The Tale of Timber Town

Benjamin smiled his broadest, and began to rake together the charred sticks scattered over the floor.

“This is my only trouble,” he said. “To yank my firewood in here is heart-breaking; that and swagging tucker from town.”

“Where’s the smoke go to?” Jake looked into the inky blackness above.

“Don’t know. Never asked. I guess it finds its way somewhere, for after I’ve hung my blanket over the doorway and lighted the fire, I sometimes notice that the bats which live overhead buzz round and then clear out somewhere. I imagine that there’s a passage which connects with the open air. Some day, perhaps, an over-earnest policeman will drop on our heads. Then there’ll be a picnic, eh?”

“What I want, just at present,” said Jake, “is a drink.”

“That’s another of my troubles,” replied the goldsmith. “I have to fetch my water from outside, but it’s lovely water when you’ve got it.”

He placed his bag of gold in a corner. “Don’t put all your eggs into one basket,” he said. “I believe in Jacob’s plan – divide your belongings. If I’m caught here, I have the plant in town. If I’m caught in town, I have the plant here. Anyhow, the police can’t get everything.”

“An’ where do I come in?” The eyes of the rabbit-faced youth peered into his master’s.

“I don’t precisely know. I don’t think you come in at all.”

“Then what about that gold in the safe, boss?”

“The key is here.” Benjamin slapped his pocket gently. “But, if you’re a good boy you shall have my business, and be the boss goldsmith of Timber Town.”

“Honest injin?”

“Perfectly honest. If I get away with my gold, all I leave behind is yours.”

“Shake hands on it.”

“Certainly,” said the goldsmith, and he held out his hand.

Jake took it in his.

“It’s a bargain,” he said.

“That’s right; a bargain.”

“I’ll help you to get away with your gold, and you’ll leave me your business, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“That’s exactly it,” said the goldsmith, taking up an empty “billy” from the ground. “Now we’ll go and get the water for our tea.”

CHAPTER XXV

Fishing

A case of bottling-plums, the bloom still on their purple cheeks, stood on the kitchen table. Beside it stood Rose, her arms bare to the elbows, and a snowy apron flowing from breast to ankle. Marshalled in regular array in front of the case, stood a small army of glass jars, which presently were to receive the fruit.

In a huge preserving-pan a thick syrup was simmering on the stove; and Rose had just begun to place the fruit in this saccharine mixture, when a succession of knocks, gentle but persistent, was heard coming from the front door.

“Oh, bother,” said Rose, as she paused with a double handful of plums half way between the fruit-case and the stove. “Who can that be?”

Again the knocking resounded through the house.

“I suppose I must go,” said Rose, placing the fruit carefully in the pan, and then, slipping off her flowing apron, she went hurriedly to the front door.

There stood the pretty figure of Rachel Varnhagen, dressed in billowy muslin, a picture hat which was adorned with the brightest of ribbons and artificial flowers, and the daintiest of shoes. Her sallow cheeks were tinged with a carmine flush, her pearly teeth gleamed behind a winning smile, and a tress of glossy hair, escaped from under her frail head-dress, hung bewitchingly upon her shoulder.

“Oh, how do you do?” she exclaimed effusively, as she closed her silk parasol. “I look an awful guy, I know; but there’s such a wind, that I’ve almost been blown to pieces.”

It was the first time that Rose’s humble roof had had the privilege of sheltering the daughter of the rich Jew.

“I’m afraid I hardly expected you.” The Pilot’s daughter looked frankly and with an amused smile at Rachel. “I’m in the middle of bottling fruit. Do you mind coming into the kitchen? – the fruit will spoil if I leave it.”

Leading the way, she was followed by her pretty caller, who, in all her glory, seated herself on a cane-bottomed chair in the kitchen, and commenced to gossip.

“I’ve such news,” she said, tapping the pine floor with the ferrule of her parasol. Rose continued to transfer her plums to the preserving-pan. “I expect you heard of the dreadful experience I had with that horrid, drunken digger who caught me on the foot-bridge – everybody heard of it. Who do you think it was that saved me?”

She waited for Rose to risk a guess.

“I suppose,” said the domestic girl, her arms akimbo as she faced her visitor, “I should think it ought to have been Mr. Zahn.”

“Oh, him!” exclaimed Rachel, disgustedly. “I’ve jilted him – he was rude to Papa.”

“Then who could it be?” Rose placed more plums in the preserving-pan.

“You ought to know.” Just the trace of a pout disfigured Rachel’s pretty mouth. “He’s a friend of yours, I believe; a very great friend, indeed.”

“I’ve a good many friends.” The preserving-pan was now full, and Rose sat down, to wait a few minutes till the fruit should be ready for bottling.

“Papa is simply in love with him. He says he can never repay him. And how he laughed when I told him that my gallant rescuer threw the digger into the water! Can’t you guess who it is, now?”

Rose was silent.

“Really, I think this stupid cooking and jam-making has made you silly. Why don’t you work in the morning, and go out in the afternoon to see your friends?”

Rose turned her blue eyes on her visitor. They distinctly said, “What business is that of yours?” But her lips said, “Now, really, how can I?”

“When a girl’s engaged” – Rachel sighed as she spoke – “she doesn’t care much about society.”

Rose smiled.

“At least that was the way with me.” Rachel’s carmine lips gave a little quiver at the corners. “I suppose you feel like that.”

“Me? I feel just as usual.”

“But you’re so English, nothing would disturb you.”

Rose laughed aloud. “I should shriek if a digger touched me,” she said.

“But it was almost worth the fright, dear.” Rachel leaned forward confidentially. “First, he put me on his horse, and we forded the river together; then, he took me home and was so kind. I do think you’re such a lucky girl.”