The strike at Too Dry

Minutes passed, during which Ducky dozed, slumped low in the front seat, and when Dog finally came and climbed over into his place slowly, the face which Ducky opened his eyes on, was drawn and sober.

“You remember that I had a sister,” Dog said at last. “I don’t often speak of her.”

“Uh-huh!”

“Married an artist guy.”

“They’re never no good.”

“Not generally, but this one wasn’t so bad, take him altogether. Used to draw waterfalls and such, but he gave it up. Now he makes pretty pictures for toothpowder ads.”

“Uh-huh! What about it?”

“Well, they had a son, named after me--Percival Bigelow James. I got a letter from my sister. Seems he’s turned out bad.”

“That so?” Ducky roused himself into a sitting position. This was better. “Rob a bank or something?”

Dog shook his head.

“Nope. Turned poet.”

“Good gosh!” Ducky slumped again. Dog went on with it.

“He must be about twenty-five or -six years old now. You remember when we were in Klondike we got a letter from my sister about her having a kid, and I made him a nugget watchchain.”

“Oh, yes. You bummed most of those nuggets off me. But what about it? Ten minutes ago you were in a tooting hurry to get home, and now you sit here drooling like a new calf.”

“I’m breaking it to you gently,” said Dog. “Fact is, Ducky, this letter says the boy’s health aint been any too good. Threatened with T.B., I reckon, though she don’t come right out with it. My sister wants this Percival to come out and pay us a visit.”

“Huh?”

“Yea-ah. I’ll read you the finish of it.” He pulled the letter from the pocket of his shirt, shucked the many closely written leaves from the envelope and read the concluding sentences. “‘And so, because I know that you would refuse, yet dare not give you an opportunity to refuse, I have arranged for Percy to start West on the day after mailing this letter, and of course you will arrange to meet him; and while your life must be rude and living-quarters of the roughest, we are sure that the change will be just what he needs. We have bought his ticket and berth and shall furnish him with funds to pay for meals and incidentals, but he must work and earn and stay with you until he has earned enough to bring him home again. This is part of our plan--a return to health, and the necessary discipline to make a man of him.’”

“Good gosh!” Ducky sat bolt upright now. “This letter came yesterday. That means he’ll be here on today’s stage?”

“That’s it,” said Dog. There was nothing more to be said. When things happen to people, things happen to them, and that’s all there is to it.

They summoned courage, finally, to discuss details. He could sleep in the loft--up there with Spud Dugan, the man-of-all-work about the place. Spud wouldn’t like it, and the boy wouldn’t care for Spud’s snoring, but they would have to put up with one another. He probably smoked tailor-made cigarettes. Ducky went to get a carton. He probably would be one of those fellows that’s always got to be washing himself. Dog went to buy some white soap, and then, remembering something, bought a dozen cakes of laundry soap as well. Time for the stage any time now, and presently it came, in an enveloping swirl of gray dust--a big truck, with an extra seat crosswise behind the driver, and the back end filled with freight.

“Here he is,” bawled Duke Envers, the driver, and added to the slim youngster at his side: “There’s your uncle over there, him with the face like a bench bull.”

The young man climbed down, stiffly. He wore a flappy hat that had been pearl-colored, tweed knickerbockers, and boots of that golden yellow shade peculiar to New York outfitting shops.

“He’s got a couple of bags that was made from a cow apiece,” added Duke, “and they’s a crate of mail-order stuff for you, Dog.”

Percival stepped forward, blinking in the strong light. Dog, swallowing hard, strode toward him and shook hands with a heartiness at which the visitor cried out.

“My partner, Ducky Spence,” said Dog. Percy nodded, his right hand safely behind his back. Ducky went for the bags, and presently returned, staggering.

“Don’t forget that mail-order stuff,” Duke Envers bawled to Dog, climbing back over the freight. “It’s here in the hind end. I’ll hand it down. Looks like a washing-machine to me.”

He handed it down, and Dog carried it to the Ford, lifted it over the side and snugged it in, between the back and front seats, on top of sundry supplies. The stranger and Ducky followed, Ducky swaying under the grips, his legs moving with that strange waddle which had given him his moniker. Dog lifted the grips, plunking them down on the back seat, which they completely filled.

“Maybe we better eat first,” he suggested. “It’s a good forty mile, and the road’s a bit rough in spots. What do you say?” This last to nephew Percival.

“What does it matter? What does anything matter?” squeaked Percival.

Dog looked at him, looked at Ducky. Ducky looked at Percival, looked at Dog. It was worse than they had feared.