Joan of Arc of the North Woods - Holman Day (best book recommendations .txt) 📗

not!" he blurted--and then marched on with the red flooding beneath his tan.
And though he strove to put all his belief in her word about herself, he was conscious of a persistent doubt, and was angered by it.
"If you please, I'll do the talking to Mr. Brophy--is that his name?--when we reach the hotel," said the girl. "You really do not know me." There was a flash of honesty, she felt, in that statement, and she wanted to be as honest as she could--not wholly a compound of lies in her new role. "It might seem queer, my presenting myself under your indorsement, as if we had been acquainted somewhere else. Gossip up here is easily started, isn't it?"
"It is."
He surrendered her bag to her at the porch, as if his services had been merely the cursory politeness of one who was traveling her way. It was in Latisan's mind to go along to the big house on the ledges and inform Flagg what had been done that day, and glory in the boast that there was a new man in the region who could make a way for himself in spite of Flagg's opinions as to the prowess of an old man.
Latisan was feeling strangely exhilarated. She had come there to stay! Martin Brophy was in the desperate state of need to chain a girl like that one to a table leg in his desire to keep her. And she had announced her own feelings in the matter! She was in the Noda--the girl who had stepped out of his life never to enter it again, so he had feared in his lonely ponderings. He was in the mood of a real man at last! He was resolved to take no more of Echford Flagg's contumely. He was heartsick at the thought of starting north and leaving her in the tavern, to be the object of attentions such as that cheap drummer man bestowed when he passed them on the street.
The plea of the lady of the tavern parlor had made merely a ripple in his resolves. He had not thought of her or her proposition during that busy day.
Now he was wondering whether the fight for Flagg--the struggle against Craig, even for vengeance, was worth while.
Lida was having no difficulty in locating the landlord. He stood just beyond the dining-room door and was proclaiming that he was the boss and was shaking his fist under the nose of a surly youth who had allowed several dishes to slide off a tray and smash on the floor.
"Do you want to hire a waitress from the city?" she demanded.
"You bet a tin dipper I do," snapped back Brophy.
"I'm ready to begin work at once. If you'll show me my room----"
"You go up one flight, by them stairs there, and you pick out the best room you can find--the one that suits you! That's how much I'm willing to cater to a city waitress. And you needn't worry about wages."
"I shall not worry, sir." She hurried up the stairs.
The hostler-waiter slammed down the tray with an ejaculation of thankfulness. Brophy picked up the tray and banged it over the youth's head. "You ain't done with the hash-wrassling till she has got her feet placed. Sweep up that litter, stand by to do the heavy lugging, and take your orders from her and cater to her--cater!"
Latisan, lingering on the porch, had hearkened and observed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dingy glass of the door. He scrubbed his hand doubtfully over his beard. Then he turned and hurried away.
The single barber shop of Adonia was only a few yards from the door of the tavern. There was one chair in the corner of a pool room.
Latisan overtook a man in the doorway and yanked him back and entered ahead.
"I'm next!" shouted the supplanted individual.
"Yes, after me!" declared Latisan, grimly. He threw himself into the chair. "Shave and trim! Quick!"
The barber propped his hands on his hips. "What's the newfangled idea of shedding whiskers before the drive is down?"
"Shave!" roared Latisan. "And if you're more than five minutes on the job I'll carve my initials in you with your razor."
So constantly did he apostrophize the barber to hurry, wagging a restless jaw, that blood oozed from several nicks when the beard had been removed.
"I've got a pride in my profession, just the same as you have in your job," stormed the barber when Latisan refused to wait for treatment for the cuts. "And I don't propose to have you racing out onto the streets----"
But the drive master was away, obsessed by visions of that fresh drummer presuming further in his tactics with the new waitress. The barber, stung to defense of his art, grabbed a towel and a piece of alum and pursued Latisan along the highway and into the tavern office, cornered the raging drive master, and insisted on removing the evidences which publicly discredited good workmanship. The affair was in the nature of a small riot.
The guests who were at table in the dining room stared through the doorway with interest. The new waitress, already on her job, gave the affair her amused attention. Especially absorbed was the sullen youth who halted in the middle of the room, holding a loaded tray above his head. In his abstraction he allowed the tray to tip, and the dishes rained down over Crowley, who was seated directly under the edge of the tray.
Latisan strode in and took his seat at the small table with the city stranger while Brophy was mopping the guest off; the city chap had received his food on his head and in his lap.
The waitress came and stood demurely at one side, meeting the flaming gaze of the Vose-Mern man with a look that eloquently expressed her emotions. "Shall I repeat the order?"
"Don't be fresh!" snarled Crowley.
Latisan rapped his knuckles on the table warningly. "Be careful how you talk to this lady!"
"What have you got to say about it?" The stout chap started to rise.
But Latisan was up first. He leaned over and set his big hand, fingers outspread like stiff prongs, upon the man's head, and twisted the caput to and fro; then he drove the operative down with a thump in his chair. "This is what I've got to say! Remember that she is a lady, and treat her accordingly, or I'll twist off your head and take it downstreet and sell it to the bowling-alley man."
It was plain that the girl was finding a piquant relish in the affair.
From the moment when she came down the stairs and took the white apron which Brophy handed to her she had ceased to be the city-wearied girl. It was homely adventure, to be sure, but the very plainness of it, in the free-and-easy environment of the north woods, appealed to her sense of novelty. There was especial zest for her in this bullyragging of Crowley by the man who was to be victim of the machinations by the Vose-Mern agency. Her eyes revealed her thoughts. The city man opened his mouth. He promptly shut it and turned sideways in his chair, his back to Latisan. Detective Crowley was enmeshed in a mystery which he could not solve just then. What was the confidential secretary doing up there?
The girl smiled down on her champion--an expansive, charming, warming smile. "I thank you! What will you have?"
She surveyed his face with concern; his countenance was working with emotion. In her new interest, she noted more particularly than in the New York cafeteria, that he apparently was, in spite of what Craig had said, a big, wholesome, naive chap who confessed to her by his eyes, then and there, that he was honestly and respectfully surrendering his heart to her, short though the acquaintance had been, and she was thrilled by that knowledge. She was not responding to this new appeal, she was sure, but she was gratified because the man was showing her by his eyes that he was her slave, not merely a presumptuous conquest of the moment, after the precipitate manner of more sophisticated males.
She repeated her question.
It was evident enough what Latisan wanted at that moment, but he had not the courage to voice his wishes in regard to her; he had not enough self-possession left to state his actual desires as to food, even. There was one staple dish of the drive; he was heartily sick of that food, but he could not think of anything else right then.
"Bub--bub--beans!" he stuttered.
She hurried away.
When she returned with her tray she did not interrupt any conversation between the two men at the little table; the Vose-Mern man still had his back turned on Latisan; the drive master sat bolt upright in a prim attitude which suggested a sort of juvenile desire to mind his manners.
The girl's eyes were still alight with the spirit of jest. She placed steak and potatoes and other edibles in front of Latisan. She gave the gentleman from the agency a big bowl of beans.
"I didn't order those!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I must have got my orders mixed."
"You have! You've given that"--he stopped short of applying any epithet to Latisan--"you've given him my order!"
"Won't you try our beans--just once? The cook tells me they were baked in the ground, woodman style."
"Then give 'em to the woodsmen--it's the kind of fodder that's fit for 'em."
Latisan leaned across the table and tugged Crowley's sleeve. "Look me in the eye, my friend!" The man who was exhorted found the narrowed, hard eyes very effective in a monitory way. "I don't care what you eat, as a general thing. But you have just slurred woodsmen and have stuck up your nose at the main grub stand-by of the drive. You're going to eat those beans this lady has very kindly brought. If you don't eat 'em, starting in mighty sudden, I'll pick up that bowl and tip it over and crown you with it, beans and all. Because I'm speaking low isn't any sign I don't mean what I say!"
The beans were steaming under the stout man's nose. He decided that the heat would be better in his stomach than on the top of his head; he had just had one meal served that way. He devoured the beans and marched out of the dining room, his way taking him past the sideboard where the new waitress was skillfully arranging glasses after methods entirely different from those of the sullen youth.
"Don't jazz the game any more--not with _me_," growled Crowley, fury in his manner. "And I want to see you in private."
She stiffened, facing him. She knew that Latisan's earnest eyes were on her. She assumed the demeanor of a girl who was resentfully able to take care of herself, playing a part for the benefit of the drive master. "Attend strictly to your end of the program, Crowley!"
"What do you mean--my end?"
"Protecting me from insults by these rough woodsmen. I suppose you are doing the same for Miss Elsham." Her irony was biting. He scowled and put his face close to hers.
"If you're up here on the job--it's not a lark. It's a case of he-men in these parts. If you're not careful you'll start something you can't stop."
"Keep away from me. They're watching us. You're bungling your part wretchedly. Can't you understand that I'm on the case, too?"
She had planned her action, forestalling possibilities as well as she was able. She was determined to be bold, trusting to events as they developed.
"You will kindly remember that I'm on this case along with you, and you can't make me jump through