to the Tarleton homestead, he could not personally have enjoyed the occupancy of it. An officer with a warrant of extradition is waiting in the corridor to take him back to Iowa. ‘Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein.’”
Black Salmon
DURBAN NEW BRUNSWICK CANADA
SALMON RUN DOWNSTREAM JUST STARTING IN NIPSICODIAC STOP BETTER HUMP IT
ANGUS OGILVY
Mr. Tutt handed the telegram to Minerva Wiggin.
“I’m off!”
“But this is only April,” she protested. “Besides, salmon run upstream in spring, not down.”
“Not always. In some rivers they get trapped by the ice and can’t get back to the ocean. When it breaks up the following spring, they bolt for the sea—‘black salmon’ they call ’em.”
“There’s something queer about the whole business,” remarked the chief clerk. “Doesn’t the Canadian law prohibit salmon fishing until June?”
“In most rivers, but not in the Nipsi. For some reason—political, I fancy—it’s an exception. Not many fishermen know about it, luckily.”
“You’ll freeze to death in the woods this time of year,” she warned him.
“My dear Minerva,” he answered patiently, “I never went on a fishing trip yet that I didn’t have a good time. So be a good girl and wire Angus to engage a cook and meet the Halifax Express tomorrow afternoon. Don’t worry. I’ll catch something.”
She made a face at him. “Pneumonia, probably.”
The spring had been well advanced in New York, but Mr. Tutt stepped out of the sleeper at Durban, New Brunswick, into the depth of the Canadian winter.
“We had quite a warm spell last fortnight,” said Angus, greeting him on the station platform. “Enough to start the ice in the Nipsi, but it looks now as if we were in for more cold weather.”
“Did you hire a cook?”
“Yes, but I had a tough time locatin’ one. Most of the men are off in the lumber camps or loggin’ it on the river. But I found a feller finally, and paid him something in advance. Maybe that was a mistake. Anyhow, he’s promised to meet us at the train tomorrow morning. You better buy yourself some warm clothes.”
“I certainly had!” agreed Mr. Tutt, who was already half frozen. “If you’ll carry those things to the George, I’ll go over to the store and re-outfit myself.”
Mr. Tutt, having purchased a heavy mackinaw and sweater, thick woolen cap and high-laced boots, walked back to the little hotel. Lugging his rod case, he followed the clerk to the sagging corridor above the office.
“Here, Martha!” called the clerk into the darkness beneath the stairs. “Hot water for Number Nine!”
The lawyer stacked his luggage, lit a stogie and looked about him. The room was clean, but the rug was full of holes, the wallpaper discolored and hanging in strips, the ceiling mapped with islands, coast lines and inland seas. Thank heaven he’d only have to stay there one night!
There was a step in the hall outside, a light tap, and an elderly woman in spotless calico entered, carrying a steaming pitcher.
“I’ve brought you some hot water,” she smiled. Mr. Tutt withdrew his hand from his trousers pocket, where he had automatically thrust it. One couldn’t offer a dime to a woman like that. She seemed to be so glad that she could bring him his hot water.
“Thank you! I need it.”
“Mr. McCrea planned last summer to put runnin’ water in all the rooms,” she apologized, placing the pitcher beside the washstand. “But he says now the trade don’t warrant it.”
Her voice was deep-throated, soft and clear, with a faint Scotch burr; her face, of an unusual dignity, was made almost beautiful by her smile.
“Is there anything you want?”
She was like a considerate and interested hostess. She did not once call him “Sir.”
“Let me see!” deliberated Mr. Tutt, wishing that there was. “Do you suppose I could find anyone to sew on this button?”
“Yes, indeed! Let me have it, please.”
“I’ll have to sit here until it comes back.”
“It won’t take me a minute.”
Mr. Tutt shed his old Prince Albert and handed it to her. Not since his boyhood had he seen a woman quite like her. One didn’t find them in cities. He had rarely seen a face that held more appeal for him. Character was written all over it. A chambermaid in this third-class hotel, he perceived that she was a valiant soul. One who had suffered, yet retained her faith in what was good.
“There!” she said, giving him back his coat. “It won’t come off again in a hurry. Do you need anything else?”
“Perhaps you can tell me where Doctor Blake lives?”
“Certainly I can. You go right down Queen Street. Doctor Blake’s is the fourth house on the right.” She glanced at the washstand. “I’ll fetch you a fresh cake of soap.”
“Do you come from around here?” he asked in his customarily friendly tone.
“I’m a ‘Bluenose,’” she laughed. “I was born in Nova Scotia.”
“Worked here long?”
“Only about a week.”
There was no reproof in the brevity of her reply, but there was obviously no reason for her to amplify it.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “I must be going back to my work. I hope you enjoy Durban. It’s a nice place.”
“I’m sure it is. Anyhow, it has nice people in it.”
Outside the door, she paused.
“If you want anything, just call ‘Martha,’” she said.
Ten minutes later, when Mr. Tutt went out to pay his call, he found Martha on her hands and knees beside a pail of soapsuds, scrubbing the grimy little office.
“Martha?” returned Doctor Blake to the old man’s question. “You must mean Martha MacDonald. I heard she’d gone over to the George to work. What about her?”
“Isn’t she a person of unusual refinement to find drudging in such a—if you’ll pardon the word—dump!”
The doctor laughed.
“Go as far as you like about the George, except to ask me to eat there!
