All this went through Sam's curly head as he mended the fire in the stove, brought in wood, and then went over to the next neighbor's after Mary Ann, his sister, two years younger than he, who had gone out to take tea. Teddy, the baby of the family, was asleep long ago. Mrs. Putnam still sat by the fire knitting when the children came back, rosy, cold, and laughing.
"Oh, mother, it's awfully cold," said the girl. "I'm so sorry father's gone 'way out to Accomac!"
"Mother," said Sam, "Joe Allen says when he was down to Haverhill last year he saw a man driving stage who had a big coat on all made of fox-skins: wouldn't that be perfectly splendid for father?"
"Yes, indeed, Sam. My father had one; he gave it to Uncle John when he got command of that whaler I've told you about, the Emmeline."
"I wish he hadn't," said Sam. "It's down at the bottom of the sea now; and if you'd had it, just think how warm father might have been!"
"No 'ifs,' Sam; you know we don't allow that little word here."
Sam laughed, and went after his old tin pail of butternuts, and the hammer and stone; but while he cracked them he was thinking very hard indeed, and inside his curly head a plan blossomed which in due time fruited. The little village of Ponds, on whose edge Dr. Putnam's homestead and small farm stood, was nestled in the very heart of the New Hampshire hills. Five miles off a railway ran from the mountains to the sea-board, and there was a station nominally belonging to the town of Sabatis, which lay at least a mile and a half beyond. Ponds, however, was so shut in by the hills that nobody would have suspected a railway near it, except when the south wind brought a shriek of the whistle now and then. North of it lay higher hills, and real mountains miles away, while long stretches of wild forest harbored bears, foxes, even now and then a wild-cat, sometimes a deer, and plenty of smaller game.
Sam had been learning to shoot this summer that was just past, and had become a fair shot. More than one partridge had helped out the meals at home, and many a rabbit pie, for he was skillful also at snaring; but he had never tried his hand at larger game. Now, he thought, if only he could kill foxes enough, his father might have a coat. It is true, he had no hound, and he really did not like to go alone fox-hunting; for although he was no coward, the hills were full of precipices, and the woods of windfalls, where, if his gun should accidentally go off and injure him, or his foot slip on a dangerous edge, he might lie till death came without possible help; and his father had taught him long ago the difference between courage and recklessness—taught him that no man has a right to throw away his life or carelessly risk it. Sam had the best sort of courage, that which is considerate and calm.
But when he had thought over the matter till he fell asleep, and woke up still busy with it, the dawn seemed to have brought counsel: he remembered old Peter Dupont, a Canadian coal-burner, who lived in a shanty half way up Pine Hill, had a pair of fine hounds, and was said to be one of the best hunters about the village. Sam knew him very well; he had gone up to the shanty many a time with medicine from his father when Pete lay sick with a fever, and he had carried gruel and custard and beef tea from his mother as the old man grew better. It was from him Sam had learned all his tricks of woodcraft, and he remembered now how many fox-skins he had seen nailed against the outside of the little shed—skins that Pete sold at Sabatis when he was out of a coal job, and thereby provided himself with many a bag of meal and kit of salt pork.
But Sam must get his mother's consent before he could go hunting with Peter, and it took much coaxing, and many representations of how much his father would enjoy such a coat, to induce her to set aside her fears, and say yes to his repeated prayers. It was harder for her, because both she and Sam did not wish to have the Doctor know anything about it till the success came—if ever it did.