Busy with these thoughts and others like them he sped across the meadow and through the woods toward the river. He was not content to walk the distance but like a child leaped and ran with an impatience not to be curbed. Soon he came within sight of the shack which stood at the water's edge, mid-way between Aldercliffe and Pine Lea, and was sheltered from view by a grove of thick pines. Its bare, boarded walls had silvered from exposure to the weather until it was scarcely noticeable against the gray tree trunks. Nevertheless, its crude, rough sides, its staring windows, and its tarred roof looked cheerless and deserted enough. But for Ted Turner it possessed none of these forbidding qualities. Instead of being a hermitage it seemed a paradise, a fairy kingdom, the castle of a knight's tale!
Thrusting the key which Mr. Wharton had given him into the padlock, he rolled open the sliding door and intermingled odors of cedar, tar, and paint greeted him. The room was of good size and was neatly sheathed as an evident preparation for receiving a finish of stain which, however, had never been put on. There were four large windows closed in by lights of glass, a rough board floor, and a fireplace of field stone. Everywhere was dirt, cobwebs, sawdust, and shavings; and scattered about so closely there was scarcely space to step was a litter of nails, fragments of boards, and a conglomeration of tin cans of various sizes.
Almost any one who beheld the chaos would have turned away discouraged. But not so Ted! The disorder was of no consequence in his eyes. Through all its dinginess and confusion he saw that the roof was tight, the windows whole, and the interior quite capable of being swept out, scrubbed and put in order. That was all he wanted to know. Why, the place could be made into a little heaven! Already he could see it transformed into a dwelling of the utmost comfort. He had remodelled many a worse spot,—the barn loft in Vermont, for example, and made it habitable. One had only to secure a table, a chair or two, build a bunk and get a mattress, and the trick was turned.
How proud he should be to have such a dwelling for his own!
He could hardly restrain himself from rolling up his sleeves and going to work then and there. Fearing, however, that Mr. Wharton might be awaiting his report, he reluctantly closed the door again, turned the key in it, and hurried back to the manager's office.
"Well," inquired the elder man, spinning around in his desk chair as the boy entered and noting the glow in the youthful face, "how did you find things at the shack? Any hope in the place?"
"Hope!" repeated Ted. "Why, sir, the house is corking! Of course, it is dirty now but I could clean it up and put it in bully shape. All I'd need would be to build a bunk, get a few pieces of furniture, and the place would be cosy as anything. If you'll say the word, I'll start right in to-night after work and——"
"Why wait until to-night?" came drily from the manager.
"Why—er—I thought perhaps—you see there is the corn——"
"Never mind the corn," Mr. Wharton interrupted.