then the slow crashing of a tree blown down in the forest. How could a storm be so terrible and still grow ever worse? Oh, why did not Oscar come home?

He built up the dying fire and established himself in the rough armchair to wait. He blinked up at the clock; it was midnight now. In spite of his discomfort, in spite of all his anxiety and his determination to keep awake, he fell into a doze.

A sound aroused him, he had no idea just how much later. It was a strange noise at the door, one that at first made him think that here was Oscar come home at last. He jumped up and ran eagerly to admit him, but stopped with his hand almost upon the latch. It was not Oscar, it was no human being that was making that panting sound outside, that pushing and shouldering of some huge body against the door. His heart seemed to stand still as he waited for a second, watching the rude boards shake and tremble under the impact of that strange pressure. Something sniffed and snuffled along the crack at the threshold, something padded back and forth out there in the dark, then the soft fumbling and shouldering began again.

“If I push the table across the door—” thought Hugh, but the idea came a second too late.

The latch suddenly gave way, the door flew open, letting in a blast of wind and rain and blowing out the lamp, so that the cabin was left in inky darkness. A vast white form sprang into the room, knocking Hugh into a corner, striking against a chair and upsetting it with a crash. Then there was utter silence, broken only by a quick panting over by the inner doorway where the invading creature must be standing.

With a great effort Hugh managed to close the door against the fury of the wind. Still there was quiet, no movement from that corner whence the quick breathing came. Very slowly he took up the lamp, managed to steady his shaking hand and fumble for a match. He set the lamp on the table, lit the wick and turned the light full upon his strange visitor. Even when he saw the creature clearly he could not, for a moment, grasp what it really was. It was a dog, but such an enormous dog as Hugh had never seen before. Its shaggy coat was white, and so wet with the rain that water dripped from it and ran pattering to the floor. Motionless, it stood there, still panting from the effort of forcing its way in, and gazing steadily at Hugh with its great melancholy black eyes. He had never seen such an animal before, still there was something familiar—yes, he could have no doubt. It was the dog of the picture, Dick Edmonds’ dog, it was Nicholas!

The two stood long, staring at each other without moving, then the dog advanced very slowly and began sniffing delicately at the edge of Hugh’s coat. For all his size, he seemed to be shy and nervous, jumping back when the boy sought to lay a hand on his long head, advancing again when he was not looking to sniff at his clothes again and determine whether this was friend or foe. All his dignity disappeared, however, when Hugh brought some food and set it upon the hearth before him. He fell upon it with wolfish ferocity, as though he had not eaten a full meal in weeks. He tore at the meat, crunched the bones and looked gratefully up at Hugh from time to time, wagging his long brush of a tail that swept the floor. But he did not eat all the food, ravenous as he seemed to be. When the first edge of his starvation was dulled, when the warmth of the fire had dried and warmed him so that he ceased to shiver, he stopped eating, went to the door and whined to be gone.