HIS LITTLE WORLD
The Story of Hunch Badeau
By Samuel Merwin
Illustrated by Alonzo Kimball
New York: A. S. Barnes & Company
1903
CONTENTS
[ CHAPTER IV—HUNCH'S WEDDING ]
[ CHAPTER VI—BRUCE CELEBRATES ]
[ CHAPTER VII—A LIGHT GOES OUT ]
[ CHAPTER VIII—SETTING A DAY ]
[ CHAPTER X—JIM BARTLETT CALLS ]
[ CHAPTER XII—HUNCH AND MAMIE ]
[ CHAPTER XIII—A DARK DAY AT LIDDINGTON ]
[ CHAPTER XIV—CONSIDINE'S WORK IS ENDED ]
[ CHAPTER XVI—POP-CORN BALLS ]
[ CHAPTER XVIII—THE HOUSE WITH THE SHINGLED FRONT ]
HIS LITTLE WORLD
CHAPTER I—THE MEETING
THE life-saving crew were giving an exhibition drill. A number of people, mostly women and children, were scattered about the beach (for since the failure of the lumber and salt, that had expanded Liddington into a city with four paved streets, the only important events were band concerts and crew drills). Four girls in white-and-pink dresses, which did not agree with their piled-up hats and fringed parasols, stood on the sand.
Hunch Badeau commanded a square-nosed lumber schooner, the Ed. C. Dean, which was just big enough to carry her two masts. He had come in that morning with a picked-up cargo of merchandise from Milwaukee, unloaded it, and now leaving Billy, the boy, in charge of the schooner, was lounging up the beach with Bruce Considine, who made up the rest of the crew. Hunch had been christened John, after a long line of John, and, earlier, Jean Badeau, the first of whom had probably appeared on the Lakes in a birch canoe. Hunch showed few traces of his ancestry, excepting his black hair and an easily aroused flash in his eyes. He was big, and he stooped a little, as if doorways and cabin ceilings were too low for him.
“There she is,” said Bruce, pointing toward the white-and-pink group. “That's her—the little one. She ain't bigger 'n a minute.”
Badeau looked critically at the group, then walked toward them.
“Hold on a minute, Hunch.”
“What for? Come along. I ain't seen a girl in weeks.”
“Don't go over yet. I ain't told her about you.”
“That's nothing. I guess she knows who I am.”
They stood near the girls, but fixed their eyes on the drill. After a moment, Bruce glanced around at the little girl. She threw him a smile, and he said, “Hello, Marne.”
“Her father's boss of the bridge gang on the Pere Marquette,” he confided to Badeau, who was edging closer to the group.
“Wonder if they're going to do the upset drill,” Badeau said, in a loud voice.
The girls giggled, and one said boldly, “Won't it be fun if they upset the boat?” After this sign of favor they blushed, Then for several minutes each party carried on a conversation intended for the ears of the other, meanwhile drawing nearer. At length Considine found himself at Mamie's side. Her elbow brushed against his.
“Who's your friend?” she asked. Considine stepped back, thus including Badeau in the group.
“Hunch Badeau,” he said, “shake hands with Marne Banks.”
Mamie introduced them to the other girls, who were still giggling. Then Badeau said to Mamie:
“Let's get over to the pier before the crowd gets all the good places.”
The party moved slowly toward the life-saving station, Considine walking behind with the other three girls, and trying to show his freedom from jealousy by jostling them playfully off the sidewalk.
It took Badeau and Mamie some time to get into a conversation. Then they talked about Considine.
“He's a fine fellow,” said Badeau. “Best man I ever had. Reg'lar as New Years.” This was not entirely true, but it seemed a nice thing to say. He saw that it pleased her, so he went on, with a wink, “You like him pretty well, don't you?”
“Oh, I don't know's I do.”
“Well, I guess he likes you, anyhow.”
“Oh, no, he don't.”
“How do you know he don't?”
“'Cause I don't care one way or t' other.”
“You don't, eh?”
“No, I don't.”
“Well, I guess there's lots of girls that does.”
“Oh, I s'pose he's all right.”
After a silence Mamie glanced shyly up at him.
“Say, you're a friend of his, ain't you? You won't tell him what I say?”
“Should say not!” said Badeau, feeling in advance a little embarrassed. Mamie poked at the sand with her parasol as they walked.
“Well—folks say he drinks.”
“Who says so?”
“Jess Bartlett's brother told Jess.” Badeau's eyes flashed.
“He's a dam' liar!”
“O—oh,” faltered Mamie.
There was a long silence. Then Badeau said, “Excuse me,” and looked out over the water with a scared face. The girls who had played a part in his life had not objected to profanity. When he had gathered enough courage to look again at her, there was an expression on her face that puzzled him. He did not know that he had pleased as well as startled her. Soon they were at the pier and were talking more easily. To sit by her, and to watch her bright eyes and her fresh coloring, pleased Hunch in a way that he did not try to understand. He had such a good time that he forgot Bruce, who was struggling to make conversation with the other girls. When at last he went back to the schooner, he was thoughtful. She seemed too good for Bruce.
In the afternoon Badeau took on a short cargo of hemlock cribbing, and worked laboriously out of the sand-locked harbor and through the channel between the long breakwaters. He could not afford a tug.
The next morning they lay at the wharf in Manitowoc. They ate their supper in silence, the three of them about the table in the dirty cabin. When they had finished, and Billy was cleaning up the dishes, Badeau lighted his pipe and stretched out in his bunk. Considine was changing his clothes.
“Where're you going?”
“There's a dance up at the hall.”
“You going?”
“Thought I might.”
“Say, Bruce, you got to quit drinking.”
“Who's drinking?”
“That's all right, you got to quit, right now. If you come back to-night with a drop aboard, I'll knock it out of you.”
Considine hurried out nervously.
From ten till two that night Badeau sat on the rail and scanned the road across the wharf. Billy was below asleep. It was a little after two when three figures came down the street, arm in arm, singing a song that could never be popular except in a lumber region. They stood on the wharf for a long time, hugging one another and shaking hands. Then one stumbled toward the schooner, calling out, “Goo' night! Goo' night!” He came slowly across the wharf. He knew from past experience the probability of a plunge overboard unless he aimed carefully at the schooner.
A dark figure sat on the rail.
“Goo' night,” said Considine. He skillfully lowered himself to the deck. “Say, ol' man, ain' mad, are you? Don' be mad.” He tried to touch Badeau's shoulder, but missed it. Hunch rose, gripped his arm, and jerked him clear of the deck. Considine fell on his back and looked up vaguely. Then Hunch hammered him until he showed signs of returning to his senses, and finished him off with a bucket of water. At last, Considine, limp and crushed, sat on the cabin roof and breathed remorse.
“That's all right,” said Hunch. “Told you I'd knock it out of you, and I'll do it again, too. This is where you quit drinking. Understand?” And he knocked him down the gangway, and sat out on the deck for a long time alone. He was thinking, not of Bruce, but of the girl with the blue eyes, who was startled when he swore.
CHAPTER II—ON THE BEACH
AT Manitowoc they picked up a load of laths and shingles, consigned to Grand Haven, and from there they went down to St. Joe, so that it was nearly a week before they returned to Liddington. During this time Bruce slunk about, working hard and drinking water.
On Saturday they lay ten miles off Liddington in a hazy calm. Billy, who was usually overworked as a matter of course, stretched out forward and went to sleep on the deck. Badeau sat on the rail by the wheel, grumbling—as a man will who has no resources within himself to turn idle hours to account. Bruce whittled a shingle. After a long time Badeau spoke.
“Look here, Bruce. What you going to do about that girl?”
“I dunno.”
“Don't be a fool. Do you want to marry her?”
“She wouldn't have me.”
“Say, look here. Why don't you ask her?”
“I've been thinking, Hunch—-”
“We're going to lie up to-morrow.”
“I can't do it soon as that.”
“'Course you can.”
Bruce hesitated, and snapped shavings with his thumb.
“Say, Hunch, you know more about girls 'n I do. Don't you s'pose you could kind of—talk to her just a little—”
“No, I couldn't. You go round there to-morrow, understand.”
“I ain't going to do that, Hunch——”
“You tell me you ain't and I'll break your head!” Badeau stood over Bruce, who was fumbling with his knife. “Who's captain of this schooner, me or you? When I say, you got to do it, it ain't none of your business whether you want to or not. Understand?”
Toward noon, on Sunday, they slid in between the breakwaters, and beat across the harbor to the wharf. Badeau kept a close watch on Bruce, confining him to the schooner all day. At dusk, dressed in his best, which included a rhinestone stud, Bruce started out. Hunch had supervised every detail of the toilet, and had forced on Bruce his own red tie, which he preferred to Bruce's checked one. Now he walked sternly alongside.
Mamie lived in a cottage a short distance from the freight yard. A rod from the gate Bruce rebelled, but Hunch gripped his arm, and marched him up the steps. Then he left him and stood outside the fence. Bruce laid his hand on the bell-knob, but before ringing looked wildly around and started to tiptoe away. Hunch made a motion, and he turned back and rang. Then the door opened and he disappeared within. Hunch sat on the horse-block.
Half an hour later the door opened. Hunch retreated across the street. Bruce and Mamie came out and walked slowly, arm in arm, toward the lake. Hunch stole after, keeping in the shadows.
They walked across the beach and sat on the sand. Hunch looked over the ground, and, making sure that they could not get away without his knowledge, he went back up the beach to the end of the sidewalk and paced nervously up and down for an hour. Then he slipped behind the willows and looked again. He saw first a single shadow on the sand, then two people who were lost to all the material and earthly things of this life. They sat in silence, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his arm a black stripe across the back of her pink shirtwaist. Hunch walked swiftly back to the schooner.
He was in his bunk, pretending to be asleep, when Bruce came stamping down the steps into the cabin. He watched Bruce as he lighted the lamp. Bruce was grinning. After puttering about the table, he came over to Hunch's bunk and stood looking down at him. Then he laughed out loud and dug his fingers into Hunch's ribs.
“Get out of here,” Hunch growled.
“Say, Hunch, wake up! It's all right. We're going to be married next month.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Hunch, drowsily. Then he rolled over, feeling less enthusiasm than he had expected. Bruce whistled while he was undressing, and played catch with one of his shoes. Hunch could hear him chuckling after he got to bed and the light was out.
After that, whenever they touched at a city, Bruce would hurry up to the post-office, and would usually have on his return a perfumed letter, addressed in a slanting hand. He carried these in his pocket and re-read them frequently. His spare time was spent in writing replies with a stubby, chewed pencil.
CHAPTER III—THE CALL
TEN days before the wedding, they were lying at Manistee, waiting for a load of salt. Bruce had been growing more restless and absent-minded. The fault grew unchecked, because an instinctive fineness in Hunch held back the reproof that would ordinarily have followed slipshod work. But about the time of the Manistee trip, Bruce appeared in a new light. He was growing self-confident and independent. The old meekness was giving place to a certain animal pride.
The last night at Manistee, Bruce went uptown to buy a present for Mamie. He met an old friend on the street and told him of his luck. This called for congratulations, and in the confidence of his new strength Bruce followed his friend through a swinging, green baize door. He returned at eleven o'clock. Hunch was in the cabin, wrestling with his accounts.
Bruce came slowly down the steps and balanced carefully at the bottom.
“Hello, Hunch,” he said, slyly.
Badeau looked up. Bruce walked across the cabin and sat on his bunk, holding his head erect and looking straight before him.
“Where you been?”
“See a fren'.”
Badeau looked at him. Bruce grew so nervous that he forgot his caution.
“What's matter? What you lookin' me like that for? You're fren' o' mine, Hunch. Shake han's, ol' man. Shake——-”
Badeau struck him without a word. Bruce showed fight, and in a moment they were rolling about the floor. Billy, up forward, heard the noise, and, tiptoeing along the deck in his underclothes, peered down the open gangway. He saw Bruce, his face red with drink and rage, break away from Badeau and seize a knife from the rack on the bulkhead. Badeau sprang forward. The table was jammed into the stove. Then the light went out. There was a fall, then a silence. Billy groped cautiously down the gangway.
“That you, Billy?” came in Badeau's voice. “Get a match. Guess I smashed him pretty hard.”
As soon as he and Billy could get Bruce undressed and into his bunk, Hunch ran for a doctor. Bruce finally went to sleep with a stitched-up scalp, a purple eye, and a broken' rib. In the morning they got underway for Liddington, Billy and Hunch doing all the work. Bruce was quiet during the morning, but in the afternoon, and after they reached Liddington, he started several times to blurt out an apology, which Hunch each time cut short. At supper-time, Hunch propped him up with blankets.
“Say, Hunch, I s'pose you ain't got nothing to say to me.”
“Guess not.”
“Well, say, Hunch, I—got a date with her to-night; I ain't fit to ever see her again, but—she'll wonder why I don't come. Say, you go up there, Hunch. Come on. Tell her I'm sick.”
So Hunch went. And when he sat stiffly in the parlor (in Bruce's checked tie, for fear that she might recognize the red one), he wished himself miles away, or dead and buried, and he wondered what he could say. But after a while Mamie came in, blushing. His tongue tripped over her name, and they both laughed.
“S'pose you're s'prised to see me,” he said.
“Why—I don't know. I'm always glad to see you, Mr. Badeau.”
Hunch blushed.
“Say, Bruce's sick.”
“Oh—really?”
“Yes—oh, it's all right. Nothing very bad. He'll be around in a day or two. But I guess he thought you'd feel bad if you didn't know why he didn't show up.”
During the silence that followed Hunch winked at her knowingly, and she blushed again.
“'Most ready for the wedding,” he said, intending to cover her confusion; but for some reason she grew more distressed. “Let's see,” he went on, talking rapidly, “it's coming pretty soon now, ain't it? Next Friday, eh? Well, say, we've got to be at Milwaukee Thursday morning, but I told Bruce we'd get back here Friday afternoon if it took the sticks clean out of the old Dean. And we will, too. Sorry I've got to lose Bruce. He's going in with your old man, ain't he?”
Already he was beginning to feel at ease. He liked to talk to this girl who looked shyly at him, and who was pleased when he told her of Bruce. This latter fact led him on until he found himself talking enormously about Bruce's courage and resource and kindness of heart, telling her in Bruce's name a large part of his own personal history. And at length, when he paused for breath in a glow of falsehood, and saw the light dancing in her eyes, and her eager smile, he felt a thousand times repaid.
It was after a very long stay that he rose to go. She followed him to the door, and stood for the moment on the porch.
“Mr. Badeau,” she said, “Bruce has told me about you; how kind you've been to him. And I've wanted, to thank you myself. You'll be our friend, won't you, after-” she said it bravely-“after we're married. And you'll come and see us real often.”
Then she suddenly reached up, far up on her tiptoes, and while he stood looking down, she kissed him on the cheek and fled indoors.
CHAPTER IV—HUNCH'S WEDDING
THURSDAY morning, a day and a half before the hour set for the wedding, they lay at a wharf in Milwaukee River, ready to sail. The sky was heavy and a roaring wind blew from the lake. Half a dozen steamers and two schooners had made the harbor since daybreak, and each had a story of hard struggling with wind and sea, stories which spread rapidly along the river, causing more than one outbound captain to shake his head, and resolve to wait a few hours or a day longer.
Hunch had gone out to the life-saving station at the pier, and now at eight o'clock he stood looking at the tumbling white rollers that came on squarely be tween the piers and ran far up into the channel before they were spent. On the horizon a row of schooners, barges, and freighters were holding their noses against the sea, until it should be safe to run for the harbor. A little nearer a big whaleback was tossing and rolling badly. One of the crew men watched her through a glass. A few tugs hung about inside the basin, looking for a stray job at advanced rates.
Hunch, after looking it all over, chartered a tug, then returned to the schooner, where Bruce and Billy were waiting. He and Bruce had not been talkative of late.
“Get everything tight, Bruce,” he said, jumping down upon the deck. “We're going out in half an hour.”
“How about it, Hunch? Can we make it, think?”
Hunch did not trouble to reply, and Bruce, as he worked along the deck, watched him nervously.
Before the tug appeared, Hunch went ashore and crossed the wharf to a saloon at the corner. He returned with a jug, which he put in his bunk where the bedding would protect it when the schooner got to pitching. He sometimes drank whisky to steady his nerves when fighting a heavy sea. In a few minutes the tug came alongside.
“Everything fast, Bruce?”
Brace grunted, and Billy lifted the lines off the snubbin' posts and followed them aboard.
They went out in tow, on a long hawser and under bare poles. When they were half a mile beyond the piers, wrenching and slapping through the seas, and shipping a deck-load from every second wave, Bruce came groping back to Hunch, who had the wheel.
“How much farther are they going to take us, Hunch?” He had to shout to get his voice over the wind. “They'll be sticking us for a big bill.”
“None o' your business,” growled Hunch.
“I'd like to know why not. We're going back on my account.”
“Shut up! I'm paying for this tow. Go up forward where you belong. Send Billy back.”
When Billy appeared, working along the rail and bracing his feet when a wave came over, he said, “Bring up that jug in my bunk.” Billy brought it up and lashed it to the rail within Hunch's reach. Hunch began to drink.
After a time he shouted to Bruce, who, with Billy's help, set to work on the sails. Both were cold from the duckings, and Bruce was in addition too excited to be of much use. Between them they bungled until Hunch lost his patience and, yelling to Bruce to take the wheel, he ran up the heaving deck and throwing his weight on the halyards, raised the foresail single-handed. Billy timidly watched him, expecting that he would reef heavily, but when he saw everything but the topsails go up flat, he looked around at the tug which was holding them up in the wind, then at Hunch who was making fast the mainsail peak; and then Billy, who was plucky enough on occasion, swallowed a lump in his throat, and turning forward, crossed himself hurriedly as he stood clinging to the weather-stays.
They cut loose from the tug and swung off a few points, the schooner shivering and straining as she caught the wind, then heeling over with a rush. Hunch went storming back to the wheel. Bruce was wiping his mouth on his sleeve, bracing the wheel with one knee. The cork was out of the jug, and a little whiskey slopped out at each lurch of the schooner. Hunch stood for a moment without support, swaying, then sprang on Bruce and threw him against the closed gangway, where he lay clutching at the cabin roof.
“You—you—” Hunch was for once too angry to swear. “Get below there!” he said finally, after he had steadied the schooner on her course. “Get below, quick!”
Bruce without looking around fumbled with the companion slide, and ducking down between two waves, pulled it shut after him. After he had disappeared, and the schooner was running more easily on the long northwest tack that was to take her to the Liddington harbor, Hunch slowly got his bearings, and for a long time he stood pouring out a flood of profanity. This outburst came too late for Bruce's ears, but not too late to act as a safety-valve to Hunch's temper. Then he took a drink.
He stood at the wheel all day and all night. At noon and at dusk he sent Billy below to get up a rough meal, which he ate with one hand, washing it down with the whiskey. At about nine o'clock, he called Billy back, and told him to turn in. And when the dawn broke, and the bleak sand hills of Michigan stretched out on the horizon, he was still at the wheel, but his eyes were dimmer and his knees were weaker. Hunch was drunk. He was quiet for the time, and he handled the schooner as she had never been handled before, but the fact remained. Bruce had not appeared at all. He was curled up in his bunk, waiting for the end, when the madman at the wheel should reach the sleepy stage.
Once or twice in the night, when the schooner was careering through some especially hard blow, Bruce cried a little, like a girl, at the thought of the wedding that might not be. He did not know that at this time it was the thought of two blue eyes smiling at him, and of two lips pressed to his cheek, that raised Hunch above the grasp of the whiskey.
The morning had gone before they were within reach of the Liddington harbor. They passed the breakwaters three times at noon and after, each time a mile nearer than before. The wind had swung around during the night closer to the south. Hunch was beating in from the northeast, evidently planning to get close enough to run in during a lull. The box of a lighthouse on the south breakwater grew larger. After a time, Billy, who was forward, could see three white figures on the other breakwater, waving their arms. He knew that they were members of the life-saving crew, warning them not to make the attempt.
Hunch took a look about the boat and up through the rigging. The schooner was badly wrenched and strained, but was apparently good for another effort. He looked over the long reach of breakers, sweeping up on a slant from the south. He took a drink and called to Billy.
“Come back here! Tell him to come up on deck.” His manner was heavy and surly.
Bruce came up with a white face and rings under his eyes.
“Sit down there,” growled Hunch, pointing to the low roof of the cabin. “You too,” to Billy.
When they were seated facing him, holding on to each other and to the gangway slide, Hunch said: “D' y' know where you're goin'? You're goin' to my weddin'. Bruce, he gets er girl, I get's er weddin'-un'erstan'? Sit up straight there—like er gen'leman. You think we're goin' to er weddin'? Mebbe we ain't. Mebbe we're goin' to hell. Why don't you laugh? This's our weddin' day.” His mood suddenly changed and he paid no attention to them, giving all his energy to the handling of the schooner. Then he motioned to Billy to go forward. For a long time there was silence, excepting that Hunch occasionally muttered, “We'll get back. I tol' her we'd get back.” Bruce sat terrified on the cabin, facing the stem, not seeing where the schooner was going. After a while he could stand it no longer. He looked over his shoulder. They were close to the breakwaters now, and a little to the south. The three life-saving men were running back along the breakwater, evidently in order to be ready at the station if the schooner should miss the channel. Then he heard Hunch say, “Turn round there!” Hunch had his revolver out and was pointing it at him with a grin. Bruce sat still, for Hunch was careless when he was drunk. Hunch kept it in his hand, and looked at Bruce from time to time with a cunning expression.
The schooner came bounding up from the south, running nearly before the wind. Hunch knew what to allow for wind, waves, and currents. Suddenly he shouted to Billy and jammed the wheel over hard. With Billy at the sheets, the bow came slowly about and headed direct for the lighthouse. Billy quaked. But as she ploughed forward she fell off to the leeward under the sweep of the waves, and slipped neatly between the breakwaters and into the more quiet water of the channel. The lee rail scraped a little, but nothing was started.
Bruce sat motionless on the cabin with a face like a sheet. But Hunch waved his revolver jovially at the life-savers on the dock, and all the while they were creeping up the channel he sang profane songs at the top of his voice, pausing now and then for a drink. When they were fast to the dock, he floundered ashore and stood laughing at Billy, who was still clinging to the weather-stays. Bruce stepped up to him.
“Say, Hunch, don't you think you'd better quit drinking? The wedding's tonight, you know.”
“What right you got talkin' to me 'bout——”
“You're coming to the wedding, Hunch, ain't you?”
“I ain't goin' to no wedding. Get out o' here! Go on now.”
Bruce walked steadily and rapidly up the deck, and disappeared around the corner of a lumber-shed.
A few hours later Hunch came plunging out of a saloon, with two men who were afraid to decline his treats. It was dark, but when a certain carriage passed, he could see by the corner light that one of the occupants wore a white veil. So he went back into the saloon, and amused himself shooting patterns through the stove until he fell asleep over a box of sawdust. Then it was, and not before, that the discreet constable had him carted away to sober up at the county's expense.
CHAPTER V—MAMIE'S DEVICE
CONSIDINE was married in May. For four months Badeau heard of him and Mamie only in a roundabout way. One day, toward the dose of September, the two men met on the road.
“Hello, Hunch,” said Bruce, “how are you?”
“All right. How's yourself?”
“Fine. Why ain't you been round to see us. We're keeping house.”
“I dunno. Ain't had much time.”
“How're you getting along, anyhow, Hunch? How's the old Dean?”
“First-class.”
“Well, say, come up and see us. Come to-night. Mamie was asking about you the other day.”
Badeau spent a long evening at Bruce's cottage, and had a good time. A week later he went again. Through the autumn, as the weather grew heavy, and lake trips became more uncertain, he took to spending the evening with them as often as he could. Mamie was prettier than ever, with a new depth in her eyes, and Bruce appeared very well as the head of a household. They played cards a good deal, and talked about old times. After a while Hunch found it easy to drop in and take supper with them.
One evening late in October, when he came in to supper, he missed the usual cordiality. Mamie's eyes were red and Bruce's manner was strained. He left early and Bruce walked out with him, saying that a little walk would do him good.
“Say, Hunch,” he said, when they reached the sidewalk, “I don't know whether you heard about it, but——”
“About what?”
“Well, it ain't any of my feelings, Hunch, but you can't help people talking. You see, there's some folks that don't understand things, and they're talking a little, you know, about your being around to the house so much—r-” They walked on, both silent.
“Of course, Hunch, it ain't what I think, you see that.”
Again he waited for a reply.
“I'll tell you, Hunch, Maine and I've been talking it over. She's a good friend of yours, and she says if you stop coming, just because people talk, she'll never forgive you. She's right, too. And we was thinking, mebbe we'd have one of the girls around. Say, ain't there nobody you like pretty well, Hunch? There's Jess Bartlett, now. She's an awful nice girl. And she's stuck on you, Hunch. She's Jim Bartlett's sister, you know. He's on the life-saving crew. Marne's been talking with her, and she says she'll come around with you tomorrow night, if you'll go get her. Will you?”
Hunch wanted to say no, but he looked around at Bruce, and some of his anger left him when he saw how eager and friendly was Bruce's face. So he replied: “Guess so.”
Hunch spent a sleepless night, and arose with the determination never to go to Bruce's again. He continued to decide the question all day from different points of view. In the evening, however, a little earlier than he was expected, he called at Jess Bartlett's house.
Jess Bartlett was an attractive girl, full of health and spirits. She admired Hunch's bigness and strength, and made such an effort to be agreeable that before they had finished the long walk to Bruce's house, they felt pretty well acquainted. The evening that followed was different from those that Hunch had been spending at Bruce's. There was more gaiety and brightness. Jess knew that she was in a sense on parade, and, as Mamie confided to Hunch, she “kept things stirred up.” They played some games that Jess explained to them, and then Mamie made molasses candy, and an impromptu candy-pull took place in the kitchen. Once Jess slipped Hunch's scarfpin from his tie, and Bruce and Mamie laughed knowingly at Hunch's clumsy efforts to take it away from her. Finally she fled into the corner and held the pin behind her with both hands. He hesitated before her and Bruce called, “Oh, Hunch, you're slow,” whereupon Mamie blushed and laughed, and Jess blushed and tossed her head. So Hunch put both arms around her, but she struggled for some time before he got the pin away from her. Then she dropped into a chair, flushed and excited, her hair—a rich auburn—tumbling about her face; and Mamie whispered to Hunch, “Ain't she pretty, though?”
The night was dark, and on the way home Jess slipped her hand through his arm. Now, that they were away from the others, Hunch was embarrassed.
“I never knew you were like this,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“Why, I don't know. I've always heard that you didn't like girls; that you were—you know—kind of horrid.”
“I haven't liked very many girls.”
“I'll tell you something, if you won't tell. You won't think it's funny, will you?”
“Sure not.”
“Well, I used to be afraid of you.”
“Ain't you now?”
“No—that is, not very much.”
“What makes you afraid of me?”
“Oh, I don't know.” She danced a few steps before him on the walk. “Come on, don't be so pokey. Can you dance?”
“No, not very much.”
“Oh, you've got to learn to dance, or I won't like you a bit. I'll tell you, I'll teach you, some of the nights when we don't go over to Marne's. That'll be fun—don't you think?”
Hunch nodded, and caught her arm as she whirled by him, and they walked home soberly, talking about Bruce and Mamie and how happy they seemed to be. At the door Hunch said “goodnight,” and started away. She stood on the steps.
“Say,” she called softly, as he opened the gate, “you've got the key.”
Hunch came back, a little confused, and took her key from his pocket. He tried to unlock the door, and they both laughed when he got the key stuck in the lock.
“You're awful clumsy,” she said, and in trying to help him her hand rested for a moment on his.
“My, your hands are cold,” she said.
He took hold of her hand and replied, “Mine ain't so cold as yours.”
“Yes, it is.” She drew hers away slowly, and opened the door. They both laughed. Jess leaned back against the door.
“Say,” she said, “when are you coming around again?”
“I dunno. When do you think?”
“Marne asked me if you were coming there to-morrow night.”
“What'd you tell her?”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes, if you do.”
“All right, I'll be ready.”
In a week it was generally known that Hunch Badeau was “going with Jess Bartlett.” Bruce and Mamie poked fun at them, and looked mischievous whenever they were mentioned. Mamie used to enjoy having them at the house, and would sit at one side and laugh quietly all the evening at Hunch's awkward ways and Jess's blushes and shy glances. Sometimes, if they were left together in the living room, Bruce would make a great noise outside the door before he came in, and would pretend not to see their conscious glances, talking loudly all the while as if to cover their embarrassment. And as Jess really liked Hunch and Hunch was drifting blindly with the current, all these doings magnified their common interest, and gradually made it easier for them to be alone together, and to talk about themselves and their likings and hopes. Hunch grew more careful about his appearance, and spent less time than formerly with the wharf men and the elevator gang.
One evening, about the middle of November, Hunch went around to the Bartlett's as usual. Jess was a little embarrassed about something. When Hunch said, “Shall we go down to Bruce's?” she hesitated.
“Guess we hadn't better,” she said. “Marne isn't very well.”
“All right. What'll we do?”
“I don't care. Do you want to stay here? There's nobody home to-night. I'll tell you, you can have a dancing lesson.”
“Guess I won't be much good at it. I don't believe I can learn.”
“Oh, yes, you can. You'll do beautifully. Now stand up.”
“Hunch felt awkward as she showed him the steps, and then tried to guide him about the room.
“I'm an awful fool,” he said.
“You ain't either. Here, you guide me.”
Hunch hesitated and looked at her. “Take hold of my hand. Put your arm around—oh, pshaw! it's just dancing; don't be so stupid. Not way off there. Hold me closer or we can't dance at all. Oh, you don't understand.” Hunch gripped her doggedly. She was leaning a little, trying to watch his feet, and as they stood there, her hair brushing against her shoulder and a slight blush on her forehead, he felt that he was losing his self-control. Then he found that he did not care, and he made no effort to hold himself in check.
“Now, one, two, three—one, two, three. Not that way. Try it again. One, two, three—you don't get it, somehow.”
Hunch was standing still, holding her firmly. She was so small in his grasp, he felt so strong and he could so easily lift her from the floor with his one arm that he was almost tempted to try it. She was looking down, and he could see the tip of an ear and a flushed cheek below the tangle of hair. Then for a moment she went on rapidly with her instructions, but her voice faltered, and stopped. They stood for a time without moving, then Hunch drew her a little closer and grasped her hand more firmly. She frowned and looked up, but she could not hide the color on her face, and the smiling strength in Hunch's eyes overbore the half-hearted disapproval in hers.
Hunch, with his other arm, drew her head against his shoulder. He was happy in a way that he had never before understood, for she trusted him, and he was strong and would protect her.
CHAPTER VI—BRUCE CELEBRATES
MAMIE was sick. Hunch did not go to the house, but one night after supper, while he was changing his clothes to go to the Bartlett's, Bruce came in.
“Hello, Bruce. Sit down.”
“Can't stop but a minute. Where're you going?”
“Up to see Jess.”
“I ain't seen you to shake on that, have I, Hunch. Marne told me. She says Jess's tickled to death. When're you going to be married?”
“Dunno exactly. Guess not before spring.”
“Did you hear about Marne, Hunch?”
“Sick, you mean?”
“Yes, I s'posed you knew what was the matter. Thought mebbe Jess told you—but she couldn't though, could she? I'm awful worried. It's too soon, you know. You see that's what I come to see you about. I've been shaving it pretty close. Had to be up nights and it kind of knocked my work. And the doctor's sticking me like everything. I didn't know but—well, I'll tell you, Hunch, can you let me have fifty for a couple of weeks? I don't get my salary till the end of the month, and I've got to settle some things right away.”
“Sure,” said Hunch. “I've got a little put by.”
“I'm awful sorry, Hunch, but you see how it is——”
“That's all right, Bruce. Any time 'll do.”
“I'll give you my note. That's about all I can do.”
“Not much you won't. You just take it, and pay when you can, and don't you say nothing about it.”
For a few days there was gloom at Bruce's cottage. Once Hunch went around and was met at the door by Bruce, who looked worn. Hunch did not know how to ask about Mamie, but Bruce came out and drew the door to behind him.
“She's pretty bad, Hunch. I don't know what I'll do if anything happens. The doctor says we'll know one way or the other in a day or so.”
Hunch gripped his hand and went away.
That evening, when Hunch went around to see Jess, he was depressed. The thought of Mamie's suffering stood in his way whenever he tried to respond to Jess's sallies. As the evening went on, Hunch's mood grew worse. Jess went into a sulk later; when he dropped a careless remark that hurt her pride, she grew angry.
“What's the matter, Jess?” Hunch said at last.
“I guess you know.”
“I don't believe you want me here.”
“Oh, you can go if you want to.”
Hunch looked at her, vaguely conscious that he had been unkind; but he went away without kissing her good-night.
One morning, a day or two later, he was dressing, when Bruce came in, with disordered hair and excited eyes.
“It's all right, Hunch; it's all right! Doctor says it's wonderful how she come through it.”
Hunch sat on the bed without speaking, but with an almost painful expression of relief on his face.
“It's a girl,” said Bruce, and he laughed. “Come on over, Hunch. It's a fine little kid. Come along with me.”
“No,” said Hunch, slowly. “I don't believe I can just now.”
“What's the matter? Why can't you come?”
“I've got a lot of work to do to-day.”
“Don't talk to me about working. You're my best friend and I want you to come first.”
“No, I can't, Bruce.”
“You make me tired, Hunch. You might as well be decent about it.”
“There ain't no use of getting mad, Bruce. I'll get around before long.”
“That's what I call——”
“No, you don't, now, Bruce. You'd better go on back. I guess they need you anyhow.”