LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter I.

       A Letter with a Surprise in it

       Table of Contents

      The room was full of blue smoke from bacon sizzling on the stove when Philip Earle came in.

      Philip was hungry, but there was a weirdly monotonous reminder of preceding meals in the odor of the bacon that took the edge from his appetite.

      The lamp was doing its best to help both the smoke and the odor that filled the room; any other function it might have had being held in abeyance by the smoke.

      The lamp was on a little shelf on the wall, and under it, half hidden by the smoke, stood another young man bending over the stove.

      There was nothing attractive about the room. It was made of rough boards: walls, floor, and ceiling. The furniture was an old extension table, several chairs, a cheap cot covered with a gray army blanket, and a desk which showed hard usage, piled high with papers and a few books. A wooden bench over by the stove held a tin washbasin and cooking-utensils in harmonious proximity.

      Several coats and hats and a horse-blanket hung on nails driven into the walls. A line of boots and shoes stood against the baseboard. There was nothing else but a barrel and several boxes.

      The table was set for supper: that is, it held a loaf of bread, two cups and knives and spoons, a bag of crackers, a paper of cheese, a pitcher of water, and a can of baked beans newly opened.

      Philip added to the confusion already on the table by throwing his bundles down at one end. Then he stood his whip in one corner, and tossed his felt hat across the room to the cot, where it lay as if accustomed to staying where it landed.

      "A letter for you, Steve!" he said as he sat down at the table and ran his hands wearily through his thick black hair.

      Stephen Halstead emerged from the cloud of smoke by the stove, and examined the postmark on the letter.

      "Well, I guess it can wait till we've had supper," he said carelessly. "It's not likely to be important. I'm hungry!" and he landed a large plate of smoking bacon and shriveled, blackened, fried eggs on the table beside the coffeepot, and sat down.

      They began to eat, silent for the most part, with keen appetites, for both had been in the open air all day. Stephen knew that his partner would presently report about the sale of cattle he had made, and tell of his weary search for several stray animals that had wandered off. But that could wait.

      Philip, however, was thinking of something else. Perhaps it was the texture of the envelope he had just laid down, or the whiff of violet scent that had breathed from it as he took it from his pocket, that reminded him of old days; or perhaps it was just that he was hungry and dissatisfied.

      "Say, Steve," said he, setting down his empty cup, "do you remember the banquet in '95?"

      A cloud came over Stephen's face. He had reasons to remember it of which his friend knew not.

      "What of it?" he growled.

      "Nothing; only I was thinking I would like to have the squabs and a few other little things I didn't eat that night. They wouldn't taste bad after a day such as we've had."

      He helped himself to another piece of cheese, and took another supply of baked beans.

      Stephen laughed harshly. He did not like to be reminded of that banquet night. To create a diversion, he reached out for the letter.

      "This is from that precious sister of mine, I suppose," he said, "who isn't my sister at all, and yet persists every once in a while in keeping up the appearance. I don't know what she ever expects to make out of it. I haven't anything to leave her in my will. Besides, I don't answer her letters once in an age."

      "You're a most ungrateful dog," said Philip. "You ought to be glad to have someone in the world to write to you. I've often thought of advertising for somebody who'd be a sister to me, at least enough of one to write to me. It would give a little zest to life. I don't see why you have such a prejudice against her. She never did anything. She couldn't help it that her mother was your father's second wife. It wasn't her affair, at all, nor yours either, as I see. When did you see her last?"

      "Never saw her but once in my life, and then she was a little, bawling, red thing with long clothes, and everybody waiting on her."

      "How old were you?"

      "About ten," said Stephen doggedly, not joining in the hilarious laughter that Philip raised at his expense. "I was old enough to resent her being there at all, in my home, where I ought to have been, and her mother managing things and having me sent off to boarding-school

Скачать книгу