That much there had been on that October night when the scouts first occupied the cabin; otherwise one would have scarcely have recognized it as the same place. Another pair of bunks had been added to match the first. Over the fireplace hung a fine moosehead beautifully mounted, and here and there above the windows or on the walls were other horns of elk, caribou or deer. There were several bear skins on the floor, shelves containing tinware and dishes, several big, comfortable armchairs, a heavy table piled with packages and boxes. And hanging from the rafters, or festooned about the antlers or along the walls, thick ropes of hemlock mingled with glossy mountain laurel lent a festive note to the picture and filled the room with the pungent fragrance of Christmastide.
It was a picture to stir the imagination of any boy, old or young, and John Farren was stirred deeply. In that instant as he stared around, there came to him a vivid memory of the hunter’s shack on the Pacific slope which he had found and renovated with such pride in those boyhood days which now seemed so remote and far away. Swift on the heels of this, there flashed over him in one queer mental medley, the thought of home, of Christmas trees, of his mother’s smiling face, his little sister’s shrill, sweet laugh. And mixed up with those fleeting brain pictures, were vague, blurred visions of skates and toys and candy—even of stockings hung before another fire whose ashes had been cold a thousand years.
He blinked—and was back in the present again, the boys clustered around him, the real fire hot against his face. “It’s great, fellows—simply great!” he said in a voice which was not quite steady. “I never saw anything so corking as—”
He paused, his gaze fixed incredulously on the rough oak slab which formed the mantel. A long, black stocking hung there, bulging, distended, and for a moment he thought his brain was playing tricks. Then someone behind him snickered and Cavanaugh gave him a gentle forward push.
“Santa Claus was here and left that with your name on it, Jack,” he chuckled. “Better take a look at it. The kids are itching to see what’s in it.”
Amidst a laughing chorus of denial from the youngsters, Farren stepped quickly forward. The stocking was very real and solid to the touch, bulging along its length with mysterious, suggestive bumps and corners. Pinned to the top was a card on which was written in painstaking script: “J. Farren; Merry Christmas.” Farren read it slowly; then he laughed—a sudden, bubbling, infectious laugh, and faced around, the stocking in his hands.
“He’s a great old scout, isn’t he?” he chuckled. “Think of his knowing I was going to be here when I didn’t even know it myself! He must have had some silent partners about. Where’s a chair? I’ve got to sit down and take this slowly. I haven’t had a Christmas stocking for goodness knows how long.”
He dragged one of the big chairs up to the table and with the boys crowding around, he began to empty the stocking. It was crammed with parcels of various sizes, some neatly tied in tissue with red ribbons, others showing the work of clumsy fingers in their rumpled, wrinkled wrappings. But each separate one, as its contents was revealed, bore evidence in some way of painstaking thought, of kindness, even of sacrifice. There was a jack-knife, new and shining in its chamois case, a money belt, a leather covered shaving glass. There were packets of writing paper, some handkerchiefs, soap, chocolate, a box of cigarettes, besides many other articles of utility or luxury. As he opened them, Farren kept up a brisk running fire of comment and approval, but when they all lay spread before him, he sat motionless for a moment, his head a little bent.
“This is corking of you, fellows—simply corking,” he said presently in a low tone. “It’s the nicest thing that ever happened to me, and I—I won’t forget it in a hurry.” He raised his head and flashed about the circle a smile of gratitude and appreciation. “I can’t say any more than—thank you; but I mean that a thousand times, and I want to shake hands with every one of you.”
He stood up abruptly, releasing the slight touch of embarrassment which, for just an instant, had held them silent. When the handshakings were over the cabin resounded again with a babel of talk and laughter, which presently merged into the bustle of preparation, for it appeared that a regular Christmas dinner was to be cooked and served.