“When you want that tree felled, send for old Lundquist back on Nigger Head. He’s the man you want,” I growled, jerking my thumb over my shoulder.
By the time I reached Cedar Dale, I was overcome with chagrin and remorse at my uncouth behavior. The more so, when on dismounting I turned Buttons over to Joey’s eager hands; for in the saddle-bag Joey discovered a small flat parcel addressed: “To the boy who goes to Sunday School.” The parcel contained peppermints of a kind Joey had never encountered before, and a gaily striped Windsor tie between the leaves of a book of rhymes.
Each night after that I climbed Nigger Head and lay on my ledge of basaltic rock and watched the light down on Hidden Lake. Each time the wind came up in the night, I turned uneasily on my pillow and thought of Haidee alone in that ramshackle cabin. And I worried not a little over that white fir that towered there, sentinel like, but menacing her safety.
Joey surprised me one day with the information that he had been to Hidden Lake.
“I took Jingles—the collie. Jingles carried the basket,” he added.
“What basket?” I asked sharply, looking up from the flute I was making for Joey out of a bit of elder.
“The basket with the strawberries.”
I knew of course they were berries from my vines, that were unusually flourishing for that season of the year, but I continued:
“What strawberries, Joey?”
Joey’s honest eyes never wavered. He smiled at me, pursed his lips, and attempted a whistle.