In the Midst of Alarms by Robert Barr

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"I have; but I won't lend it for such a purpose. However, never mind
the principal. Tell me your plans. I am at your disposal for a couple
of weeks, or longer if necessary."

"Good boy! Well, I'll tell you how it is. I want rest and quiet, and
the woods, for a week or two. This is how it happened: I have been
steadily at the grindstone, except for a while in the hospital; and
that, you will admit, is not much of a vacation. The work interests me,
and I am always in the thick of it. Now, it's like this in the
newspaper business: Your chief is never the person to suggest that you
take a vacation. He is usually short of men and long on things to do,
so if you don't worry him into letting you off, he won't lose any sleep
over it. He's content to let well enough alone every time. Then there
is always somebody who wants to get away on pressing business,--
grandmother's funeral, and that sort of thing,--so if a fellow is
content to work right along, his chief is quite content to let him.
That's the way affairs have gone for years with me. The other week I
went over to Washington to interview a senator on the political
prospects. I tell you what it is, Stilly, without bragging, there are
some big men in the States whom no one but me _can_ interview. And
yet old Scrag says I'm no credit to his class! Why, last year my
political predictions were telegraphed all over this country, and have
since appeared in the European press. No credit! By Jove, I would like
to have old Scrag in a twenty-four-foot ring, with thin gloves on, for
about ten minutes!"

"I doubt if he would shine under those circumstances. But never mind
him. He spoke, for once, without due reflection, and with perhaps an
exaggerated remembrance of your school-day offenses. What happened when
you went to Washington?"

"A strange thing happened. When I was admitted to the senator's
library, I saw another fellow, whom I thought I knew, sitting there. I
said to the senator: 'I will come when you are alone.' The senator
looked up in surprise, and said: 'I am alone.' I didn't say anything,
but went on with my interview; and the other fellow took notes all the
time. I didn't like this, but said nothing, for the senator is not a
man to offend, and it is by not offending these fellows that I can get
the information I do. Well, the other fellow came out with me, and as I
looked at him I saw that he was myself. This did not strike me as
strange at the time, but I argued with him all the way to New York, and
tried to show him that he wasn't treating me fairly. I wrote up the
interview, with the other fellow interfering all the while, so I
compromised, and half the time put in what he suggested, and half the
time what I wanted in myself. When the political editor went over the
stuff, he looked alarmed. I told him frankly just how I had been
interfered with, and he looked none the less alarmed when I had
finished. He sent at once for a doctor. The doctor metaphorically took
me to pieces, and then said to my chief: 'This man is simply worked to
death. He must have a vacation, and a real one, with absolutely nothing
to think of, or he is going to collapse, and that with a suddenness
which will surprise everybody.' The chief, to my astonishment,
consented without a murmur, and even upbraided me for not going away
sooner. Then the doctor said to me: 'You get some companion--some man
with no brains, if possible, who will not discuss politics, who has no
opinion on anything that any sane man would care to talk about, and who
couldn't say a bright thing if he tried for a year. Get such a man to
go off to the woods somewhere. Up in Maine or in Canada. As far away
from post offices and telegraph offices as possible. And, by the way,
don't leave your address at the _Argus_ office.' Thus it happened,
Stilly, when he described this man so graphically, I at once thought of
you."

"I am deeply gratified, I am sure," said the professor, with the ghost
of a smile, "to be so promptly remembered in such a connection, and if
I can be of service to you, I shall be very glad. I take it, then, that
you have no intention of stopping in Buffalo?"

"You bet I haven't. I'm in for the forest primeval, the murmuring pines
and the hemlock, bearded with moss and green in the something or other
--I forget the rest. I want to quit lying on paper, and lie on my back
instead, on the sward or in a hammock. I'm going to avoid all boarding
houses or delightful summer resorts, and go in for the quiet of the
forest."

"There ought to be some nice places along the lake shore."

"No, sir. No lake shore for me. It would remind me of the Lake Shore
Railroad when it was calm, and of Long Branch when it was rough.
_No_, sir. The woods, the woods, and the woods. I have hired a
tent and a lot of cooking things. I'm going to take that tent over to
Canada to-morrow; and then I propose we engage a man with a team to
cart it somewhere into the woods, fifteen or twenty miles away. We
shall have to be near a farmhouse, so that we can get fresh butter,
milk, and eggs. This, of course, is a disadvantage; but I shall try to
get near someone who has never even heard of New York."

"You may find that somewhat difficult."

"Oh, I don't know. I have great hopes of the lack of intelligence in
the Canadians."

"Often the narrowest," said the professor slowly, "are those who think
themselves the most cosmopolitan."

"Right you are," cried Yates, skimming lightly over the remark, and
seeing nothing applicable to his case in it. "Well, I've laid in about
half a ton, more or less, of tobacco, and have bought an empty jug."

"An empty one?"

"Yes. Among the few things worth having that the Canadians possess, is
good whisky. Besides, the empty jar will save trouble at the
customhouse. I don't suppose Canadian rye is as good as the Kentucky
article, but you and I will have to scrub along on it for a while. And,
talking of whisky, just press the button once again."

The professor did so, saying:

"The doctor made no remark, I suppose, about drinking less or smoking
less, did he?"

"In my case? Well, come to think of it, there _was_ some
conversation in that direction. Don't remember at the moment just what
it amounted to; but all physicians have their little fads, you know. It
doesn't do to humor them too much. Ah, boy, there you are again. Well,
the professor wants another drink. Make it a gin fizz this time, and
put plenty of ice in it; but don't neglect the gin on that account.
Certainly; charge it to room 518."

CHAPTER III.

"What's all this tackle?" asked the burly and somewhat red-faced
customs officer at Fort Erie.

"This," said Yates, "is a tent, with the poles and pegs appertaining
thereto. These are a number of packages of tobacco, on which I shall
doubtless have to pay something into the exchequer of her Majesty. This
is a jug used for the holding of liquids. I beg to call your attention
to the fact that it is at present empty, which unfortunately prevents
me making a libation to the rites of good-fellowship. What my friend
has in that valise I don't know, but I suspect a gambling outfit, and
would advise you to search him."

"My valise contains books principally, with some articles of wearing
apparel," said the professor, opening his grip.

The customs officer looked with suspicion on the whole outfit, and
evidently did not like the tone of the American. He seemed to be
treating the customs department in a light and airy manner, and the
officer was too much impressed by the dignity of his position not to
resent flippancy. Besides, there were rumors of Fenian invasion in the
air, and the officer resolved that no Fenian should get into the
country without paying duty.

"Where are you going with this tent?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Perhaps you can tell us. I don't know the
country about here. Say, Stilly, I'm off uptown to attend to the
emptiness in this stone utensil. I've been empty too often myself not
to sympathize with its condition. You wrestle this matter out about the
tent. You know the ways of the country, whereas I don't."

It was perhaps as well that Yates left negotiations in the hands of his
friend. He was quick enough to see that he made no headway with the
officer, but rather the opposite. He slung the jar ostentatiously over
his shoulder, to the evident discomfort of the professor, and marched
up the hill to the nearest tavern, whistling one of the lately popular
war tunes.

"Now," he said to the barkeeper, placing the jar tenderly on the bar,
"fill that up to the nozzle with the best rye you have. Fill it with
the old familiar juice, as the late poet Omar saith."

The bartender did as he was requested.

"Can you disguise a little of that fluid in any way, so that it may be
taken internally without a man suspecting what he is swallowing?"

The barkeeper smiled. "How would a cocktail fill the vacancy?"

"I can suggest nothing better," replied Yates. "If you are sure you
know how to make it."

The man did not resent this imputation of ignorance. He merely said,
with the air of one who gives an incontrovertible answer:

"I am a Kentucky man myself."

"Shake!" cried Yates briefly, as he reached his hand across the bar.
"How is it you happened to be here?"

"Well, I got in to a little trouble in Louisville, and here I am, where
I can at least look at God's country."

"Hold on," protested Yates. "You're making only _one_ cocktail."

"Didn't you say one?" asked the man, pausing in the compounding.

"Bless you, I never saw one cocktail made in my life. You are with me
on this."

"Just as you say," replied the other, as he prepared enough for two.

"Now I'll tell you my fix," said Yates confidentially. "I've got a tent
and some camp things down below at the customhouse shanty, and I want
to get them taken into the woods, where I can camp out with a friend. I
want a place where we can have absolute rest and quiet. Do you know the
country round here? Perhaps you could recommend a spot."

"Well, for all the time I've been here, I know precious little about
the back country. I've been down the road to Niagara Falls, but never
back in the woods. I suppose you want some place by the lake or the
river?"

"No, I don't. I want to get clear back into the forest--if there is a
forest."

"Well, there's a man in to-day from somewhere near Ridgeway, I think.
He's got a hay rack with him, and that would be just the thing to take
your tent and poles. Wouldn't be very comfortable traveling for you,
but it would be all right for the tent, if it's a big one."

"That will suit us exactly. We don't care a cent about the comfort.
Roughing it is what we came for. Where will I find him?"

"Oh, he'll be along here soon. That's his team tied there on the side
street. If he happens to be in good humor, he'll take your things, and
as like as not give you a place to camp in his woods. Hiram Bartlett's
his name. And, talking of the old Nick himself, here he is. I say, Mr.
Bartlett, this gentleman was wondering if you couldn't tote out some of
his belongings. He's going out your way."

Bartlett was a somewhat uncouth and wiry specimen of the Canadian
farmer who evidently paid little attention to the subject of dress. He
said nothing, but looked in a lowering way at Yates, with something of
contempt and suspicion in his glance.

Yates had one receipt for making the acquaintance of all mankind. "Come
in, Mr. Bartlett," he said cheerily, "and try one of my friend's
excellent cocktails."

"I take mine straight," growled Bartlett gruffly, although he stepped
inside the open door. "I don't want no Yankee mixtures in mine. Plain
whisky's good enough for any man, if he _is_ a man. I don't take
no water, neither. I've got trouble enough."

The bartender winked at Yates as he shoved the decanter over to the
newcomer.

"Right you are," assented Yates cordially.

The farmer did not thaw out in the least because of this prompt
agreement with him, but sipped his whisky gloomily, as if it were a
most disagreeable medicine.

"What did you want me to take out?" he said at last.

"A friend and a tent, a jug of whisky and a lot of jolly good tobacco."

"How much are you willing to pay?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm always willing to do what's right. How would
five dollars strike you?"

The farmer scowled and shook his head.

"Too much," he said, as Yates was about to offer more. "'Taint worth
it. Two and a half would be about the right figure. Don'no but that's
too much. I'll think on it going home, and charge you what it's worth.
I'll be ready to leave in about an hour, if that suits you. That's my
team on the other side of the road. If it's gone when you come back,
I'm gone, an' you'll have to get somebody else."

With this Bartlett drew his coat sleeve across his mouth and departed.

"That's him exactly," said the barkeeper. "He's the most cantankerous
crank in the township. And say, let me give you a pointer. If the
subject of 1812 comes up,--the war, you know,--you'd better admit that
we got thrashed out of our boots; that is, if you want to get along
with Hiram. He hates Yankees like poison."

"And did we get thrashed in 1812?" asked Yates, who was more familiar
with current topics than with the history of the past.

"Blessed if I know. Hiram says we did. I told him once that we got
what we wanted from old England, and he nearly hauled me over the bar.
So I give you the warning, if you want to get along with him."

"Thank you. I'll remember it. So long."

This friendly hint from the man in the tavern offers a key to the
solution of the problem of Yates' success on the New York press. He
could get news when no other man could. Flippant and shallow as he
undoubtedly was, he somehow got into the inner confidences of all sorts
of men in a way that made them give him an inkling of anything that was
going on for the mere love of him; and thus Yates often received
valuable assistance from his acquaintances which other reporters could
not get for money.

The New Yorker found the professor sitting on a bench by the
customhouse, chatting with the officer, and gazing at the rapidly
flowing broad blue river in front of them.

"I have got a man," said Yates, "who will take us out into the
wilderness in about an hour's time. Suppose we explore the town. I
expect nobody will run away with the tent till we come back."

"I'll look after that," said the officer; and, thanking him, the two
friends strolled up the street. They were a trifle late in getting
back, and when they reached the tavern, they found Bartlett just on the
point of driving home. He gruffly consented to take them, if they did
not keep him more than five minutes loading up. The tent and its
belongings were speedily placed on the hay rack, and then Bartlett
drove up to the tavern and waited, saying nothing, although he had been
in such a hurry a few moments before. Yates did not like to ask the
cause of the delay; so the three sat there silently. After a while
Yates said as mildly as he could:

"Are you waiting for anyone, Mr. Bartlett?"

"Yes," answered the driver in a surly tone. "I'm waiting for you to go
in fur that jug. I don't suppose you filled it to leave it on the
counter."

"By Jove!" cried Yates, springing off, "I had forgotten all about it,
which shows the extraordinary effect this country has on me already."
The professor frowned, but Yates came out merrily, with the jar in his
hand, and Bartlett started his team. They drove out of the village and
up a slight hill, going for a mile or two along a straight and somewhat
sandy road. Then they turned into the Ridge Road, as Bartlett called
it, in answer to a question by the professor, and there was no need to
ask why it was so termed. It was a good highway, but rather stony, the
road being, in places, on the bare rock. It paid not the slightest
attention to Euclid's definition of a straight line, and in this
respect was rather a welcome change from the average American road.
Sometimes they passed along avenues of overbranching trees, which were
evidently relics of the forest that once covered all the district. The
road followed the ridge, and on each side were frequently to be seen
wide vistas of lower lying country. All along the road were comfortable
farmhouses; and it was evident that a prosperous community flourished
along the ridge.

Bartlett spoke only once, and then to the professor, who sat next to
him.

"You a Canadian?"

"Yes."

"Where's _he_ from?"

"My friend is from New York," answered the innocent professor.

"Humph!" grunted Bartlett, scowling deeper than ever, after which he
became silent again. The team was not going very fast, although neither
the load nor the road was heavy. Bartlett was muttering a good deal to
himself, and now and then brought down his whip savagely on one or the
other of the horses; but the moment the unfortunate animals quickened
their pace he hauled them in roughly. Nevertheless, they were going
quickly enough to be overtaking a young woman who was walking on alone.
Although she must have heard them coming over the rocky road she did
not turn her head, but walked along with the free and springy step of
one who is not only accustomed to walking, but who likes it. Bartlett
paid no attention to the girl; the professor was endeavoring to read
his thin book as well as a man might who is being jolted frequently;
but Yates, as soon as he recognized that the pedestrian was young,
pulled up his collar, adjusted his necktie with care, and placed his
hat in a somewhat more jaunty and fetching position.

"Are you going to offer that girl a ride?" he said to Bartlett.

"No, I'm not."

"I think that is rather uncivil," he added, forgetting the warning he
had had.

"You do, eh? Well, you offer her a ride. You hired the team."

"By Jove! I will," said Yates, placing his hand on the outside of the
rack, and springing lightly to the ground.

"Likely thing," growled Bartlett to the professor, "that she's going to
ride with the like of him."

The professor looked for a moment at Yates, politely taking off his hat
to the apparently astonished young woman, but he said nothing.

"Fur two cents," continued Bartlett, gathering up the reins, "I'd whip
up the horses, and let him walk the rest of the way."

"From what I know of my friend," answered the professor slowly, "I
think he would not object in the slightest."

Bartlett muttered something to himself, and seemed to change his mind
about galloping his horses.

Meanwhile, Yates, as has been said, took off his hat with great
politeness to the fair pedestrian, and as he did so he noticed, with a
thrill of admiration, that she was very handsome. Yates always had an
eye for the beautiful.

"Our conveyance," he began, "is not as comfortable as it might be, yet
I shall be very happy if you will accept its hospitalities."

The young woman flashed a brief glance at him from her dark eyes, and
for a moment Yates feared that his language had been rather too choice
for her rural understanding, but before he could amend his phrase she
answered briefly:

"Thank you. I prefer to walk."

"Well, I don't know that I blame you. May I ask if you have come all
the way from the village?"

"Yes."

"That is a long distance, and you must be very tired." There was no
reply; so Yates continued. "At least, I thought it a long distance; but
perhaps that was because I was riding on Bartlett's hay rack. There is
no 'downy bed of ease' about his vehicle."

As he spoke of the wagon he looked at it, and, striding forward to its
side, said in a husky whisper to the professor:

"Say, Stilly, cover up that jug with a flap of the tent."

"Cover it up yourself," briefly replied the other; "it isn't mine."

Yates reached across and, in a sort of accidental way, threw the flap
of the tent over the too conspicuous jar. As an excuse for his action
he took up his walking cane and turned toward his new acquaintance. He
was flattered to see that she was loitering some distance behind the
wagon, and he speedily rejoined her. The girl, looking straight ahead,
now quickened her pace, and rapidly shortened the distance between
herself and the vehicle. Yates, with the quickness characteristic of
him, made up his mind that this was a case of country diffidence, which
was best to be met by the bringing down of his conversation to the
level of his hearer's intelligence.

"Have you been marketing?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Butter and eggs, and that sort of thing?"

"We are farmers," she answered, "and we sell butter and eggs"--a pause
--"and that sort of thing."

Yates laughed in his light and cheery way. As he twirled his cane he
looked at his pretty companion. She was gazing anxiously ahead toward a
turn in the road. Her comely face was slightly flushed, doubtless with
the exercise of walking.

"Now, in my country," continued the New Yorker, "we idolize our women.
Pretty girls don't tramp miles to market with butter and eggs."

"Aren't the girls pretty--in your country?"

Yates made a mental note that there was not as much rurality about this
girl as he had thought at first. There was a piquancy about the
conversation which he liked. That she shared his enjoyment was
doubtful, for a slight line of resentment was noticeable on her smooth
brow.

"You bet they're pretty! I think all American girls are pretty. It
seems their birthright. When I say American, I mean the whole
continent, of course. I'm from the States myself--from New York." He
gave an extra twirl to his cane as he said this, and bore himself with
that air of conscious superiority which naturally pertains to a citizen
of the metropolis. "But over in the States we think the men should do
all the work, and that the women should--well, spend the money. I must
do our ladies the justice to say that they attend strictly to their
share of the arrangement."

"It should be a delightful country to live in--for the women."

"They all say so. We used to have an adage to the effect that America
was paradise for women, purgatory for men, and--well, an entirely
different sort of place for oxen."

There was no doubt that Yates had a way of getting along with people.
As he looked at his companion he was gratified to note just the
faintest suspicion of a smile hovering about her lips. Before she could
answer, if she had intended to do so, there was a quick clatter of
hoofs on the hard road ahead, and next instant an elegant buggy, whose
slender jet-black polished spokes flashed and twinkled in the sunlight,
came dashing past the wagon. On seeing the two walking together the
driver hauled up his team with a suddenness that was evidently not
relished by the spirited dappled span he drove.

"Hello, Margaret!" he cried; "am I late? Have you walked in all the
way?"

"You are just in good time," answered the girl, without looking toward
Yates, who stood aimlessly twirling his cane. The young woman put her
foot on the buggy step, and sprang lightly in beside the driver. It
needed no second glance to see that he was her brother, not only on
account of the family resemblance between them, but also because he
allowed her to get into the buggy without offering the slightest
assistance, which, indeed, was not needed, and graciously permitted her
to place the duster that covered his knees over her own lap as well.
The restive team trotted rapidly down the road for a few rods, until
they came to a wide place in the highway, and then whirled around,
seemingly within an ace of upsetting the buggy; but the young man
evidently knew his business, and held them in with a firm hand. The
wagon was jogging along where the road was very narrow, and Bartlett
kept his team stolidly in the center of the way.

"Hello, there, Bartlett!" shouted the young man in the buggy; "half the
road, you know--half the road."

"Take it," cried Bartlett over his shoulder.

"Come, come, Bartlett, get out of the way, or I'll run you down."

"You just try it."

Bartlett either had no sense of humor or his resentment against his
young neighbor smothered it, since otherwise he would have recognized
that a heavy wagon was in no danger of being run into by a light and
expensive buggy. The young man kept his temper admirably, but he knew
just where to touch the elder on the raw. His sister's hand was placed
appealingly on his arm. He smiled, and took no notice of her.

"Come, now, you move out, or I'll have the law on you."

"The law!" roared Bartlett; "you just try it on."

"Should think you'd had enough of it by this time."

"Oh, don't, don't, Henry!" protested the girl in distress.

"There aint no law," yelled Bartlett, "that kin make a man with a load
move out fur anything."

"You haven't any load, unless it's in that jug."

Yates saw with consternation that the jar had been jolted out from
under its covering, but the happy consolation came to him that the two
in the buggy would believe it belonged to Bartlett. He thought,
however, that this dog-in-the-manger policy had gone far enough. He
stepped briskly forward, and said to Bartlett:

"Better drive aside a little, and let them pass."

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