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    The Trail of the Hawk
    The Trail of the Hawk
    The Trail of the Hawk
    Ebook459 pages7 hours

    The Trail of the Hawk

    By Sinclair Lewis

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    About this ebook

    This volume contains Sinclair Lewis's 1915 novel, "The Trail of the Hawk: A Comedy of the Seriousness of Life". The story revolves around the life of Carl Ericson and follows him through his early life to maturity. This humorous and masterfully-written novel will appeal to those with a penchant for the comic, and it is not to be missed by fans and collectors of Sinclair's work. Harry Sinclair Lewis (1885 - 1951) was an American novelist, short-story writer, and playwright. He became the first American author to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1930. Many vintage texts such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive, and it is with this in mind that we are republishing this book now, in an affordable, high-quality, modern edition. It comes complete with a specially commissioned biography of the author.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateJun 8, 2015
    ISBN9781473375147
    The Trail of the Hawk
    Author

    Sinclair Lewis

    Sinclair Lewis (1885–1951) was the first American writer to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. In 1926 Lewis’s novel Arrowsmith garnered the Pulitzer Prize, which the author refused. His work has been lauded for its critical insight into capitalism and materialist culture in America. 

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      Book preview

      The Trail of the Hawk - Sinclair Lewis

      THE TRAIL OF THE HAWK

      A Comedy Of The Seriousness Of Life

      by

      SINCLAIR LEWIS

      Copyright © 2013 Read Books Ltd.

      This book is copyright and may not be

      reproduced or copied in any way without

      the express permission of the publisher in writing

      British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      Contents

      Sinclair Lewis

      Part I.

      THE ADVENTURE OF YOUTH

      CHAPTER I

      CHAPTER II

      CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER IV

      CHAPTER V

      CHAPTER VI

      CHAPTER VII

      CHAPTER VIII

      CHAPTER IX

      CHAPTER X

      CHAPTER XI

      CHAPTER XII

      Part II.

      THE ADVENTURE OF ADVENTURING

      CHAPTER XIII

      CHAPTER XIV

      CHAPTER XV

      CHAPTER XVI

      CHAPTER XVII

      CHAPTER XVIII

      CHAPTER XIX

      CHAPTER XX

      CHAPTER XXI

      CHAPTER XXII

      CHAPTER XXIII

      Part III.

      THE ADVENTURE OF LOVE

      CHAPTER XXIV

      CHAPTER XXV

      CHAPTER XXVI

      CHAPTER XXVII

      CHAPTER XXVIII

      CHAPTER XXIX

      CHAPTER XXX

      CHAPTER XXXI

      CHAPTER XXXII

      CHAPTER XXXIII

      CHAPTER XXXIV

      CHAPTER XXXV

      CHAPTER XXXVI

      CHAPTER XXXVII

      CHAPTER XXXVIII

      CHAPTER XXXIX

      CHAPTER XL

      CHAPTER XLI

      CHAPTER XLII

      Sinclair Lewis

      Sinclair Lewis was born in Sauk Centre, Minnesota, USA in 1885. A lonely and socially awkward child, Lewis tried unsuccessfully to run away from home, before entering Yale University in 1903. It was here that, in the Yale Courant and the Yale Literary Magazine, Lewis had his first works – mostly romantic poetry and short sketches – published. After graduating, he drifted for a while, while continuing to write, and sold shallow, popular stories to magazines. In 1912, he published a potboiler called Hike and the Aeroplane, before producing three serious novels: Our Mr. Wrenn: The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man (1914), The Trail of the Hawk: A Comedy of the Seriousness of Life (1915), and The Job (1917).

      In 1920, while living in Washington D.C., Lewis had his first major success with the novel Main Street. Selling around two million copies within a few years, it catapulted Lewis into fame and riches, and he followed it with the critically acclaimed Babbitt (1922), and Arrowsmith (1925) – for which he received, but refused, the Pulitzer Prize. Lewis went on to publish more than ten more novels, as well as a vast amount o short fiction. His 1929 novel Dodsworth was adapted into a highly successful film, and in 1930 Lewis became the first American author to ever win the Nobel Prize in Literature. His 1947 novel, Kingsblood Royal, is seen as an early and powerful contribution to the then burgeoning Civil Rights Movement. Lewis died in Rome, aged 65, from advanced alcoholism.

      The cold breeze enlivened them, the sternness of the swift, cruel river and miles of brown shore made them gravely happy.

      Part I.

      THE ADVENTURE OF YOUTH

      CHAPTER I

      arl Ericson was being naughty. Probably no boy in Joralemon was being naughtier that October Saturday afternoon. He had not half finished the wood-piling which was his punishment for having chased the family rooster thirteen times squawking around the chicken-yard, while playing soldiers with Bennie Rusk.

      He stood in the middle of the musty woodshed, pessimistically kicking at the scattered wood. His face was stern, as became a man of eight who was a soldier of fortune famed from the front gate to the chicken-yard. An unromantic film of dirt hid the fact that his Scandinavian cheeks were like cream-colored silk stained with rose-petals. A baby Norseman, with only an average boy’s prettiness, yet with the whiteness and slenderness of a girl’s little finger. A back-yard boy, in baggy jacket and pants, gingham blouse, and cap whose lining oozed back over his ash-blond hair, which was tangled now like trampled grass, with a tiny chip riding grotesquely on one flossy lock.

      The darkness of the shed displeased Carl. The whole basic conception of work bored him. The sticks of wood were personal enemies to which he gave insulting names. He had always admired the hard bark and metallic resonance of the ironwood, but he hated the poplar—popple it is called in Joralemon, Minnesota. Poplar becomes dry and dusty, and the bark turns to a monstrously mottled and evil greenish-white. Carl announced to one poplar stick, I could lick you! I’m a gen’ral, I am. The stick made no reply whatever, and he contemptuously shied it out into the chickweed which matted the grubby back yard. This necessitated his sneaking out and capturing it by stalking it from the rear, lest it rouse the Popple Army.

      He loitered outside the shed, sniffing at the smoke from burning leaves—the scent of autumn and migration and wanderlust. He glanced down between houses to the reedy shore of Joralemon Lake. The surface of the water was smooth, and tinted like a bluebell, save for one patch in the current where wavelets leaped with October madness in sparkles of diamond fire. Across the lake, woods sprinkled with gold-dust and paprika broke the sweep of sparse yellow stubble, and a red barn was softly brilliant in the caressing sunlight and lively air of the Minnesota prairie. Over there was the field of valor, where grown-up men with shiny shotguns went hunting prairie-chickens; the Great World, leading clear to the Red River Valley and Canada.

      Three mallard-ducks, with necks far out and wings beating hurriedly, shot over Carl’s head. From far off a gun-shot floated echoing through forest hollows; in the waiting stillness sounded a rooster’s crow, distant, magical.

      I want to go hunting! mourned Carl, as he trailed back into the woodshed. It seemed darker than ever and smelled of moldy chips. He bounced like an enraged chipmunk. His phlegmatic china-blue eyes filmed with tears. Won’t pile no more wood! he declared.

      Naughty he undoubtedly was. But since he knew that his father, Oscar Ericson, the carpenter, all knuckles and patched overalls and bad temper, would probably whip him for rebellion, he may have acquired merit. He did not even look toward the house to see whether his mother was watching him—his farm-bred, worried, kindly, small, flat-chested, pinch-nosed, bleached, twangy-voiced, plucky Norwegian mother. He marched to the workshop and brought a collection of miscellaneous nails and screws out to a bare patch of earth in front of the chicken-yard. They were the Nail People, the most reckless band of mercenaries the world has ever known, led by old General Door-Hinge, who was somewhat inclined to collapse in the middle, but possessed of the unusual virtue of eyes in both ends of him. He had explored the deepest cañons of the woodshed, and victoriously led his ten-penny warriors against the sumacs in the vacant lot beyond Irving Lamb’s house.

      Carl marshaled the Nail People, sticking them upright in the ground. After reasoning sternly with an intruding sparrow, thus did the dauntless General Door-Hinge address them:

      Men, there’s a nawful big army against us, but le’s die like men, my men. Forwards!

      As the veteran finished, a devastating fire of stones enfiladed the company, and one by one they fell, save for the commander himself, who bowed his grizzled wrought-steel head and sobbed, The brave boys done their duty.

      From across the lake rolled another gun-shot.

      Carl dug his grimy fingers into the earth. Jiminy! I wisht I was out hunting. Why can’t I never go? I guess I’ll pile the wood, but I’m gonna go seek-my-fortune after that.

      Since Carl Ericson (some day to be known as Hawk Ericson) was the divinely restless seeker of the romance that must—or we die!—lie beyond the hills, you first see him in action; find him in the year 1893, aged eight, leading revolutions in the back yard. But equally, since this is a serious study of an average young American, there should be an indication of his soil-nourished ancestry.

      Carl was second-generation Norwegian; American-born, American in speech, American in appearance, save for his flaxen hair and china-blue eyes; and, thanks to the flag-decked public school, overwhelmingly American in tradition. When he was born the typical Americans of earlier stocks had moved to city palaces or were marooned on run-down farms. It was Carl Ericson, not a Trowbridge or a Stuyvesant or a Lee or a Grant, who was the typical American of his period. It was for him to carry on the American destiny of extending the Western horizon; his to restore the wintry Pilgrim virtues and the exuberant, October, partridge-drumming days of Daniel Boone; then to add, in his own or another generation, new American aspirations for beauty.

      They are the New Yankees, these Scandinavians of Wisconsin and Minnesota and the Dakotas, with a human breed that can grow, and a thousand miles to grow in. The foreign-born parents, when they first come to the Northern Middlewest, huddle in unpainted farm-houses with grassless dooryards and fly-zizzing kitchens and smelly dairies, set on treeless, shadeless, unsoftened leagues of prairie or bunched in new clearings ragged with small stumps. The first generation are alien and forlorn. The echoing fjords of Trondhjem and the moors of Finmark have clipped their imaginations, silenced their laughter, hidden with ice their real tenderness. In America they go sedulously to the bare Lutheran church and frequently drink ninety-per-cent. alcohol. They are also heroes, and have been the makers of a new land, from the days of Indian raids and ox-teams and hillside dug-outs to now, repeating in their patient hewing the history of the Western Reserve.... In one generation or even in one decade they emerge from the desolation of being foreigners. They, and the Germans, pay Yankee mortgages with blood and sweat. They swiftly master politics, voting for honesty rather than for hand-shakes; they make keen, scrupulously honest business deals; send their children to school; accumulate land—one section, two sections—or move to town to keep shop and ply skilled tools; become Methodists and Congregationalists; are neighborly with Yankee manufacturers and doctors and teachers; and in one generation, or less, are completely American.

      So was it with Carl Ericson. His carpenter father had come from Norway, by way of steerage and a farm in Wisconsin, changing his name from Ericsen. Ericson senior owned his cottage and, though he still said, Aye ban going, he talked as naturally of his own American tariff and his own Norwegian-American Governor as though he had five generations of Connecticut or Virginia ancestry.

      Now, it was Carl’s to go on, to seek the flowering.

      Unconscious that he was the heir-apparent of the age, but decidedly conscious that the woodshed was dark, Carl finished the pile.

      From the step of the woodshed he regarded the world with plaintive boredom.

      Ir-r-r-r-rving! he called.

      No answer from Irving, the next-door boy.

      The village was rustlingly quiet. Carl skipped slowly and unhappily to the group of box-elders beside the workshop and stuck his finger-nails into the cobwebby crevices of the black bark. He made overtures for company on any terms to a hop-robin, a woolly worm, and a large blue fly, but they all scorned his advances, and when he yelled an ingratiating invitation to a passing dog it seemed to swallow its tail and ears as it galloped off. No one else appeared.

      Before the kitchen window he quavered:

      Ma-ma!

      In the kitchen, the muffled pounding of a sad-iron upon the padded ironing-board.

      Ma!

      Mrs. Ericson’s whitey-yellow hair, pale eyes, and small nervous features were shadowed behind the cotton fly-screen.

      Vell? she said.

      I haven’t got noth-ing to do-o.

      Go pile the vood.

      I piled piles of it.

      Then you can go and play.

      "I been playing."

      Then play some more.

      I ain’t got nobody to play with.

      Then find somebody. But don’t you step vun step out of this yard.

      "I don’t see why I can’t go outa the yard!"

      Because I said so.

      Again the sound of the sad-iron.

      Carl invented a game in which he was to run in circles, but not step on the grass; he made the tenth inspection that day of the drying hazelnuts whose husks were turning to seal-brown on the woodshed roof; he hunted for a good new bottle to throw at Irving Lamb’s barn; he mended his sling-shot; he perched on a sawbuck and watched the street. Nothing passed, nothing made an interesting rattling, except one democrat wagon.

      From over the water another gun-shot murmured of distant hazards.

      Carl jumped down from the sawbuck and marched deliberately out of the yard, along Oak Street toward The Hill, the smart section of Joralemon, where live in exclusive state five large houses that get painted nearly every year.

      I’m gonna seek-my-fortune. I’m gonna find Bennie and go swimming, he vowed. Calmly as Napoleon defying his marshals, General Carl disregarded the sordid facts that it was too late in the year to go swimming, and that Benjamin Franklin Rusk couldn’t swim, anyway. He clumped along, planting his feet with spats of dust, very dignified and melancholy but, like all small boys, occasionally going mad and running in chase of nothing at all till he found it.

      He stopped before the House with Mysterious Shutters.

      Carl had never made b’lieve fairies or princes; rather, he was in the secret world of boyhood a soldier, a trapper, or a swing-brakeman on the M. & D. R.R. But he was bespelled by the suggestion of grandeur in the iron fence and gracious trees and dark carriage-shed of the House with Shutters. It was a large, square, solid brick structure, set among oaks and sinister pines, once the home, or perhaps the mansion, of Banker Whiteley, but unoccupied for years. Leaves rotted before the deserted carriage-shed. The disregarded steps in front were seamed with shallow pools of water for days after a rain. The windows had always been darkened, but not by broad-slatted outside shutters, smeared with house-paint to which stuck tiny black hairs from the paint-brush, like the ordinary frame houses of Joralemon. Instead, these windows were masked with inside shutters haughtily varnished to a hard refined brown.

      To-day the windows were open, the shutters folded; furniture was being moved in; and just inside the iron gate a frilly little girl was playing with a whitewashed conch-shell.

      She must have been about ten at that time, since Carl was eight. She was a very dressy and complacent child, possessed not only of a clean white muslin with three rows of tucks, immaculate bronze boots, and a green tam-o’-shanter, but also of a large hair-ribbon, a ribbon sash, and a silver chain with a large, gold-washed, heart-shaped locket. She was softly plump, softly gentle of face, softly brown of hair, and softly pleasant of speech.

      Hello! said she.

      H’lo!

      What’s your name, little boy?

      Ain’t a little boy. I’m Carl Ericson.

      Oh, are you? I’m——

      I’m gonna have a shotgun when I’m fifteen. He shyly hurled a stone at a telegraph-pole to prove that he was not shy.

      My name is Gertie Cowles. I came from Minneapolis. My mamma owns part of the Joralemon Flour Mill.... Are you a nice boy? We just moved here and I don’t know anybody. Maybe my mamma will let me play with you if you are a nice boy.

      I jus’ soon come play with you. If you play soldiers.... My pa ‘s the smartest man in Joralemon. He builded Alex Johnson’s house. He’s got a ten-gauge gun.

      Oh.... My mamma ‘s a widow.

      Carl hung by his arms from the gate-pickets while she breathed, M-m-m-m-m-m-y! in admiration at the feat.

      That ain’t nothing. I can hang by my knees on a trapeze.... What did you come from Minneapolis for?

      We’re going to live here, she said.

      Oh.

      I went to the Chicago World’s Fair with my mamma this summer.

      Aw, you didn’t!

      I did so. And I saw a teeny engine so small it was in a walnut-shell and you had to look at it through a magnifying-glass and it kept on running like anything.

      Huh! that’s nothing! Ben Rusk, he went to the World’s Fair, too, and he saw a statchue that was bigger ‘n our house and all pure gold. You didn’t see that.

      "I did so! And we got cousins in Chicago and we stayed with them, and Cousin Edgar is a very prominent doctor for eyenear and stummick."

      Aw, Ben Rusk’s pa is a doctor, too. And he’s got a brother what’s going to be a sturgeon.

      I got a brother. He’s a year older than me. His name is Ray.... There’s lots more people in Minneapolis than there is in Joralemon. There’s a hundred thousand people in Minneapolis.

      That ain’t nothing. My pa was born in Christiania, in the Old Country, and they’s a million million people there.

      Oh, there is not!

      Honest there is.

      Is there, honest? Gertie was admiring now.

      He looked patronizingly at the red-plush furniture which was being splendidly carried into the great house from Jordan’s dray—an old friend of Carl’s, which had often carried him banging through town. He condescended:

      Jiminy! You don’t know Bennie Rusk nor nobody, do you! I’ll bring him and we can play soldiers. And we can make tents out of carpets. Did you ever run through carpets on the line?

      He pointed to the row of rugs and carpets airing beside the carriage-shed.

      No. Is it fun?

      It’s awful scary. But I ain’t afraid.

      He dashed at the carpets and entered their long narrow tent. To tell the truth, when he stepped from the sunshine into the intense darkness he was slightly afraid. The Ericsons’ one carpet made a short passage, but to pass on and on and on through this succession of heavy rug mats, where snakes and poisonous bugs might hide, and where the rough-threaded, gritty under-surface scratched his pushing hands, was fearsome. He emerged with a whoop and encouraged her to try the feat. She peeped inside the first carpet, but withdrew her head, giving homage:

      "Oh, it’s so dark in there where you went!"

      He promptly performed the feat again.

      As they wandered back to the gate to watch the furniture-man Gertie tried to regain the superiority due her years by remarking, of a large escritoire which was being juggled into the front door, My papa bought that desk in Chicago——

      Carl broke in, I’ll bring Bennie Rusk, and me and him ‘ll teach you to play soldiers.

      My mamma don’t think I ought to play games. I’ve got a lot of dolls, but I’m too old for dolls. I play Authors with mamma, sometimes. And dominoes. Authors is a very nice game.

      But maybe your ma will let you play Indian squaw, and me and Bennie ‘ll tie you to a stake and scalp you. That won’t be rough like soldiers. But I’m going to be a really-truly soldier. I’m going to be a norficer in the army.

      I got a cousin that’s an officer in the army, Gertie said grandly, bringing her yellow-ribboned braid round over her shoulder and gently brushing her lips with the end.

      Cross-your-heart?

      Um-huh.

      Cross-your-heart, hope-t’-die if you ain’t?

      Honest he’s an officer.

      Jiminy crickets! Say, Gertie, could he make me a norficer? Let’s go find him. Does he live near here?

      Oh my, no! He’s ‘way off in San Francisco.

      Come on. Let’s go there. You and me. Gee! I like you! You got a’ awful pertty dress.

      ’Tain’t polite to compliment me to my face. Mamma says——

      Come on! Let’s go! We’re going!

      Oh no. I’d like to, she faltered, but my mamma wouldn’t let me. She don’t let me play around with boys, anyway. She’s in the house now. And besides, it’s ‘way far off across the sea, to San Francisco; it’s beyond the salt sea where the Mormons live, and they all got seven wives.

      Beyond the sea like Christiania? Ah, ‘tain’t! It’s in America, because Mr. Lamb went there last winter. ‘Sides, even if it was across the sea, couldn’t we go an’ be stow’ways, like the Younger Brothers and all them? And Little Lord Fauntleroy. He went and was a lord, and he wasn’t nothing but a’ orphing. My ma read me about him, only she don’t talk English very good, but we’ll go stow’ways, he wound up, triumphantly.

      Gerrrrrrtrrrrrude! A high-pitched voice from the stoop.

      Gertie glowered at a tall, meager woman with a long green-and-white apron over a most respectable black alpaca gown. Her nose was large, her complexion dull, but she carried herself so commandingly as to be almost handsome and very formidable.

      Oh, dear! Gertie stamped her foot. Now I got to go in. I never can have any fun. Good-by, Carl——

      He urgently interrupted her tragic farewell. Say! Gee whillikins! I know what we’ll do. You sneak out the back door and I’ll meet you, and we’ll run away and go seek-our-fortunes and we’ll find your cousin——

      Gerrrtrrrude! from the stoop.

      Yes, mamma, I’m just coming. To Carl: ’Sides, I’m older ‘n you and I’m ‘most grown-up, and I don’t believe in Santy Claus, and onc’t I taught the infant class at St. Chrysostom’s Sunday-school when the teacher wasn’t there; anyway, I and Miss Bessie did, and I asked them ‘most all the questions about the trumpets and pitchers. So I couldn’t run away. I’m too old.

      "Gerrrtrrrude, come here this instant!"

      Come on. I’ll be waiting, Carl demanded.

      She was gone. She was being ushered into the House of Mysterious Shutters by Mrs. Cowles. Carl prowled down the street, a fine, new, long stick at his side, like a saber. He rounded the block, and waited back of the Cowles carriage-shed, doing sentry-go and planning the number of parrots and pieces of eight he would bring back from San Francisco. Then his father and mother would be sorry they’d talked about him in their Norwegian!

      Carl! Gertie was running around the corner of the carriage-shed. Oh, Carl, I had to come out and see you again, but I can’t go seek-our-fortunes with you, ‘cause they’ve got the piano moved in now and I got to practise, else I’ll grow up just an ignorant common person, and, besides, there’s going to be tea-biscuits and honey for supper. I saw the honey.

      He smartly swung his saber to his shoulder, ordering, Come on!

      Gertie edged forward, perplexedly sucking a finger-joint, and followed him along Lake Street toward open country. They took to the Minnesota & Dakota railroad track, a natural footpath in a land where the trains were few and not fast, as was the condition of the single-tracked M. & D. of 1893. In a worried manner Carl inquired whether San Francisco was northwest or southeast—the directions in which ran all self-respecting railroads. Gertie blandly declared that it lay to the northwest; and northwest they started—toward the swamps and the first forests of the Big Woods.

      He had wonderlands to show her along the track. To him every detail was of scientific importance. He knew intimately the topography of the fields beside the track; in which corner of Tubbs’s pasture, between the track and the lake, the scraggly wild clover grew, and down what part of the gravel-bank it was most exciting to roll. As far along the track as the Arch, each railroad tie (or sleeper) had for him a personality: the fat, white tie, which oozed at the end into an awkward knob, he had always hated because it resembled a flattened grub; a new tamarack tie with a sliver of fresh bark still on it, recently put in by the section gang, was an entertaining stranger; and he particularly introduced Gertie to his favorite, a wine-colored tie which always smiled.

      Gertie, though noblesse oblige compelled her to be gracious to the imprisoned ties writhing under the steel rails, did not really show much enthusiasm till he led her to the justly celebrated Arch. Even then she boasted of Minnehaha Falls and Fort Snelling and Lake Calhoun; but, upon his grieved solicitation, declared that, after all, the Twin Cities had nothing to compare with the Arch—a sandstone tunnel full twenty feet high, miraculously boring through the railroad embankment, and faced with great stones which you could descend by lowering yourself from stone to stone. Through the Arch ran the creek, with rare minnows in its pools, while important paths led from the creek to a wilderness of hazelnut-bushes. He taught her to tear the drying husks from the nuts and crack the nuts with stones. At his request Gertie produced two pins from unexpected parts of her small frilly dress. He found a piece of string, and they fished for perch in the creek. As they had no bait whatever, their success was not large.

      A flock of ducks flew low above them, seeking a pond for the night.

      Jiminy! Carl cried, it’s getting late. We got to hurry. It’s awful far to San Francisco and—I don’t know—gee! where’ll we sleep to-night?

      We hadn’t ought to go on, had we?

      Yes! Come on!

      CHAPTER II

      rom the creek they tramped nearly two miles, through the dark gravel-banks of the railroad cut, across the high trestle over Joralemon River where Gertie had to be coaxed from stringer to stringer. They stopped only when a gopher in a clearing demanded attention. Gertie finally forgot the superiority of age when she saw Carl whistle the quivering gopher-cry, while the gopher sat as though hypnotized on his pile of fresh black earth. Carl stalked him. As always happened, the gopher popped into his hole just before Carl reached him; but it certainly did seem that he had nearly been caught; and Gertie was jumping with excitement when Carl returned, strutting, cocking his saber-stick over his shoulder.

      Gertie was tired. She, the Minneapolis girl, had not been much awed by the railroad ties nor the Arch, but now she tramped proudly beside the man who could catch gophers, till Carl inquired:

      Are you gettin’ awful hungry? It’s a’most supper-time.

      "Yes, I am hungry," trustingly.

      I’m going to go and swipe some ‘taters. I guess maybe there’s a farm-house over there. I see a chimbly beyond the slough. You stay here.

      I dassn’t stay alone. Oh, I better go home. I’m scared.

      Come on. I won’t let nothing hurt you.

      They circled a swamp surrounded by woods, Carl’s left arm about her, his right clutching the saber. Though the sunset was magnificent and a gay company of blackbirds swayed on the reeds of the slough, dusk was sneaking out from the underbrush that blurred the forest floor, and Gertie caught the panic fear. She wished to go home at once. She saw darkness reaching for them. Her mother would unquestionably whip her for staying out so late. She discovered a mud-smear on the side of her skirt, and a shoe-button was gone. She was cold. Finally, if she missed supper at home she would get no tea-biscuits and honey. Gertie’s polite little stomach knew its rights and insisted upon them.

      I wish I hadn’t come! she lamented. I wish I hadn’t. Do you s’pose mamma will be dreadfully angry? Won’t you ‘splain to her? You will, won’t you?

      It was Carl’s duty, as officer commanding, to watch the blackened stumps that sprang from the underbrush. And there was Something, ‘way over in the woods, beyond the trees horribly gashed to whiteness by lightning. Perhaps the Something hadn’t moved; perhaps it was a stump——

      But he answered her loudly, so that lurking robbers might overhear: I know a great big man over there, and he’s a friend of mine; he’s a brakie on the M. & D., and he lets me ride in the caboose any time I want to, and he’s right behind us. (I was just making b’lieve, Gertie; I’ll ‘splain everything to your mother.) He’s bigger ‘n anybody! More conversationally: Aw, Jiminy! Gertie, don’t cry! Please don’t. I’ll take care of you. And if you ain’t going to have any supper we’ll swipe some ‘taters and roast ‘em. He gulped. He hated to give up, to return to woodshed and chicken-yard, but he conceded: I guess maybe we hadn’t better go seek-our-fortunes no more to——

      A long wail tore through the air. The children shrieked together and fled, stumbling in dry bog, weeping in terror. Carl’s backbone was all one prickling bar of ice. But he waved his stick fiercely, and, because he had to care for her, was calm enough to realize that the wail must have been the cry of the bittern.

      It wasn’t nothing but a bird, Gertie; it can’t hurt us. Heard ‘em lots of times.

      Nevertheless, he was still trembling when they reached the edge of a farm-yard clearing beyond the swamp. It was gray-dark. They could see only the mass of a barn and a farmer’s cabin, both new to Carl. Holding her hand, he whispered:

      They must be some ‘taters or ‘beggies in the barn. I’ll sneak in and see. You stand here by the corn-crib and work out some ears between the bars. See—like this.

      He left her. The sound of her frightened snivel aged him. He tiptoed to the barn door, eying a light in the farm-house. He reached far up to the latch of the broad door and pulled out the wooden pin. The latch slipped noisily from its staple. The door opened with a groaning creek and banged against the barn.

      Paralyzed, hearing all the silence of the wild clearing, he waited. There was a step in the house. The door opened. A huge farmer, tousle-haired, black-bearded, held up a lamp and peered out. It was the Black Dutchman.

      The Black Dutchman was a living legend. He often got drunk and rode past Carl’s home at night, lashing his horses and cursing in German. He had once thrashed the school-teacher for whipping his son. He had no friends.

      Oh dear, oh dear, I wisht I was home! sobbed Carl; but he started to run to Gertie’s protection.

      The Black Dutchman set down the lamp. "Wer ist da? I see you! Damnation!" he roared, and lumbered out, seizing a pitchfork from the manure-pile.

      Carl galloped up to Gertie, panting, He’s after us! and dragged her into the hazel-bushes beyond the corn-crib. As his country-bred feet found and followed a path toward deeper woods, he heard the Black Dutchman beating the bushes with his pitchfork, shouting:

      "Hiding! I know vere you are! Hah!"

      Carl jerked his companion forward till he lost the path. There was no light. They could only crawl on through the bushes, whose malicious fingers stung Gertie’s face and plucked at her proud frills. He lifted her over fallen trees, freed her from branches, and all the time, between his own sobs, he encouraged her and tried to pretend that their incredible plight was not the end of the world, whimpering:

      We’re a’most on the road now, Gertie; honest we are. I can’t hear him now. I ain’t afraid of him—he wouldn’t dast hurt us or my pa would fix him.

      Oh! I hear him! He’s coming! Oh, please save me, Carl!

      Gee! run fast!... Aw, I don’t hear him. I ain’t afraid of him!

      They burst out on a grassy woodland road and lay down, panting. They could see a strip of stars overhead; and the world was dark, silent, in the inscrutable night of autumn. Carl said nothing. He tried to make out where they were—where this road would take them. It might run deeper into the woods, which he did not know as he did the Arch environs; and he had so twisted through the brush that he could not tell in what direction lay either the main wagon-road or the M. & D. track.

      He lifted her up, and they plodded hand in hand till she said:

      I’m awful tired. It’s awful cold. My feet hurt awfully. Carl dear, oh, pleassssse take me home now. I want my mamma. Maybe she won’t whip me now. It’s so dark and—ohhhhhh—— She muttered, incoherently: There! By the road! He’s waiting for us! She sank down, her arm over her face, groaning, Don’t hurt me!

      Carl straddled before her, on guard. There was a distorted mass crouched by the road just ahead. He tingled with the chill of fear, down through his thighs. He had lost his stick-saber, but he bent, felt for, and found another stick, and piped to the shadowy watcher:

      I ain’t af-f-fraid of you! You gwan away from here!

      The watcher did not answer.

      I know who you are! Bellowing with fear, Carl ran forward, furiously waving his stick and clamoring: You better not touch me! The stick came down with a silly, flat clack upon the watcher—a roadside boulder. It’s just a rock, Gertie! Jiminy, I’m glad! It’s just a rock!... Aw, I knew it was a rock all the time! Ben Rusk gets scared every time he sees a stump in the woods, and he always thinks it’s a robber.

      Chattily, Carl went back, lifted her again, endured her kissing his cheek, and they started on.

      I’m so cold, Gertie moaned from time to time, till he offered:

      I’ll try and build a fire. Maybe we better camp. I got a match what I swiped from the kitchen. Maybe I can make a fire, so we better camp.

      I don’t want to camp. I want to go home.

      I don’t know where we are, I told you.

      Can you make a regular camp-fire? Like Indians?

      Um-huh.

      Let’s.... But I rather go home.

      "You ain’t scared now. Are you, Gertie? Gee! you’re a’ awful brave girl!"

      No, but I’m cold and I wisht we had some tea-biscuits——

      Ever too complacent was Miss Gertrude Cowles, the Good Girl in whatever group she joined; but she seemed to trust in Carl’s heroism, and as she murmured of a certain chilliness she seemed to take it for granted that he would immediately bring her some warmth. Carl had never heard of the romantic males who, in fiction, so frequently offer their coats to ladies fair but chill; yet he stripped off his jacket and wrapped it about her, while his gingham-clad shoulders twitched with cold.

      I can hear a crick, ‘way, ‘way over there. Le’s camp by it, he decided.

      They scrambled through the brush, Carl leading her and feeling the way. He found a patch of long grass beside the creek; with only his tremulous hands for eyes he gathered leaves, twigs, and dead branches, and piled them together in a pyramid, as he had been taught to do by the older woods-faring boys.

      It was still; no wind; but Carl, who had gobbled up every word he had heard about deer-hunting in the north woods, got a great deal of interesting fear out of dreading what might happen if his one match did not light. He made Gertie kneel beside him with the jacket outspread, and he hesitated several times before he scratched the match. It flared up; the leaves caught; the pile of twigs was instantly aflame.

      He wept, Jiminy, if it hadn’t lighted!... By and by he announced, loudly, I wasn’t afraid, to convince himself, and sat up, throwing twigs on the fire grandly.

      Gertie, who didn’t really appreciate heroism, sighed, I’m hungry and——

      My second-grade teacher told us a story how they was a’ arctic explorer and he was out in a blizzard——

      ——and I wish we had some tea-biscuits, concluded Gertie, companionably but firmly.

      I’ll go pick some hazelnuts.

      He left her feeding the flame. As he crept away, the fire behind him, he was dreadfully frightened, now that he had no one to protect. A few yards from the fire he stopped in terror. He clutched a branch so tightly that it creased his palm. Two hundred yards away, across the creek, was the small square of a lighted window hovering detached in the darkness.

      For a panic-filled second Carl was sure that it must be the Black Dutchman’s window. His tired child-mind whined. But there was no creek near the Black Dutchman’s. Though he did not want to venture up to the unknown light, he growled, I will if I want to! and limped forward.

      He had to cross the creek, the strange creek whose stepping-stones he did not know. Shivering, hesitant, he stripped off his shoes and stockings and dabbled the edge of the water with reluctant toes, to see if it was cold. It was.

      Dog-gone! he swore, mightily. He plunged in, waded across.

      He found a rock and held it ready to throw at the dog that was certain to come snapping at him as he tiptoed through the clearing. His wet legs smarted with cold. The fact that he was trespassing made him feel more forlornly lost than ever. But he stumbled up to the one-room shack that was now shaping itself against the sky. It was a house that, he believed, he had never seen before. When he reached it he stood for fully a minute, afraid to move.

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