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Two Christmases
by
“That’s not like you, Malcolm. You can’t make a man good that way, any more’n you can a dog by beatin’ him,” chimed in his old mother. “I guess you’ll go along with him, even to-morrow, if so be he wishes it.”
“S’pose I will, Mother, but–“
“Course you would,” said his father proudly. “They’ve never known a McCrea yet on this coast that would let even a dog starve. But there’s a barrel of flour in our cellar which we can live without. Maybe it’s t’ kind of Christmas greeting t’ poor fellow needs.”
“If you says so, it’s all right, Father,” said Malcolm, “and, seeing it’s a good hundred miles to Mr. Norman’s house, I guess I’ll go along, anyhow, in t’ morning and let my beauties help them half-fed pups of his, or it’ll be Old Christmas Day before his kids get a bite out of it.”
Only the joy of the first tobacco for weeks was keeping the worn-out man from being fast asleep when Malcolm again took a chair beside him.
“I’ve got to make a round south to-morrow, Mr. Norman,” he began, “and it would be a pity if you had to be going t’ other way. Father says he has a barrel of flour in t’ cellar you can have and pay for it when youse can. So if that’ll suit, I’d like to give you a hand some part of t’ way, especially as there’ll be a few gallons of molasses to carry also if you’ll take ’em.”
Gratitude is a rare grace. The lack of it was one of the costly defects in Roderick’s character. No longer hungry, sitting before a good fire with a well-filled pipe, even the cunning which usually supplies the vacancy failed him; and Malcolm had to force himself to put down to exhaustion the ungracious way in which his real sacrifice was accepted.
In spite of hard work, they had only made thirty miles by sunset the next day, and, there being no shelter, they were obliged to camp early as light snow was falling. Yet it was a good Christmas night around the blazing fire with the special cheer the old mother had packed into the bread-boxes on their komatik. The following morning they did better, reaching the landwash of a big inlet forty miles farther south by noon. Here Malcolm had decided to turn back, for the remainder of the trail to Long Point lay practically over level ice. Just as they were saying good-bye, however, his quick eye detected something black moving out on the bay.
“A fox, Mr. Norman. Look! A fox! And a black one too. You may be able to pay for that barrel of flour before t’ day’s out.”
They were both good furriers, and their plans were soon laid. The dogs were quickly hitched up to stumps, and, glad of a rest, were easily made to lie down. Alas, the men had only Malcolm’s gun; but it was arranged that he should go out and turn the fox, and Norman, hiding at the third corner of the triangle, should try and shoot it passing or lure it in range down wind.
Things went admirably. Malcolm by a long detour was able to turn the fox from far out without frightening it. Roderick, well hidden, and squeaking like a mouse, tolled it into easy range; and within an hour the two men held in their hands a skin worth at least four hundred dollars. It was agreed, at Roderick’s suggestion, that he should carry it home, as he was nearer the fur-buyers, take the first offer over that sum, and then send the half due by the law of the woods to Malcolm north by the earliest mail-carrier.
Malcolm added as he said good-bye, “I reckon maybe Father will want to let t’ barrel go as good luck on t’ bargain.”
Summer came, and open water with it, but the half value of that skin never arrived. Later, in reply to Malcolm’s enquiry by letter, a note came to say that it was being held for a better price in the fall; and with that he had to be content.