“Why, what’s all this?”cried the former, as the driver pulled up on the far side of the bridge. “Where does all this water come from?”
Then did the pent-up excitement of the past week burst forth. The flood of water going under the bridge was a trifle compared with the flood of words we poured out upon my bewildered parents; both of us talking at the same time, interrupting each other at every turn, explaining each other’s explanations, and tumbling over each other, as it were, in our eagerness. All the details of the strenuous days since the snow-slide came down—the discovery of the Big Reuben, the recovery of the stolen ore, and above all the heading-off of the underground stream—were set forth with breathless volubility; so that if the hearers were a little dazed by the recital and a trifle confused as to the particulars, it was not to be wondered at. One thing, at least, was clear to them: we had found and turned the underground stream; and when he understood that, my father leaped from the wagon, and shaking hands with both of us at once, he cried:
“Boys, you certainly have done a stroke of work! If it had taken you a year instead of a week it would have been more than worth the labor. As to its actual money value, it is hard to judge yet; but whether that shall turn out to be much or little, there is one thing sure:—we have our work cut out for us for years to come—a grand thing by itself for all of us. And now, let us go on up to the house: Sam Tobin wants to get back home as soon as possible.”
This the driver was able to do at once, for the livery horses, frightened by the water which came spurting up through the floor of the bridge, declined to cross, so Joe and I, taking out the trunk, placed it on the wood-sled and thus drew it up to the house.
As we walked along, my mother said:
“So the hermit has been staying with you, has he? And what sort of a man is your wild man now you’ve caught him?”
“He isn’t a wild man at all,”cried Joe, somewhat indignantly. “He’s a fine fellow—isn’t he, Phil? He has been of great help to us these last few days. We could never have finished our trench in time if he hadn’t taken the chores off our hands. He is in the kitchen now, getting the supper ready. I’ll run and bring him out.”
So saying, Joe ran forward—we others walking on more leisurely—and as we approached the house the pair came out of the front door side by side.
In spite of Joe’s assurance to the contrary, my parents still had in their minds the idea that any one going by the name of “Peter, the Hermit”must be a rough, hirsute, unkempt specimen of humanity. Great was their surprise, therefore, when Peter, always clean and tidy, his hair and beard neatly trimmed in honor of their return, issued from the doorway, looking, with his clear gray eyes, his ruddy complexion and his spare, erect figure, remarkably young and alert.