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Updated: June 16, 2025
Over behind the stove was a tall, awkward boy with carroty hair and small, dark eyes set much aslant in the saddest of faces. Mrs. Raften said, "Come, Sam, and shake hands with Yan."
The young generation had almost no Irish accent, but all had sifted down to the peculiar burring nasal whine of the backwoods Canadian. Mr. and Mrs. Raften met Yan at the station. They had supper together at the tavern and drove him to their home, where they showed him into the big dining-room living-room kitchen.
"Sounds to me like Sam talking through Yan's face," added Raften, shrewdly taking in the situation. "I'll see fur meself." Arrived at the camp, he asked: "Now, whayer's yer dam to be? Thar? That's no good. It's narrer but it'd be runnin' round both ends afore ye had any water to speak of. Thayer's a better place, a bit wider, but givin' a good pond. Whayer's yer logs? Thayer?
As it was, the change was quite marked and the genial old witch called loudly on Biddy to see with her own eyes how quickly she had helped young Raften "afther all the dochters in the country hed giv him up." "Now for Caleb Clark, Esq., Q.C.," said Sam. "Q.C.?" inquired his friend. "Some consider it means Queen's Counsel, an' some claims as it stands for Queer Cuss. One or other maybe is right."
It did not come that day, but at breakfast next morning Raften looked straight at Yan across the table, and evidently thinking hard about something, said: "Yahn, this yer room is twenty foot by fifteen, how much ilecloth three foot wide will it call fur?" "Thirty-three and one-third yards," Yan said at once. Raften was staggered.
It was Raften who brilliantly solved this frightful mathematical problem and discovered a doughty champion in the thin, bright-eyed child. "Yahn," he said, offering him a two-foot rule, "can ye tell me how many foot of air is in this room for every scholar when the seats is full?" "You mean cubic feet?"
Old Caleb, though soured by trouble and hot-tempered, had a kind heart; he resisted for a moment the first impulse to slam the door in their faces; then as he listened he fell into the tempter's snare, for it was baited with the subtlest of flatteries. He said to Yan: "Is your name Raften?" "No, sir." "Air ye owt o' kin?" "No, sir."
His bonds were cut, not slipped. How could he nave gotten away without help? "Never mind," said Raften. "That three-fingered hand is aisy to follow. Caleb, ain't that Bill Hennard?" "I reckon." The men had a long talk. Caleb told of the loss of his revolver he was still living in the house with the Pogues then and of its recovery.
The accent of the Sangerite was mixed. First, there was a rich Irish brogue with many Irish words; this belonged chiefly to the old folks. The Irish of such men as Raften was quite evident in their speech, but not strong enough to warrant the accepted Irish spelling of books, except when the speaker was greatly excited.
"It's come at last," thought Yan, for the schoolhouse was on the road to the railroad station. But why did not Raften say "the station"? He was not a man to mince words. Nothing was said about his handbag either, and there was no room for it in the buggy anyway. Raften drove in silence. There was nothing unusual in that. At length he said: "Yahn, what's yer father goin' to make of ye?"
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