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Updated: June 16, 2025
Welton's round, red face was puckered to a wistful and comically pathetic twist, as he looked across at the serious manly young fellow. Bob looked away. "That's just what makes it hard," he managed to say at last; "I'd like to go on with you. We've gotten on famously. But I can't. This isn't my work." Welton laboured in vain to induce him to change his mind.
At one place six or eight were picking away busily at a jam that had formed bristling quite across the river. Bob would have liked to stop to watch; but Welton's practised eye saw nothing to it. "They're down to the key log, now," he pronounced. "They'll have it out in a jiffy."
From that moment all Welton's anxiety seemed to vanish. It became unbearably evident that he looked on all this as the romance of youth. Bob felt himself suddenly reduced, in the lumberman's eyes, to the status of the small boy who wants to be a cowboy, or a sailor, or an Indian fighter. Welton looked on him with an indulgent eye as on one who would soon get enough of it.
That much responsibility was lifted from Bob's shoulders. He might have known! Of the four dangerous elements of his problem one was thus unexpectedly, almost miraculously, relieved. Remained, however, poor Welton's implication in the bribery matter, and Pollock's danger. Bob could not count in himself.
"First you get me into trouble; then you fire my head man; then you run off with my property; finally you tell me to go to hell! Son, you are a great man! Shake!" Bob whirled in surprise to search Welton's good-natured jolly face. The latter was smiling. "Shake," he repeated, relapsing, as was his habit when much in earnest, into his more careless speech; "you done just right.
Welton's wife was what modern occult philosophers call a 'Sensitive. In 1851, he wished her to try an experiment with the rod in a garden, and sent a maid-servant to bring 'a certain stick that stood behind the parlour door. In great terror she brought it to the garden, her hand firmly clutched on the stick, nor could she let it go . . . The stick was given to Mrs.
Welton's face was a dull gray, ludicrously streaked, and he suspected himself of being in the same predicament. A boy took the horses, and the travellers entered the picketed enclosure. Welton lifted up his great rumbling voice. "O Auntie Belle!" he roared. Within the dark depths of the house life stirred. In a moment a capable and motherly woman had taken them in charge.
"If you find them, leave them by the chimbley," said he. "I'm going to headquarters." Bob rode to the mill. By the exercise of some diplomacy he brought the conversation to good lawyers without arousing Welton's suspicions that he could have any personal interest in the matter. "Erbe's head and shoulders above the rest," said Welton. "He has half the business.
Then he feels his responsibility, keeps sober and drives his men well. But I'm scared he won't take this little drive serious. If he gets one drink in him, it's all off!" "I shouldn't think it would pay to put such a man in charge," said Bob, more as the most obvious remark than from any knowledge or conviction. "Wouldn't you?" Welton's eyes twinkled.
Along the street the dense velvet shade of the maples threw the sidewalks into impenetrable blackness. Sounds carried clearly. From the Welton's, down the street, came the tinkle of a mandolin and an occasional low laugh from the group of young people that nightly frequented the front steps. Tree toads chirped in unison or fell abruptly silent as though by signal.
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