Lost in the backwoods

by E. C. Kenyon

The young men therefore refused to trade with them until they had refreshed themselves, as they called it, with a little beer. After that they easily persuaded the Indians to part with their goods for the most trifling sum, in some cases for only another glass, or perhaps two, of beer.

Cyril looked on in amazement. Would no one interfere? Were these men who were trading on the folly and sin of a few poor women?

"Oh! Davidson, see," cried Cyril, "that fellow, Jem, is trying to get one of their ponies now! That poor woman will be quite ruined! Just look at her."

Davidson had no objection to looking; but "I can't interfere," said he slowly. "It's a shame, though I can't help it."

Cyril's colour rose. If no one would venture to interfere—well, he must do it himself. Davidson, glancing at him, read his thought, and laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder.

"You mustn't speak," he said. "The man wouldn't stand it—least of all from a little fellow like you."

Cyril's eyes flashed. "I may be small," said he, "but right is right, and must—must triumph," and he ran forward, crying out aloud, "Stop! Stop! Stop! You're not acting fairly!"

Half an hour later, when Cyril lay on his hard, straw mattress in his little bedroom, aching and sore all over from the rough treatment he had met with, he did not think the right had triumphed at all, and he sobbed his heart out there in his loneliness and despair.

The men would not brook interference. What their master and old Davidson dare not attempt the boy, armed only with his consciousness of right, had ventured upon doing. The consequences were grievous to himself, and might have been fatal if it had not been for the Davidsons, aided by their master, who suddenly opened his office door for them to rush into with the boy. There were no police within many miles of the lonely saw-mill. The master ruled alone over the lawless roughs who, in a great measure, composed his staff.

The occurrence of that morning made Mr. Ellison see that the saw-mill was not a safe home for such a boy as Cyril. He began to think of plans for sending him back to England. Unfortunately, however, the sky was already black with threatening snow-storms; the weather would probably be such that it would be impossible to take Cyril thirty miles to the nearest station. And then, he had been so cuffed and knocked about by the men, it was most likely that he would be ill.