Luke Baldwin's Vow Page 7

  “Yes,” Luke said profoundly. “I guess that man was what you call practical. Is that right?”

  “He certainly was practical.”

  “My Uncle Henry is a practical man, too.”

  “Is that a fact?” Mr. Kemp said, smiling to himself.

  “Yes, he’s the most practical man I know.”

  At the stables Joe, the hired man, had driven the cows into the stalls; they could see him sitting on a stool in one of the stalls, a pail under the swollen udder, and he was squeezing the teats expertly. A stream of warm milk spurted in the pail. The whitewashed stalls were very clean, and there was the smell of warm milk, cows and manure mixed with the smell of the bush and the fields in the twilight. Luke seemed to be watching intently the hired man’s expert manipulation of the milk-squirting teats, but in his own mind he could see Uncle Henry dragging a dog along the beach just as Mr. Kemp’s friend Brown had done it, and on his uncle’s face was the same unconcerned expression.

  “You know, Mr. Kemp,” Luke began cautiously, “old Dan there is really a remarkable animal.”

  “Is that a fact, Luke?”

  “Yeah, Dan knows things,” Luke said slowly. He longed to explain what had happened in the woods; to say, “Dan knew I was wondering if my father, like a spirit, could be around here watching me and I’m sure he felt him close to us,” but he was afraid he might be laughed at if he blurted this out. What he wanted from Mr. Kemp was some confirmation of his own feeling.

  “I mean, dogs can hear sounds we can’t hear, isn’t that right?” Luke said earnestly. “I’ve read about high-pitched whistles that men can’t hear and dogs can. Why shouldn’t they be able to see things we can’t see? Sights and sounds. Why shouldn’t they, Mr. Kemp?”

  “Sights and sounds,” old Mr. Kemp said half to himself. “Isn’t that alarming, son?”

  “Not if things are there to see and hear.”

  “Angels and unearthly creatures,” Mr. Kemp said jokingly. “Well, what did the remarkable Dan see and where?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, in the woods,” Luke began, for Mr. Kemp’s smile had put him off. The smile made him feel both lonely and stubborn. He wanted to withdraw with Dan away from the old smiling eyes. “I didn’t say anything about Dan seeing angels,” he said. “I was just asking a question.”

  But the smile had gone from the old man’s face and, nodding seriously, he reached out sympathetically to the boy, for he knew that he had lost his father and that he was lonely and imaginative. “Go on, Luke,” he said. Something in the boy’s guarded tone had moved him. “The world is a very strange place, Luke, and there’s a lot more in it than meets the eye of a man,” he said reassuringly. “Maybe some things meet the eye of a dog that never get into a man’s vision. Oh, there are all kinds of powers that we’ve forgotten thousands of years ago. For instance, Luke, how does a dog find its way home? A sense of direction. A sense of disaster. All big words, Luke, and rely on your own experience.”

  “I know what you mean,” Luke said quickly. He felt he could go on listening forever to this man who could say all the things a boy would like to hear and prove a boy was justified in believing them.

  “A boy or a man has to work a lot of things out for himself,” Mr. Kemp went on. “That’s the way you’ll find it, son. Some people never look to the right or the left and only see what’s under their noses. Life has no mysteries for them. They’re sure of everything. Maybe it’s wise not to be too sure about a dog or a man and the spirit that gets into them.”

  While he had been talking, Mr. Kemp had been stroking Dan’s head gently. Then his heavy-veined brown hand encountered Luke’s hand, which was holding on to Dan’s ear, and they both smiled. “Do you see, Luke,” he said, “it’s hard to say what goes on in this world. You’ll have to use your own eyes and your own imagination.”

  “Sure. That’s what I’ll do,” Luke agreed earnestly.

  He stayed at the stables with Mr. Kemp until it began to get dark, then they said good night.

  Going down the road with Dan, he watched the path of moonlight widening on the bay. They were both tired, and they sauntered along very slowly, Luke dragging his feet, the dog waddling along about a pace behind him. They had had a wonderful time. Now it was good to hear the night birds swooping low and the crickets chirping in the cool grassy ditch. Ahead was the river; from up the river came the soft flowing splash of the dam, and then they were in the big shadow of the silent sawmill, walking in the lights from the windows in the house. And the lights now were friendly, and the whole place was suddenly close to him, for now it seemed that he had begun his own secret satisfactory life with Dan.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Learning To Be Practical

  Luke began to trail around the sawmill after Uncle Henry, not only because he liked the fresh clean smell of the newly cut wood and the big piles of sawdust and the sound of the saw but because he was impressed by Uncle Henry’s precise firm tone when he spoke to the men.

  Sometimes Uncle Henry would stand beside Luke at the belt watching the men lifting the cut wood off as the belt moved by slowly. “Yes, sir, they know wood when they see it,” he said. “How would you distinguish one piece of wood from another, Luke?”

  “Well, first I’d take a look at the color.”

  “That’s good,” Uncle Henry nodded. “You’re observant all right, and there’s the grain, too, remember. The grain’s always different and you know something else, Luke? Each kind of wood has its own smell. Just like a perfume. Pick up some of those pieces there, Luke.”

  “I’ve always noticed a fine smell here,” Luke said quick.

  “Smell that hemlock,” Uncle Henry said, holding out a piece of wood. “Isn’t it beautiful? And the spruce, too, and the pine. I don’t think there’s a finer smell in the whole world. A clean smell, too, isn’t it, lad?”

  Luke wouldn’t have believed that a serious, busy, important man like Uncle Henry would have the time to close his eyes and take a breath and get the fine flavor of the wood; not without feeling he was wasting his time. Maybe he could do it because it was both important and useful to him to recognize each individual odor. It was a part of his business; knowing about these rich fine smells of the different woods made him an expert. If he weren’t interested, then he would have gone into some other business. Just the same, the way Uncle Henry closed his eyes and drew in his breath made Luke feel a little closer to him. It was as if he had at last found something in common with him.

  Luke spent a lot of time in the mill and he felt happy. And now he hardly ever felt lonely. When he got tired of hanging around the mill he could wander out, whistle softly for Dan, and go trotting off through the woods to the clearing with the big stone. There they would rest and he would think of his father, then play for a while with Dan and be back to the mill in an hour without having to explain where he had been, and feeling somehow more eager to learn whatever Uncle Henry wanted to teach him.

  Uncle Henry like to stop and explain what was useful and what was faulty, and what ought to be thrown away. He always illustrated his point by picking up a piece of timber and saying, “See the grain in that, lad? Look closely,” and he would snap the board in his powerful hands. “A bad grain, see. You could tell it at a glance and there’s no argument. You’ve got to know what’s useful and learn not to be taken in by the first appearance. That’s the great trick, Luke. And the only way to be smart about it is to have the facts at your fingertips. Learn the facts, lad. If you’ve got the facts, you know what’s useful and what isn’t useful and nobody will ever fool you. Understand?”

  “I understand,” Luke said, but what he really understood was that it had been a mistake to think he could fool Uncle Henry into believing that Dan was a young dog just by combing him up and primping him and making him dance around. All that he actually had done was make Uncle Henry look at the dog more closely; he had reminded his uncle that Dan wasn’t as useful to him as he used to be. Uncle Henry had the facts about Dan.
Only it seemed to Luke that his uncle didn’t have all the facts; not the facts that he himself had. But these facts he had to conceal from Uncle Henry because they were too hard to explain. Unless you felt them yourself they had no value; they were just like the pieces of wood that Uncle Henry could crack in his hands and throw away.

  But Uncle Henry never threw away anything that had any value. Nothing was ever wasted around the mill. Luke used to wonder if there was another man in the world who knew so well what was needed and what ought to be thrown away. It seemed to be the key to a great successful life. If you had that knowledge, then you had a mastery over the life around you. What puzzled Luke was that at home in the city when his father had been alive this knowledge had never been made available to him.

  Even around the house or in the kitchen Aunt Helen relied upon Uncle Henry’s judgment and sought his approval for all her expenditures. He knew the price of flour, potatoes, sugar, onions, spice, vanilla flavoring, buns, cookies, cuts of beef; he knew just which joints gave you the best value for your money, and exactly how much it cost to run the house for a week. Aunt Helen did not resent his knowledge of what might have been called her affairs because his knowledge seemed to make her life easier. His knowledge was useful to her and she never got cheated. Uncle Henry could even put a price on a bundle of laundry for a woman named Mrs. Ball, who had heavy shoulders and thick arms and gray hair, and who used to come to the house three times a week to do the washing and was paid for the amount of washing she did. Uncle Henry could look at the pile of laundry and calculate how long it would take Mrs. Ball to do it: the calculation would be so accurate that Mrs. Ball used to trust Uncle Henry’s judgment and be sure she would not be cheated. Sometimes it would be two dollars and fifty cents for the day, sometimes three dollars and twenty cents. But Mrs. Ball knew that Uncle Henry never cheated anybody and counted on no one cheating him.

  In the evening Luke would sit in the living room watching his uncle as he sat at his desk making notations in a black notebook. At Luke’s feet would be the collie, as motionless as a rug, in fact looking like a skinned wolf because of the posture; his head would be flat on the floor. But his eye would flicker open furtively because the collie seemed to know he was there in the house only because of Luke – was there on borrowed time.

  In another chair, the rocker, Aunt Helen would be darning socks. Through the open window came the sounds of the crickets in the grass and the faint sound of the water flowing gently over the dam.

  Luke was sharpening a penknife his uncle had given him, drawing the blade slowly back and forth on the oilstone the way Uncle Henry had shown him, his strokes growing slower till finally he stopped and gazed at Uncle Henry with profound attention. Uncle Henry was bending over the table, his great shoulders hunched a little, and sometimes he would look at the ceiling and ponder, then make a note, frown, make a quick calculation, then put his heavy chin on his hand, his elbow on the table. Luke knew that he was assessing the value of the smallest transaction that had taken place during the day.

  Luke watched and wondered and began to dream; he seemed to hear himself talking to his uncle, who was saying respectfully, “Here’s the way I figure this, Luke. Take a look at this and see if you agree with me.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Uncle Henry, I think your figure is a bit wrong there.”

  “Oh, you mean theses figures here, Luke?”

  “That’s right.” Then with a great clearing of his throat, “Look, here, why can’t we get rid of all that stuff anyway, Uncle Henry? We don’t need it now, do we?”

  “Come to think of it, we don’t need it now. What made me think we did?”

  “I’ve been intending to point it out to you, Uncle Henry.”

  “Don’t know what made me figure we really needed it. Say, Luke, I’d like to run over all these figures with you if you have the time. I’d like to take advantage of your good sound judgment if I may.”

  While he was having this dream his aunt looked up, glanced at the clock and said, “All right, Luke, better be getting to bed.”

  “Okay, come on, Dan,” he said.

  Then the collie got up slowly, and with his tail down and a furtive, guilty glance at Uncle Henry, started to follow Luke across the room.

  “How is it we let that dog sleep in the house now?” Uncle Henry said suddenly.

  “Well, he started doing it the first night with Luke,” Aunt Helen explained.

  “I thought you said a hundred times, Helen, you weren’t going to put up with the hair he sheds around the house. I thought you said he ruined the rugs and Dan was to keep out of the house.”

  “Well, yes, Henry, I did,” she said. Then glancing at Luke, she hesitated because he looked embarrassed. Dan, his friend, was being humiliated and cheapened: he looked to be wanting to offer a little apology to the dog. As he turned apprehensively to wait for his aunt to speak, his eyes moved her.

  “Until Luke gets to feel a little more at home,” she said placatingly, “the dog’s a kind of help in that way. It’s a help to all of us – for the time being.”

  “Yes, in that case, I suppose he serves a kind of a purpose,” Uncle Henry said thoughtfully. “For a week or so, anyway.” Then he turned and smiled a little at Luke, who was waiting apprehensively at the door. “As a matter of fact, Helen,” he said, “how do you think Luke’s fitting in around here? He looks healthy, doesn’t he?”

  “I think he’s about right into the swing of things, Henry.”

  “Yes, yes, I think so. A little inscrutable at times.”

  “As if all boys that age aren’t inscrutable beyond words.”

  “A little dreamy perhaps, eh, Luke?”

  “Now, Henry, you know Luke’s going to be keen as a whistle.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Henry agreed, eyeing the boy approvingly. “In no time we should have him bright as a dollar. Have a good sleep, my boy.”

  “Good night. Come on, Dan,” Luke said. As they went upstairs together he promised himself fervently that as he began to grow Uncle Henry would gain a deep respect for his shrewdness, and that when he was a man everybody would admire him for his good sound judgment.

  CHAPTER NINE

  But Tell Me Why

  Nothing was more difficult for Luke than his effort to share his uncle’s judgment of the different men who worked in the mill. Sometimes it seemed to him that Uncle Henry didn’t understand them at all and had a cockeyed appreciation of the worth and the weakness of each one of them. Of course Uncle Henry judged them all simply as workers and Luke judged them as men.

  “That old Sam Carter is a . . . well, he’s a . . .” Luke began one day at quitting time when the men were filing past on their way home.

  “He’s a what, Luke?” Uncle Henry asked patiently.

  “Oh, I don’t know exactly.”

  “Go on, Luke. How does Sam stand around here in your judgment? You’ve got to learn to judge workmen. Who knows, someday you may be running the mill. What about my workmen? How does Sam Carter stack up?”

  “Well, I’d say he’s an awful old dope,” Luke blurted out.

  “And why, Luke?” Uncle Henry asked patiently.

  “The way he goes around . . . like a prisoner in a chain gang . . . with that old beard and those funny old eyes.”

  “Well, well, well,” Uncle Henry said, laughing heartily. “Now there’s a boy’s innocent view of a very good worker. I’m afraid you’re not very observant as yet, Luke,” he said seriously. “You want to start pulling up your socks, my boy, and really observe these men.”

  “Oh, I’ve observed Sam Carter, Uncle Henry.”

  “Sam is just about the best worker I’ve got around here,” Uncle Henry explained carefully. “It’s up to you, Luke, to see for yourself why this is so. Not that Sam is quick. But he’s steady and completely reliable. I’ve never had any trouble with him. Why, I don’t think he ever dreams of anything but his work here at the sawmill. Yes, I judge him by his value to me, not by his lack o
f beauty. Watch him when he’s working, Luke.”

  “All right, I will,” Luke promised.

  But no matter how closely he looked at Sam he couldn’t understand Uncle Henry’s appreciation of him. Maybe Sam knew one kind of wood from another, but only because he had to; he had to recognize the difference in the grain and smell. And even if he did the right thing around the mill he did it in a mechanical way. His eyes never glowed, he never moved quickly or joyfully, he never made much conversation with the other men.

  It was always in Luke’s mind that Sam had kicked at the collie. He told himself that if he owned the mill he wouldn’t want to have Sam working there. A man like Sam Carter would make him feel unhappy. A man like Sam Carter would make him believe that the world was a gray place full of tired, weary men limping along carrying out appointed tasks and seeking only the boss’ approval.

  Yet the sight of Sam limping along to the mill would stimulate Luke’s dream of the place. Luke would sit with Dan in the shade of the elm tree on the north side of the mill watching Sam’s slow movements and would delight in dreaming it was a time three thousand years ago, and in this daydream he could see Sam clad in rags, dragging his feet along, carrying his heavy burden without even a heart-rending sign, for he had long ago forgotten his native land and the days of his boyhood; he was the slave who no longer wanted to be free. Luke liked to pretend he could see him dragging his feet wearily because there were heavy chains on his ankles. And Luke would whisper to Dan, “I know why he hates you, Dan. You’re a wild thing. You like to roam the valleys and the woods, and prance around with me and have fun and jump in the river and then sleep in the sun, and the slave hates you for liking these things, Dan.”