“My trouble is all on account of this wooden leg,” Mr. McCarthy explained. “I saved her mother's life in a runaway an' got my ankle smashed. She took care o' me when I was laid up, and told me to study an' improve my mind and be a gentleman. I fell in love with her, and I'm getting along. But my gentleman has begun to crush the life out o' Pegleg McCarthy. He's killed my best hope, for he won't let me ask her to marry me. She's a wonderful nice girl, and belongs to a good family. But here's my wooden leg, and it comes o' my tryin' to save her mother. She might think she had ought to accept me whether she cares for me or not. She's just that kind of a girl. Do you think it's fair for me to ask her? I don't.”
Pearl and I rested the paddles. Our playful spirit had gone out of us in a jiffy.
“By the great horn spoon!” Pearl exclaimed. “Me being a gentleman, what can I do?” Mr. McCarthy inquired.
“Well, first you go to New York an' get yourself a decent leg, if you can afford it,” said the Pearl of great price. “There's a man by the name o' Marks made a leg for a friend o' mine. He wears a shoe an' walks as well as ever. Ye wouldn't know that he had a wooden leg. It's a case o' wood an' wouldn't.”
“That's a good idea,” said Mr. McCarthy. “Then you can tell her that you're really better off than you was before the accident—that you've only half the liability to pains in the feet. Go to work an' pile up some money, an' show her that nobody has any license to be sorry for you. Maybe you'll see your chance by-an'-by.”
“I believe that I'm going to be a rich man,” said Mr. McCarthy. “I kind o' feel it in my bones.”
“My bones are beginnin' to talk to me,” said the Pearl, as he moved in his seat a little. “We must begin to look for a camping-place.”
The sun had gone down, and glowing bars of cloud were drifting over the west. Their reflection made a long, golden raft in the ripples.
The raft seemed to break as I was looking, and its timber floated far and wide into dusky coves and marshes, and some of it went leaping through rapids half a mile below. As we rode along in the still twilight, Mr. Pearl sang an old ballad in a voice of remarkable power and sweetness. Well, the river and the shadows and the sky sang with him, as I am well aware, but no music ever got so deep in me as that did.
We got out on a pebble beach. There were grassy shores, close-cropped by cattle, near us, and a hard-wood grove. The Pearl began to put up his tent, while we gathered a bit of wood for a fire, and spread our supper on a big napkin. When we had eaten, Mr. Pearl removed his coat and vest from a carpet-bag. He spread the coat over his shoulders, but hung the vest on a stick, which he had driven into the ground beside him. He had turned it inside out, so that two medals, pinned to its lining, could be seen in the firelight. “What are they?” Mr. McCarthy asked. “Medals of honor.” The Pearl spoke carelessly as he was filling his pipe.