The Black Creek Stopping-House, and Other Stories Part 9

"This is surely a G.o.d-forsaken country that can jerk a storm like this on you in November," the older man declared, as Fred carefully dusted the snow off him, wondering all the time what he was going to do with him.

"Where are you going?" Fred asked, abruptly.

"I want to get to the Black Creek Stopping-House. How far am I from there now?"

"About three miles," said Fred.

"Well, I guess I can walk that far if you'll show me the road."

Fred hesitated.

"I am going to Brandon," he said.

"What is any sane man going to Brandon to-night for?" the stranger cried, impatiently. "Great Scott! I thought I was the only man who was a big enough fool to be out to-night. The driver a.s.sured me of that several times. I guess there's a woman in the case with you, too."

"Did you meet anyone?" Fred asked, quickly. "Not a soul! I tell you you and I are the only crazy ones to-night."

Fred considered a minute.

"I'll take you on your way," he said.

The stranger suddenly remembered something. "I'm a good bit obliged to you, young man, whoever you are. I guess I'd have been here all night if you hadn't come along and heard me. I was beginning to get chilly, too. Is this a blizzard?"

"Yes, I guess it is," Fred answered, shortly, "and it's not improving any, so I guess we had better hurry on."

It was much easier going with the wind, and at first the older man, helped along by Fred, made good progress. Fred knew that every minute the drifts were growing higher and the road harder to keep.

The night grew colder and darker, and the storm seemed to thicken.

"Pretty hard going for an old man of sixty," the stranger said, stopping to get his breath. The storm seemed to choke him.

Soon he begged to be let rest, and when Fred tried to start him again he experienced some difficulty. The cold was getting into his very bones, and was causing a fatal drowsiness.

Fred told him this and urged him to put forth his greatest efforts.

They were now but a mile from Fred's house. Every few minutes the light in the window glimmered through the storm, the only ray of light in the maze of whirling snow which so often thickened and darkened and blotted it out altogether.

When they were about half a mile from the house, the old man, without warning, dropped into the snow and begged Fred to go on without him. He was all right, he declared, warm and comfortable, and wanted to rest.

"You'll freeze to death!" Fred cried. "That's the beginning of it."

"Feel very comfortable," the old man mumbled.

Fred coaxed, reasoned, entreated, but all in vain. He shook the old man, scolded, threatened, but all to no purpose.

There was only one thing to be done.

Fred threw off his own coat, which was a heavy one, and picked the old man up, though he was no light weight, and set off with him.

But the man objected to being carried, and, squirming vigorously, slipped out of Fred's arms, and once more declared his intention of sleeping in the snow.

With his frozen mitten Fred dealt him a stinging blow on the cheek which made him yell with pain and surprise.

"Do what I tell you!" cried Fred.

The blow seemed to rouse him from his stupor, and he let Fred lead him onward through the storm.

When they arrived at Fred's house he put the old man in a rocking- chair, first removing his snowy outer garments, and made sure that he had no frost-bites. Then hastily lighting the fire, which had burned itself out, he made coffee and fried bacon.

When the old man had taken a cup of the coffee he began to take an interest in his surroundings.

"How did I get here?" he asked. "The last thing I remember I was sitting down, feeling very drowsy, and someone was bothering me to get up. Did I get up?"

"Not until I lifted you," said Fred.

"Did you carry me?" the other man asked in surprise.

"I did until you kicked and squirmed so I couldn't hold you."

"What did you do then?" queried his visitor, tenderly feeling his sore cheek.

"I slapped you once, but you really deserved far more," said Fred, gravely.

"What did I do then?"

"You got up and behaved yourself so nicely I was sorry that I hadn't slapped you sooner!"

The old man laughed to himself without a sound.

"What's your name?" he asked.

While this dialogue had been in progress Fred had been studying his companion closely, with a growing conviction that he knew him. He was older, grayer, and of course the storm had reddened his face, but Fred thought he could not be mistaken.

The old man repeated the question.

"Brown!" said Fred, shortly, giving the first name he could think of.

"You're a strapping fine young fellow, Brown, even if you did hit me with your hard mitt, and I believe I should be grateful to you."

"Don't bother," said Fred shortly.

"I will bother," the old man cried, imperiously, with a gesture of his head that Fred knew well; "I will bother, and my daughter will thank you, too."

"Your daughter!" Fred exclaimed, turning his back to pick out another stick for the stove.

"Yes, my girl, my only girl--it's her I came to see. She's living near here. I guess you'd know her: she's married to a no-good Englishman, a real lizzie-boy, that wouldn't say boo to a goose!"

Fred continued to fix the fire, poking it unnecessarily. He was confident that Evelyn's father would not recognize him with his crop of whiskers and sunburnt face. His mind was full of conflicting emotions.

"Maybe you know him," said the old man. "His name is Brydon. They live somewhere near the Stopping-House."