“But he hadn’t got a guardian—I found that out before I started. He was fooling you. It’s a—”
Paula’s written consent was laid before his eyes.
“The lady took out papers of guardianship, and so her consent was valid.”
“Adopted him? Adopted him and then married him! The little cuss! Adopted him, by golly! Oh, why wasn’t she a boy? Oh, well, I guess it’s all right. Adopted him! And I never thought of that!”
THE HONOR OF THE WOODS
Anonymous
The principal character of this story is John Norton, an aged trapper and scout in the Adirondacks, who is adored by the people for his bravery and courage. And although he has not rowed in a race for over forty years, he has decided to enter a free for all contest, to be pulled on the Saranac. He does this, because guides have brought him word that “perfessionals” are to pull. And he thinks it would be an “eternal shame if them city boasters beat the men born in the woods and on their own waters too.” Another important character in our story is a young boy, of whom John Norton always speaks as “the Lad,” a good-hearted, simple-minded boy, whom the trapper has befriended and who worships the old man. At the hotel all is expectation. A great crowd has gathered in anticipation of the morrow’s races, for the guides had brought word that “Old John Norton was not only coming, but that he was going to enter the race.” The thought that they were going to see this celebrated man stirred the people with a feeling of intense curiosity.
In the crowd were several aged men who remembered the fame the trapper had as an oarsman fifty years ago. And one of their number closed a heated verbal debate about the merits of the various contestants with, “I tell you, sir, there ain’t a man on God’s green earth kin beat John Norton at the oars.” On the other hand the professionals had their backers—college boys, English tourists, lawyers, clergymen, and bankers. Thus stood the feeling when a boat, with the Lad at the oar and the trapper at the paddle, came out from behind an island into plain view of the hundreds that were watching for it. As the boat came on talking ceased, and amid a profound silence it drew up within fifty feet of the landing. Suddenly an old man leaning on a stout stick flourished it in the air, and exclaimed in a voice that shook with the intensity of his emotion, “John Norton, he saved my life at the battle of Salt Lakes forty years ago. Three cheers for John Norton!” Then such a cheer arose as to burst the stillness into fragments and, thrice repeated, rolled its roar across the lake and against the distant hills, until their hollow caverns resounded again, while on the instant a hundred white handkerchiefs, waved by whiter hands, sprang into sight and filled the air with their snowy flutterings. For one instant the color came and went in the face of the surprised trapper. He then arose and stood at his utmost height. Meanwhile the eyes of the great multitude had time to take in his splendid proportions, and the grave majesty of his countenance. He then settled back and the boat moved toward the landing. It was high noon on the Saranac, and a brighter day was never seen. The lake had not stirred a ripple, and the air was that cool, fragrant air so good to breathe in a race. The “free for all” was to be pulled at one o’clock. The entries were closed the evening before, and stood seven in all: the three professionals, the brother guides, known as Fred and Charley, the old trapper and the Lad.
The boats were already in position. The course ran straight down the lake to a line of seven buoys, so that each boat had its own buoy to turn around and thence pull back again. The length of the course was just four miles, a longer race by half than was ever before pulled on those waters. The boats were by no means the same length and width—the Lad’s was by far the heaviest.