The rough men had made a pet of the laughing, blue-eyed little girl, and they missed her. She had slipped into their lives so quietly that they did not realize how much they looked forward to seeing her at the end of the day. And Barbara returned their love. A mining camp is hardly the place for a child, but Barbara’s father was dead, and her mother became the cook at the Little Bear Mine.
After supper the men sat in a grave, silent circle before the great open fireplace. There seemed to be nothing to talk about. Other evenings these big, rough men had had Barbara to romp with, all except Gloomy Gus.
But then Gloomy Gus never showed any interest in anything. He was a big, gruff Swede, whose name appeared on the company’s books as Gustavus Schwarstun. To the men, however, he was “Gloomy Gus.”
“This will give me a chance to finish her snowshoes,” the Canadian finally said, with an assumed air of gayety. “Christmas is almost here.”
He went to the bunk room and returned with a pair of small snowshoes he was making.
Every one of the men was making Barbara a present—every one but Gloomy Gus. McGill eyed him sharply.
The big Swede did something which at another time would have met with a roar of laughter; but not a man smiled when he pulled a ball of red yarn and a half-knitted mitten out of his pocket.
“I learned how to do it in the old country,” he said as he busied his rough, calloused fingers with the crude pine knitting needles he had made. He had unraveled the sleeve of a new red sweater to get the yarn he needed.
The men found it hard to work that evening, and trooped off to their bunks earlier than usual.
McGill remained. He went down the hall to Mrs. St. Clair’s room, where a light was still burning, and tapped gently.