“You’re sweet on that kid,” said Nettlebeck, with borrowed sarcasm. “It’s about the only soft spot you’ve got. But if you make him sick again on cocoanut-cake, and his father finds it out, he’ll be packed off, I give you that.”
“Who is that father of his, anyhow?” Christina never argued when she was sure of defeat; and having sat up all night with Fessenden—who had stolen the greater part of the cake—she was not prepared to face the enemy. “I don’t believe he’s as poor as he makes out. The mortgage is paid off this farm, I happen to know—”
“And you’re insinuatin’ that your two brothers ain’t hard-workin’ enough to pay it off theirselves!” cried Nettlebeck, bringing his fist down on the table with such violence that Christina’s pile of clean plates rattled, and she gave a wholly feminine shriek. “If you ever insult me like that again I’ll git a wife, and how’ll you like that?”
This threat never failed to subdue Christina, for although she shrewdly guessed that no girl within a radius of a hundred miles had the courage to become her sister-in-law, she knew that a desperate man might make a pilgrimage to some distant town which her fame had not penetrated. She sniffed, muttered something about not being minded to insult her own family, whatever she might think of folks in general, and carried off her dishes to their shelves.
“Mr. Abbott,” resumed Nettlebeck, having given his wrath such time to cool as a female could expect, “is a generous and self-sacrificin’ father, and he just worships that kid; he’d wear one suit of clothes a year to give him what he needed, and of course keep don’t cost much up here. As for this here Morris, he’s spent all his money on books and furniture, thinkin’ he was goin’ to be a college professor. Mr. Abbott must have got him cheap. And the little we git from the old man’s regular. Just you remember that.”
“I ain’t forgettin’. Nobody asked you to make excuses for Mr. Abbott bein’ alive. I s’pose he ain’t payin’ fur that canoe, either.”
“That there canoe is a second-handed one, and I got it dirt cheap. Mr. Abbott consulted me about it when he was here last, and asked me to do the best I could, as he’d like the kid to have a canoe if one could be got inside his means. But Fess ain’t to know it’s here till his birthday comes round; so mind your own business till the ice goes out, if you can.” And Mr. Nettlebeck slouched off to join his brother in the barn and avoid further questions.
“I ain’t no fool,” confided Christina to herself, as she “covered” her fire. “But I know which side my bread’s buttered on, and the young un’ll git no hint from me. Then when our share in raisin’ him is over, there’ll be a big present all-round, or my name ain’t Christina Nettlebeck. There’s been too many campers in these woods in my time, and I know a rich man and a gentleman when I see one. Mr. Abbott was the worst-lookin’ tramp in the woods I ever saw, and that’s a sure sign. It’s lucky, though, the kid’s what he is, for I couldn’t stand a hateful brat, nohow.”
IV
Like all invalids, Morris had little affection for any one but himself, but what he lacked in human sympathy he atoned for in courtesy of manner and nicety of conscience. He instructed Fessenden until that restless youngster besought Nettlebeck to find him many “chores.” But Fessenden was still too small to chop down trees, to plough ice, or to saw wood, and there is little other work in the mountains in winter. There was no alternative but to accommodate himself to his new condition, and brace his endurance by repeating his father’s advice and attempting to understand it. At the end of the long winter he was studying hard and fighting less. Now that he did not recite on the neighboring farm, there was no one to fight with, except on such rare occasions as when a boy came to borrow of Christina after some culinary disaster at home or some unexpected shortage at the mountain “store.” Fessenden, no matter how deep in study, seemed to scent the messenger from afar, and was standing in the middle of the slippery road, his muscles bunched, his eye glaring like a tiger’s, when his expectant foe, uttering a hideous war-whoop, flung his bag into a snowdrift and hurled himself upon the champion. Upon these occasions, Dolf, the younger of the Nettlebeck brothers, always dropped his work and encouraged the sport. When it was over, no matter what the issue, Christina invariably cuffed Fessenden, then made him a cake; and gentle old Mrs. Nettlebeck wept profusely as she sponged him off, convinced that it would yet be her mournful duty to lay him out. Her own sons had the peaceful blood of the German peasant in them, and this enterprising American lad was a dear and perpetual mystery. Upon one occasion, when he looked like a blind puppy, and study was out of the question for two days, Morris improved the occasion in the interest of reform.