The Snow-Burner. Henry Oyen

turned to hang the card on a hook.

      “So you were listening when Reivers was talking to me, were you?” said Toppy. “Did you listen after he went out?”

      “Mebbe,” grunted Tilly. “Mebbe so; mebbe no.” And with this she turned and waddled back into the living-quarters in the rear of the store.

      Toppy looked after her dumbfounded.

      “Huh!” he said to himself. “I’ll bet two to one that Reivers knows all about what we said before morning. I suppose that will mean something doing pretty quick. Well, the quicker the better.”

CHAPTER VII—THE SNOW-BURNER’S CREED

       Table of Contents

      When Toppy returned to the room in the rear of the blacksmith-shop he found Campbell waiting impatiently.

      “Eh, lad, but you’re the slow one!” greeted the gruff old Scot as Toppy entered. “You’re set a record in this camp; no man yet has been able to consume so much time getting a pair of blankets from the wannigan. Dump ’em in yon bunk in the corner and set the table. I’ll have supper in a wink and a half.”

      Toppy obediently tossed his blankets into the bunk indicated and turned to help to the best of his ability. The place now was lighted generously by two large reflector-lamps hung on the walls, and Toppy had his first good view of the room that was to be his home.

      He was surprised at its neatness and comfort. It was a large room, though a little low under the roof, as rooms have a habit of being in the North. In the farthest corner were two bunks, the sleeping-quarters. Across the room from this, a corner was filled with well filled bookshelves, a table with a reading-lamp, and two easy chairs, giving the air of a tiny library. In the corner farthest from this was the cook-stove, and in the fourth corner stood an oilcloth-covered table with a shelf filled with dishes hung above it. Though the rough edges of hewn logs shown here and there through the plaster of the walls, the room was as spick and span as if under the charge of a finicky housewife. Old Campbell himself, bending over the cook stove, was as astonishing in his own way as the room. He had removed all trace of the day’s smithing and fairly shone with cleanliness. His snow-white hair was carefully combed back from his wide forehead, his bushy chin-whiskers likewise showed signs of water and comb, and he was garbed from throat to ankles in a white cook’s apron. He was cheerfully humming a dirge-like tune, and so occupied was he with his cookery that he scarcely so much as glanced at Toppy.

      “Now then, lad; are you ready?” he asked presently.

      “All ready, I guess,” said Toppy, giving a final look at the table.

      “You’ve forgot the bread,” said Campbell, also looking. “You’ll find it in yon tin box on the shelf. Lively, now.” And before Toppy had dished out a loaf from the bread-box the old man had a huge platter of steak and twin bowls of potatoes and turnips steaming on the table.

      “We will now say grace,” said Campbell, seating himself after removing the big apron, and Toppy sat silent and amazed as the old man bowed his head and in his deep voice solemnly uttered thanks for the meal before him.

      “Now then,” he said briskly, raising his head and reaching for a fork as he ended, “fall to.”

      The meal was eaten without any more conversation than was necessary. When it was over, the blacksmith pushed his chair leisurely back from the table and looked across at Toppy with a quizzical smile.

      “Well, lad,” he rumbled, “what would ye say was the next thing to be done by oursel’s?”

      “Wash the dishes,” said Toppy promptly, taking his cue from the conspicuous cleanliness of the room.

      “Aye,” said Campbell, nodding. “And as I cook the meal——”

      “I’m elected dish-washer,” laughed Toppy, springing up and taking a large dish-pan from the wall. He had often done his share of kitchen-work on hunting-trips, and soon he had the few dishes washed and dried and back on the shelf again. Campbell watched critically.

      “Well enough,” he said with an approving jerk of his head when the task was completed. “Your conscience should be easier now, lad; you’ve done something to pay for the meal you’ve eaten, which I’ll warrant is something you’ve not often done.”

      “No,” laughed Toppy, “it just happens that I haven’t had to.”

      “ ‘Haven’t had to!’ ” snorted Campbell in disgust. “Is that all the justification you have? Where’s your pride? Are you a helpless infant that you’re not ashamed to let other people stuff food into your mouth without doing anything for it? I suppose you’ve got money. And where came your money from? Your father? Your mother? No matter. Whoever it came from, they’re the people who’ve been feeding you, but by the great smoked herring! If you stay wi’ David Campbell you’ll have a change, lad. Aye, you’ll learn what it is to earn your bread in the sweat of your brow. And you’ll bless the day you come here—no matter what the reason that made you come, and which I do not want to hear.”

      Toppy bowed courteously.

      “I’ve got no come-back to that line of conversation, Mr. Campbell,” he said good-naturedly. “Whenever anybody accuses me of being a bum with money I throw up my hands and plead guilty; you can’t get an argument out of me with a corkscrew.”

      Old Campbell’s grim face cracked in a genial smile as he rose and led the way to the corner containing the bookshelves.

      “We will now step into the library,” he chuckled. “Sit ye down.”

      He pushed one of the easy chairs toward Toppy, and from a cupboard under the reading-table drew a bottle of Scotch whisky of a celebrated brand. Toppy’s whole being suddenly cried out for a drink as his eyes fell on the familiar four stars.

      “Say when, lad,” said Campbell, pouring into a generous glass. “Well?” He looked at Toppy in surprise as the glass filled up. Something had smitten Toppy like a blow between the eyes——“How can nice boys like you throw themselves away?” And the pity of the girl as she had said it was large before him.

      “Thanks,” said Toppy, seating himself, “but I’m on the wagon.”

      The old smith looked up at him shrewdly from the corners of his eyes.

      “Oh, aye!” he grunted. “I see. Well, by the puffs under your eyes ye have overdone it; and for fleeing the temptations of the world I know of no better place ye could go to than this. For it’s certain neither temptations nor luxuries will be found in Hell Camp while the Snow-Burner’s boss.”

      “Now you interest me,” said Toppy grimly. “The Snow-Burner—Hell-Camp Reivers—Mr. Reivers—the boss. What kind of a human being is he, if he is human?”

      Campbell carefully mixed his whisky with hot water.

      “You saw him manhandle Rosky?” he asked, seating himself opposite Toppy.

      “Yes; but it wasn’t manhandling; it was brute-handling, beast-handling.”

      “Aye,” said the Scot, sipping his drink. “So think I, too. But do you know what Reivers calls it? An enlightened man showing a human clod the error of his ways. Oh, aye; the Indians were smart when they named him the Snow-Burner. He does things that aren’t natural.”

      “But who is he, or what is he? He’s an educated man, obviously—‘way above what a logging-boss ought to be. What do you know about him?”

      “Little enough,” was the reply. “Four year ago I were smithing in Elk Lake Camp over east of here, when Reivers came walking into camp. That was the first any white men had seen of him around these woods, though afterward we learned he’d lived long enough with the Indians to earn the name