The Son of the Wolf, Jack London [the lemonade war series .txt] 📗

“Don’t you budge from those dishes!” commanded Parker.

“I say, Sandy⁠—there’s a good fellow⁠—just run down to the Missouri Camp and borrow some cinnamon,” begged Lake.

“Oh! oh! hurry up! Why don’t”⁠—but the crash of meat and boxes, in the cache, abruptly quenched this peremptory summons.

“Come now, Sandy; it won’t take a minute to go down to the Missouri⁠—”

“You leave him alone,” interrupted Parker. “How am I to mix the biscuits if the table isn’t cleared off?”

Sandy paused in indecision, till suddenly the fact that he was Langham’s “man” dawned upon him. Then he apologetically threw down the greasy dishcloth, and went to his master’s rescue.

These promising scions of wealthy progenitors had come to the Northland in search of laurels, with much money to burn, and a “man” apiece. Luckily for their souls, the other two men were up the White River in search of a mythical quartz-ledge; so Sandy had to grin under the responsibility of three healthy masters, each of whom was possessed of peculiar cookery ideas. Twice that morning had a disruption of the whole camp been imminent, only averted by immense concessions from one or the other of these knights of the chafing-dish. But at last their mutual creation, a really dainty dinner, was completed. Then they sat down to a three-cornered game of “cutthroat,”⁠—a proceeding which did away with all casus belli for future hostilities, and permitted the victor to depart on a most important mission.

This fortune fell to Parker, who parted his hair in the middle, put on his mittens and bearskin cap, and stepped over to Malemute Kid’s cabin. And when he returned, it was in the company of Grace Bentham and Malemute Kid⁠—the former very sorry her husband could not share with her their hospitality, for he had gone up to look at the Henderson Creek mines, and the latter still a trifle stiff from breaking trail down the Stuart River. Meyers had been asked, but had declined, being deeply engrossed in an experiment of raising bread from hops.

Well, they could do without the husband; but a woman⁠—why, they had not seen one all winter, and the presence of this one promised a new hegira in their lives. They were college men and gentlemen, these three young fellows, yearning for the flesh-pots they had been so long denied. Probably Grace Bentham suffered from a similar hunger; at least, it meant much to her, the first bright hour in many weeks of darkness.

But that wonderful first course, which claimed the versatile Lake for its parent, had no sooner been served than there came a loud knock at the door.

“Oh! Ah! Won’t you come in, Mr. Bentham?” said Parker, who had stepped to see who the newcomer might be.

“Is my wife here?” gruffly responded that worthy.

“Why, yes. We left word with Mr. Meyers.” Parker was exerting his most dulcet tones, inwardly wondering what the deuce it all meant. “Won’t you come in? Expecting you at any moment, we reserved a place. And just in time for the first course, too.”

“Come in, Edwin, dear,” chirped Grace Bentham from her seat at the table.

Parker naturally stood aside.

“I want my wife,” reiterated Bentham hoarsely, the intonation savoring disagreeably of ownership.

Parker gasped, was within an ace of driving his fist into the face of his boorish visitor, but held himself awkwardly in check. Everybody rose. Lake lost his head and caught himself on the verge of saying, “Must you go?”

Then began the farrago of leave-taking. “So nice of you”⁠—“Awfully sorry”⁠—“By Jove! how things did brighten”⁠—“Really now, you”⁠—“Thank you ever so much”⁠—“Nice trip to Dawson”⁠—etc.

In this wise the lamb was helped into her jacket and led to the slaughter. Then the door slammed, and they gazed woefully upon the deserted table.

“Damn!” Langham had suffered disadvantages in his early training, and his oaths were weak and monotonous. “Damn!” he repeated, vaguely conscious of the incompleteness and vainly struggling for a more virile term.

It is a clever woman who can fill out the many weak places in an inefficient man, by her own indomitability, reinforce his vacillating nature, infuse her ambitious soul into his, and spur him on to great achievements. And it is indeed a very clever and tactful woman who can do all this, and do it so subtly that the man receives all the credit and believes in his inmost heart that everything is due to him and him alone.

This is what Grace Bentham proceeded to do. Arriving in Dawson with a few pounds of flour and several letters of introduction, she at once applied herself to the task of pushing her big baby to the fore. It was she who melted the stony heart and wrung credit from the rude barbarian who presided over the destiny of the P.C. Company; yet it was Edwin Bentham to whom the concession was ostensibly granted. It was she who dragged her baby up and down creeks, over benches and divides, and on a dozen wild stampedes; yet everybody remarked what an energetic fellow that Bentham was. It was she who studied maps, and catechised miners, and hammered geography and locations into his hollow head, till everybody marveled at his broad grasp of the country and knowledge of its conditions. Of course, they said the wife was a brick, and only a few wise ones appreciated and pitied the brave little woman.

She did the work; he got the credit and reward. In the Northwest Territory a married woman cannot stake or record a creek, bench, or quartz claim; so Edwin Bentham went down to the Gold Commissioner and filed on Bench Claim 23, second tier, of French Hill. And when April came they were washing out a thousand dollars a day, with many, many such days in prospect.

At the base of French Hill lay Eldorado Creek, and on a creek claim stood the cabin of Clyde Wharton. At present he was not washing out a diurnal thousand dollars; but his dumps grew, shift by shift, and there would come a