CHAPTER XXII
All Night Work
The bear was dragged into the cabin. Jack picked out a bent stick of round wood, and with an axe quickly sharpened its ends into points, making of it a "gambrel" stick, about two and a half feet long. Inserting its sharpened ends under the big tendons of the animal's hind legs, he had him ready to hang up for dressing. Meantime, another of the boys had driven another stick in between two of the upper logs of the cabin, letting its end protrude a foot or two into the cabin. Four of the boys seized the bear, which weighed not much less than two hundred pounds, and after some exertion succeeded in hanging it, head downwards, upon this stick. Then, with sharp knives, they set to work to skin it.
"Oh stop!" cried Ed. "I know a better plan than that. If you wait to skin the bear, we sha'n't get any meat to eat before morning. Treat him as a butcher treats a deer or calf. Cut him open, and give me the heart, liver and kidneys to cook, and you can skin him afterwards just as well as before. In the meantime I'll be getting supper."
The boys were much too nearly famished to dispute over any suggestion that promised to hurry meal time, so they did at once what Ed had bidden them do. They ripped the animal open, removed the viscera, detached the heart, liver and kidneys, and delivered them into Ed's hands.
Ed washed them and cut them into small bits, discarding the gristle-like linings of the heart. Then he put the whole mass into the kettle in which the beans were cooking, adding a goodly piece of the bear's fat and a pint or two of water.
"It'll be a new dish," he muttered to himself – "'bear giblets and beans'. But if I'm not mistaken nobody in this company will hesitate to eat of it."
"I say, fellows," he called out presently, "save every ounce of that fat! We'll need it for cooking purposes if ever we get anything besides bear beef to cook."
"By the way, Tom," said Jack, as he worked at the task of skinning the bear, "how did this fellow come to be prowling around our cabin?"
"He was hungry, like the rest of us," answered Tom. "The snow has cut off his customary sources of supply, so he set out, precisely as I intended to do in the morning, to find something to eat. Bears always do that when the snow is heavy. They have often gone down, in hard winters, to the Piedmont region – sometimes as far as Amelia or Powhatan county. They are searching for something to eat – corn in a crib if they can get at it, or pork in a barrel, or a robust boy if they can't get anything better. This fellow was hunting for anything he could find, and, unluckily for him, he found me, with my rifle. What a splendid gun that is, by the way, Doctor! Every shot I fired at the big beast went right through him and hurtled off into the air beyond."
"That's the nitro powder," said the Doctor.
"By which you mean – what?" asked Tom.
"Why, nitro powder is smokeless powder. It is mainly composed of nitro-glycerine, and it has an explosive force many times greater than that of ordinary gunpowder. That is what gives to the guns that are loaded with it so much greater a range than ordinary guns have. You see, it starts the bullet with a vastly greater velocity than that of a bullet propelled by the explosion of ordinary gunpowder, and so the missile goes very much faster, with very much more force, and in a much straighter line, and the gun is more accurate and greatly deadlier in its aim."
"Well, now I want to say," interrupted Ed, "that I've got a supper ready which will go to the spot with a much surer aim than any bullet ever did in the world."
The boys responded instantly, as a matter of course. They were literally starving, or so nearly so, that they afterwards confessed that they had had great difficulty in resisting the temptation, while skinning the bear, to cut off mouthfuls of the meat and consume it raw.
There was, of course, no criticism, therefore, upon Ed's new dish of "bear giblets and beans," and not until the last morsel of it was consumed, did any boy in the party relinquish his assiduous attention to it.
"Now," said Jack, "we can go to work again. To-morrow, we'll dig the house out of the snowdrift any how."
"Yes," said Tom, "and as I needn't go hunting now, I'll help in that. The snow has settled a good deal by its own weight now and it will settle a good deal more before morning."
"Why?" asked Ed.
"Because it is raining," said Tom, "and nothing settles snow like a drizzling rain."
"It is now two o'clock," said Jack, "and I for one am going to bed."
"Better sit up for half an hour longer," said the Doctor.
"Why?" asked Jack.
"Because our stomachs are full. They have been seriously weakened by several days of starvation, and are apt to do their work rather badly for a time. Let's give them a chance."
"But, Doctor," said Jack, "I have noticed that all the animals lie down and sleep as soon as they have fed heartily. Why isn't it a good thing for men to do the same thing? Men are after all, animals on one side of their nature."
"Yes, I know," said the Doctor, "and I have known physicians to argue in that way in favor of late suppers. But experience hardly bears out the argument. A man may sleep well on a heavy meal, but often he gets up with a bad taste in his mouth and with a morbid craving for food, which means that he hasn't properly assimilated the food that he has already eaten."
"What do you mean by 'assimilating' food?" asked Tom, adding: "I'm afraid you'll think me very ignorant."
"Not at all," replied the Doctor. "Most people don't understand that. You see, there are two distinct processes by which we turn food to account in building up our bodies, making strength and heat, and generally carrying on the processes of life. One of those processes is digestion, and the other assimilation. Digestion simply reduces the food which we have eaten to a condition in which it can be assimilated. By assimilation certain organs of the body take up the food thus prepared for them, convert it into blood and send it through the system to nourish it. In the passage of the blood through the arteries and veins, it leaves deposits of muscle here, fat there, bone in another place, and so on. This is a very rude statement of the matter, but it is sufficient to show you what I mean, at least in a general way. Very well. It does a man no good whatever to digest his food if he doesn't assimilate it. No matter how perfectly the stomach does its work, the body is not nourished unless the organs charged with the function of assimilating the digested food do theirs also. Once, in a hospital, I saw a little baby die of actual starvation, although it had an abundance of food, and digested it perfectly. It simply could not assimilate."
"But what has that to do with our going to bed at two o'clock in the morning?" asked Jack, who was disposed to be a trifle cross as the result of the long starvation and strain.
"Only this," answered the Doctor, "that unless we give our weakened stomachs a little chance to digest our food properly before we go to sleep, the process of assimilation will be very imperfectly performed and we shall not be as perfectly nourished as we need to be. Still, I think we might safely go to bed now," added the Doctor, "as the half hour is gone, and it is now two thirty" – looking at his watch.
With that the exhausted company prepared for bed. Jim Chenowith was the first to approach the bunks, under which the earthen floor was a little lower than in the rest of the cabin. As he did so, having slipped off his boots, Jim called out:
"Hello! What's this? I say, fellows, we have a creek here under our beds!"
A hasty examination confirmed his statement. There was a vigorous stream of water running directly under the bunks, and worse still, as an exploration with torches soon revealed, the water was not only running in under the lower logs of the hut, but was also pouring through every opening it could find in the chinking of the walls above, and streaming into the bunks.
The Doctor hastily went outside to study conditions and, returning, said:
"There's a terrific rain on, boys, and the thermometer stands at fifty. So the snow is melting rapidly, and the two things together – the rain and the melting snowdrift – are flooding us."
Tired and sleepy as Jack was, he rose instantly to the occasion.
"There's no sleep for us to-night, boys!" he said. "We must go to work at once and dig the house out of the snowdrift. Get some fatwood torches ready and let's go to work."
The boys responded quickly, and presently all of them except Ed, whom the Doctor forbade to do any further work that involved strenuous physical exertion, were engaged in shoveling the snow away from the house and opening a passageway around it fully eight feet wide.
By daylight this was accomplished. It put an end to the inflow of water through the chinking of the upper logs; but, as Tom expressed it, there was still "a young river" flowing into the house, from the bottom of the snow bank, underneath the lower logs of the hut. Not only was all the warm rain flowing through the snow bank, but in its passage it was dissolving a great deal of the snow, and so the volume of water flowing out at the bottom and running into the house was quite double that which the rain itself would have supplied.
"We ought to have made a bank of earth around the lower part of the cabin," said the Doctor, after studying the situation for a time.
"True," said Jack, "but we had no tools with which to do it. Neither have we any now. So I don't see what is to be done."
"I do!" said Tom, the alert of mind. "I do, and it is perfectly simple."
"What's your idea, Tom?" asked Jack.
"Why, to make the snow protect us against itself."
"But how?"
"Why, by building a little snow bank between the big snow bank and the house, hammering it into solid ice, with our mauls, and in that way making a ditch that will carry off the water around the end of the house and down over the cliff."
"That's a superb idea, Tom," said Jack, "and we'll get to work at it at once. I'd give the proceeds of all my winter's work for a head half as good as yours, Tom."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Tom. "My head isn't of much account. It is only that I look straight at things and try to use common sense."
"Yes," said the Doctor, "and that is what we call 'genius' in science. It is the men who 'look straight at things and try to use common sense' who do the great things in science. Darwin did that, and so did Asa Gray, and Edison, and Agassiz, and all the rest of them. Scientific genius is nothing in the world but common sense, reinforced by a habit of observation."
But there was no further time for talk. The boys quickly built a low snow embankment between their house and the great snowdrift, and beat it down with their mauls, into a condition of solid ice. With this barrier to aid them they succeeded in compelling the water from the rain and the melting snow to flow in a sort of ditch around their house, and to cease flowing through it.
Inside, however, the condition of things was deplorable. The earthen floor under the bunks was a mud hole. The broom straw that constituted the beds was soaking wet, and the task of drying it promised to be no easy one.
"We've simply got to sleep on hard clapboards for two or three nights," said Ed.
"Well, what of that?" asked Tom, "I've often slept on much harder beds than clapboards make."
"For example?" asked Jim.
"Well, I've slept on big rocks for one thing."
"Why did you do that? Why didn't you sleep on the softer ground?"
"Because the softer ground was much too soft, being mud. I've slept on two rails placed about eight inches apart, with one end stuck into a fence so as to keep me out of the mud, and a pretty good bed rails make. Finally, I have slept on the worst bed there is in the world."
"What is that?"
"Why, a pile of pebbles. That's the very worst there is, but you can sleep on it, if you've got to. Now, let's have some breakfast, Ed, and after devouring a proper quantity of bear steak, I'll show you fellows how a healthy fellow who has worked all night can sleep on clapboards in spite of the daylight that the Doctor's rag windows are letting in, now that we've shoveled the snow away from them."
Ed had breakfast already well under way. It was to consist solely of bear steak and coffee, for coffee was their one supply which was not exhausted, and during the starving time they would hardly have endured their hunger but for that resource.
"But," said Jack, as they ate their breakfast, "what are we going to do with that bear meat? It won't keep long in this soft weather. By the way, Jim, throw another stick on the fire. It's cold."
"So it is," said the Doctor, who had just come in after a consultation with his scientific instruments. "The thermometer has sunk twenty degrees within the last hour, and stands now at two degrees below freezing. It will go much lower, for the barometer is rising and the wind has shifted to the northwest. We're in for a trip to the Arctic regions without doing any traveling to get there."
"Let's hang the bear out of doors, then," said Jack. "It will freeze there."
"Yes, and every carnivorous animal in these woods will come and eat for us," said Tom, whose authority on the habits of wild creatures was accepted by all the boys as final.
"Besides," said the Doctor, "it isn't necessary. Our bear will freeze hanging just where he is, by the door there."
With that he arose, went outside, and brought in a thermometer, which he pinned to the bear's carcass.
"We're down to twenty-six degrees outside now," he said, "and it is growing steadily colder." Then, after waiting for five minutes, he consulted the thermometer that he had hung upon the bear, and announced:
"It stands at thirty-three degrees – fruit-house temperature."
"What do you mean by 'fruit-house temperature?'" asked Tom.
"Why, don't you know? The houses in which fresh fruits of the summer are preserved for winter use are kept always at a temperature of thirty-three degrees. If the temperature were higher than that, the fruits would ferment and decay. If it were a single degree lower they would freeze – for thirty-two degrees is the freezing point. But at a temperature of thirty-three degrees nothing decays and nothing freezes. So they keep the fruit houses always at that temperature, and they keep fresh strawberries and peaches and all the rest of the fruits all winter in nearly as good condition as when they were picked."
"Well, what do they do with a boy," asked Tom, "who has worked all night and is mightily sleepy, except let him go to bed, even if it is the usual time for going to work, instead? Good morning, and pleasant dreams to all of you."
With that Tom rolled himself up in his blanket and lay down upon the clapboard flooring of his bed, taking a stick of wood with him for a pillow. The rest immediately followed his example and in spite of adverse conditions, they were all presently sound asleep.
CHAPTER XXIII
A Loan Negotiated
"Zero weather, boys, and below," called the Doctor, who was first to wake, about four o'clock that afternoon, and who, before waking the others, had gone out to inspect his weather recording instruments. "The bear hanging here by the door is frozen hard, and so is all the water in the house. So all that want a bath will have to join me in a roll in the snow out there."
With that he shed the scant clothing that he had on him and, rushing out, plunged into a snow bank. The rest, determined not to be out-done in robustness, quickly followed him, and after a vigorous rubbing with their coarse towels, they felt like entirely new persons.
"How glad our friends will be," said Tom, "when they hear that each of us is 'another fellow.'"
"That's an old joke, Tom," responded Ed.
"Yes, to other people, perhaps, but not to this crew of new people, every one of whom has proclaimed himself 'a new man' after that snow bath."
"Now, we can accomplish something," said Jack. "The rain and natural settling have reduced the depth of snow out there where we're chopping to two or three feet, and in this weather the surface of it will be as hard as ice itself. So we'll all drive nails in our heels to-night, as Tom has done with his, and early to-morrow we'll set to work again with the axes."
Ed was already broiling some slices of juicy bear beef, and had a big pot of coffee ready for use. As they ate supper, Harry said:
"This bear beef is delicious, of course, but I would give something pretty if I had an ash cake or a pone of bread to go with it. It may be true that a healthy person can live on meat alone for a good while, but it is a good deal more comfortable to have some bread with it."
"And it is more wholesome, too," said the Doctor. "Man was made to eat a mixed diet, and it isn't well for him to live too long on meat without starchy food, or starchy food without meat. I'm going to observe the effects of this exclusively meat diet on all of us very closely."
"Any how," said Jack, "the Indians, when they go on their big hunting trips or on the war-path, used to live on meat alone for weeks and months at a time. So I don't think we'll starve while our bear lasts, and before it is gone we can depend on Tom to provide something else. Now that the snow is hard, Tom will go prowling about the mountains before many days pass."
"Oh, we shan't starve," said the Doctor. "But it has been a good many days now since we had any bread, and we are all beginning to feel the need of it. The beans we had with our bear giblet stew were a very imperfect substitute for bread, and the quart or so of beans that we have left are not to be used at all so long as we keep fairly well. I'm saving them for hospital diet. How the Doctors in the hospitals would laugh at the suggestion of a bean diet in illness! And yet we may have to come to that for lack of any other starchy food."
"What is it you fear, Doctor?" asked Jack.
"Why, I fear that an exclusive diet of meat may result in some sort of inflammation or other disturbance of the digestive organs. If that happens, even a few beans, boiled without meat, may save a life. At any rate, I am going to keep the beans for such an emergency."
All this while Tom was taking no part in the conversation. Tom was thinking – "looking straight at things and using common sense." Presently, he took his gun and went out to "take a look at the situation," he said. On his return, he reported that "everything is frozen as hard as a brick, and if the moonshiners ever intend to attack us, now is their time. We must put out a sentinel at once. As I want to think a little I'll take the first turn, and the rest of you fellows can arrange as you like for the other turns."
"One thing I want to suggest," broke in the Doctor. "The cold is intense. The thermometer is considerably below zero. It will be cruel to keep any boy on guard outside for any prolonged time. So I propose that while this weather lasts we run the guard duty in half hour shifts. That will give each boy half an hour out there in the cold, and two hours and a half in which to sleep and get warm before he has to go on duty again."
"It's an excellent idea," said Jack, "and we'll arrange it so."
"All right," said Tom, "only as I am taking the first and best turn, I'll stay out for an hour."
The fact was, though Tom did not mention it, that the boy wanted a full hour in which to think out some plans that he had vaguely conceived. It was always Tom's habit to try to better the conditions in which he was placed, instead of accepting them as inevitable. Whenever anything was wrong and uncomfortable, Tom began asking himself if there might not be some way in which he could make it right and comfortable. He could endure hardship with a plucky resolution that often astonished others; but he never endured hardship without giving all his energies to the task of ridding himself of it if that were possible. It was a familiar saying among those who knew him that "Little Tom Ridsdale never will admit that he is beaten, and so at last he never is beaten."
As Tom paced up and down the platform, stamping his feet and clapping his hands against his sides to keep them from freezing, the Doctor came out with a burning brand to consult his weather instruments. When he had done, Tom called to him, saying:
"Would you mind coming up here for a minute or two, Doctor?"
"No, certainly not," answered the Doctor. "Do you want to go in and warm yourself?"
"No; oh, no," answered Tom, quickly. "I only want to consult you a little."
The Doctor mounted the platform, and after some hesitation, Tom asked:
"Do you happen to have any more money in your pockets, Doctor?"
"Yes, of course. I always keep a little money with me."
"Would you mind lending me two dollars in the common interest of the company, I giving you an order on our paymaster down below for that amount, to be paid to you out of my share when we collect?"
"Yes," answered the Doctor. "I would mind that very much. In fact, I positively decline to lend you any money on any such terms, Tom. But if you want some money, be it two dollars, or ten, simply as from one friend to another, and without any 'orders' on paymasters, you can have it."
Tom understood, and he did not contest the point. He pressed the Doctor's hand and said:
"Well, then, let me have two dollars, please?"
"Make it five," said the Doctor.
"No," answered Tom. "Two dollars will be quite enough. Somebody in the mountains might murder me for five dollars. And, besides, nobody up there could change the bill. So, if you will let me have two one dollar bills I shall be grateful."
"What are you going to do, Tom? Nothing rash, I hope."
"I don't know yet what I'm going to do," answered Tom. "And please don't say anything to the other boys about it. I'll be gone from here when they get up in the morning. Maybe I'll bring back some game. You see that bear won't last very long with six hearty men eating three meals a day off it, with no other food to help fill up."
The Doctor saw that Tom did not want to talk of his plans – it was always Tom's way to keep such things to himself – and so he asked no more questions, but went to the doorway for light, selected two one dollar bills, and returning, placed them in Tom's hand. Then Tom said:
"Now, Doctor, you fellows are not to worry about me if I don't turn up when you expect me. I shall probably be away from camp for several days – may be a week, or possibly even more than that. Don't worry, in any case. Remember that I know how to take care of myself."
The Doctor promised, but it was with much of apprehension in his mind. He saw that Tom was looking forward to his projected expedition with a good deal less of confident hope than he usually manifested on such occasions, and he gravely feared that the boy was planning to take some serious, if not even desperate, risk. He knew that Tom was daring to a fault, and that when he had formed a purpose he pursued it to its ultimate accomplishment or failure, with no regard whatever to the risks run, except that prudent forethought and circumspection which might enable him to avoid threatened evils.