All the more did he feel flattered by the recognition which was coming from the later settlers. As matters proceeded and took definite shape, he even felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought that the moving spirit in these things was Nicoll, not he.
Yet that was natural. Abe had already suggested that Nicoll be the secretary-treasurer of the district. It was generally taken for granted that the school was to stand on the corner opposite Nicoll's place, south of the ditch. Nicoll would be the one most available if teacher or inspector wished to communicate with the school board.
Two weeks later the organization meeting took place. If the school was to be opened in the fall, there was need for hurry.
This meeting had been called by the school inspector for two o'clock in the afternoon. Every settler attended.
From the moment when Abe appeared on the porch of Nicoll's house, where a table and a few chairs had been placed, he had the curious feeling that nothing really needed to be discussed: it had all been agreed upon beforehand. A loan of two thousand dollars was to be taken up, secured by debentures; three trustees were to be elected; and Stanley proposed that they be the first three settlers of the district. Even when Shilloe, in confusion, declined for his part and suggested Hartley, it seemed as though this had been prearranged.
The election over, the inspector proposed that the new board hold its first meeting at once, in his presence, to elect chairman and secretary. Shilloe, Nawosad, Hilmer, and Stanley retired to the culvert; the board meeting was adjourned five minutes later. Abe had been elected chairman for the year, Nicoll secretary-treasurer. The inspector took his departure in a great hurry; all this was mere routine to him; and Abe and others felt defrauded of that formality and ceremony in the proceedings which they had felt entitled to expect.
Somewhat grimly, as the inspector drove through the gate in his buggy, Abe said, “Well, that's that.”
A moment later, Stanley was shaking him by the hand, congratulating him on his election. “Nobody,” he said, “expected anything else. We know you'll do the right thing by the district.”
In the background, on the porch of the house, Mrs. Nicoll appeared, huge, smiling, overflowing her clothes, and surrounded by half a dozen of her younger children. Her head seemed lost in upper shadows; and her smile poured a blessing on the finished proceedings. Abe nodded to her; Stanley lifted his wide straw hat; Hartley stared; and the other three shifted uneasily on their feet.
Henceforth all school business proceeded automatically. Plans arrived, and one of them was recommended by the inspector. The board met and endorsed the inspector's choice. Abe never spoke; he sat in his chair, feeling oddly that they were tools through which others worked their will. The matter of the debenture issue was attended to by the provincial government; and they were told that they might proceed with construction, arranging for credit at one of the Somerville banks. Law and usage prescribed all proceedings. Tenders were asked for. A single bid was necessarily accepted. Twice Abe and Nicoll had to go to Somerville to sign papers at the municipal office. Matters took their course.
At home, Abe broke the news one night at the supper table. “Well,” he said, assuming an air of importance which he did not feel, “we're going to have a school at last. No loafing next winter.”
“Good,” exclaimed Charlie, nearly eight years old; though he spoke as if sitting in the council of grown-ups, he fidgeted with excitement.
“Where's the school going to be?” Jim asked pertly.
“All settled,” Abe replied with that assumption of irony with which he invariably treated the children. “Opposite Nicoll's Corner.”
Ruth stared, not so much because she objected to the site as because she resented Abe's way of communicating accomplished facts. “That is over two miles to go. How about the winter when the snow is deep?”
Abe did not answer at once. He resented the sharp tone in which the objection was raised. “It's the centre of the district,” he said at last. “Somebody has to be on the outskirts. Most of us are. Hartley and Shilloe are as far away. Stanley and Nawosad a mile and a half. Hilmer nearly two.”
“Hilmer has no family.”
“That can be remedied by and by. I can best afford to be far away. The Hartley and Shilloe kids will have to walk, I suppose.”
“And we, daddy?” This from Marion who, in a coltish way, was growing into a particularly pretty little girl.
“I'll get you a pony and buggy for fall and spring; and a box-cutter for winter. When it storms, you'll go in the bob-sleigh.”
“Hurrah!” Jim crowed.
“Have you a teacher yet?” Charlie asked pensively.
“No. But I've one in mindâ¦.”
During the rest of the summer three carpenters worked on the school site; and occasionally Hartley put in what he called a day's work. This arrangement was made on Abe's suggestion; Hartley had hinted that Nicoll was “making a fortune out of the thing” for the carpenters boarded at this place.
Meanwhile the summer's work was proceeded with; and late in August harvest began. Nicoll and his oldest boy Tom worked for Abe; and so did Shilloe, Nawosad, and Hilmer; for Abe had two binders going at last.
On one occasion, when Abe was resting his horses, Nicoll, having finished his round, came over to chat for a moment.
“Some crop!” he said admiringly.
“Too many weeds,” Abe replied.
But Nicoll laughed. “If you go on like that, you'll be knighted one day. Sir Abe of Spalding Hall.”
“Some Hall!” And Abe waved his arm toward the patchwork house.
“That'll come.”
With an emphasis which seemed uncalled for, Abe
replied, “You bet it'll come. You bet your life!” And he reached for the lines. When he returned to the spot, he called Nicoll.
“About that school,” he said. “It's time to engage a teacher. This is a meeting of the board. There's a quorum present.”
“A meeting must be duly called,” Nicoll objected.
“Nonsense. Unless you and I run that school, they're going to make a mess of it.”
Nicoll scratched his greying head. “Thinking of any one, Abe?”
“Yes. I've got him picked.”
“Him? Is it a man?”
“It is. Old man Blaine, from up north, Arkwright way.” Nicoll stroked his beard. “Tell you frankly, Abe, we'll have trouble over that. I'd rather have a girl myself for the little tots.”
“Blaine's all right. Ask the inspector. An old bachelor's as good as a girl. And he'll keep the boys in order.”
“I don't know,” Nicoll said doubtfully.
But Abe cut him short by reaching for his lines. He was a power in his district. Yetâ
Even in his own house he met opposition. Once more Charlie asked one evening at supper, “Have you a teacher yet, daddy?”
“You bet.” At this time Abe often used slang phrases.
“Who is it, daddy?”
“Old man by the name of Blaine.”
“A man?” Ruth exclaimed, stiffening.
“Mighty good man at that.”
“If it's to be a man, I won't send Frances.”
“Suit yourself. I want the boys kept in order. No slip of a girl for me!” He was so angry that he rose and left the house.
Yet, when he saw Nicoll again, he condescended to argue. “You know as well as I do that we can't keep a girl in the district. Talk it over with my brother-in-law. Most of the time children spend in school they are readjusting themselves. Every new teacher brings new methods.”
Nicoll hesitated. “We'll have to have a meeting over it, Abe.”
“Have that meeting if you must. But not till we're agreed.”
“I guess you know best, Abe.”
“I do. I've thought this over from every angle. You ride the binder to-morrow. I'll get Hartley to stook. I'll go and see Blaine.”
It was the first time that Abe left his work for the sake of public business; it showed Nicoll how important the matter seemed to him.
Two weeks later a special meeting was held. It took less than five minutes, but it gave Abe a foretaste of what public business might be. As before, the scene was Nicoll's porch; the next meeting would be held in the school which was nearing completion.
“The matter before the board is the engagement of a teacher.”
“Move we advertise,” said Hartley.
“Well,” Nicoll drawled uncomfortably, “there is an application supported by a recommendation from the inspector.”
For a minute or so there was silence. They made a strange group under the lamp. Nicoll was stout, Abe stouter, Hartley fat. Hartley, quite at his ease, glanced from Abe to Nicoll, from Nicoll to Abe.
“Move we advertise,” he repeated doggedly.
“Let's deal with the application first,” Abe said at last. “Just read it, Nicoll.”
Nicoll did so.
“We'll dispense with the formal motion,” Abe went on. “Those in favour signify in the usual way.”
Nicoll raised his hand.
“Contrary?”
Hartley raised his.
“I've the casting vote,” Abe said. “I'm for accepting.”
Again Hartley, ragged and cynical, glanced from one to the other.
“That's settled, then. Motion to adjourn?”
A minute later Abe and Nicoll rose. Hartley kept his seat.
Abe knew what this man was going to say to Stanley and the rest; but he felt he was doing what was best for the district, as time would show. He was content to force his better judgment on them if need be.
What Hartley said was this: “By golly! If that wasn't cut and dried! I'll be hanged if it wasn't!”
THE GREAT FLOOD
W
ith the last year of the decade a series of three wet seasons began, bringing momentous developments.
Hilmer had built a frame shack of three rooms, a long, shed-like building facing the road. His mother, a woman of sixty or so, had joined him, bringing two children of ten and eleven respectively and a man much younger than herself to whom she had recently been married. This man, Grappentin by name, did not settle down on the place but appeared and disappeared periodically. Mrs. Grappentin owned another farm, in trust for the two children of her second marriage, south of the Somerville Line. This farm her third husband was supposed to work; but it was said that he allowed it “to go to the devil” that, when the spirit moved him, he went and fetched horse or cow or a piece of equipment to sell and to spend the proceeds on drink or intercourse with loose women. Mrs. Grappentin became a frequent visitor to most farms in the district. Vigorously she strode over the prairie, a grotesque sight, for she was lean and ugly and resembled the idea which children have of a witch in the woods. She would sit about and
gossip in broken English till she was given a trilling somethingâa piece of meat, a small bag of grain, or a handful of eggs; when, with fantastic praises of the givers, she would promptly take her leave. All of which she did, under protest of her son, as a means of paying for “her keep.” There was only one place where she never called, and that was Abe's.
Abe, early in 1910, surprised the district by acquiring the whole of the Hudson's Bay section north of his place, for which he was variously reported to have paid from four to eight thousand dollars “spot cash.” As a matter of fact, he paid three thousand six hundredâfour hundred dollars more than the price quoted to him when he had made the first inquiry regarding the land. With values rising, he could not wait.
Spring opened with heavy rains. Just as the first great thaw had begun to honeycomb the deep snow which covered the prairie, a blinding snowstorm turned into a washing downpourâa thing unusual for the latitude. As a rule, the thaw proceeded by stages, interrupted by sharp frosts which stayed the waters; and the land would be bare of snow before the flood came from the hills. This year the rain condensed a process which ordinarily took a month into the short space of a week. The winter's snow melted within a few days; and the rain added to the flood. The sky remained clouded; and no check retarded the thaw.
Nor did the water seem to move for a day or two except in the ditches, whose presence was indicated by dirty-white foam-lines streaking the otherwise mud-coloured expanse. Underneath, the ground remained frozen. Nobody could leave his house except in hip-boots of rubber.
The first twenty-four hours Abe remained at home. Although the foundation of the barn was raised well above the ground, the flood stood two inches deep on its floor. One of the
granaries still held grain. Throughout the first day Abe worked with Bill at the task of raising it, going from corner to corner, jacking the building up by a few inches, and forcing pieces of planking under it. The cellar of the house brimmed with water.
The second day, he walked over to Nicoll's, in hip-boots; and there he found a crowd assembled in the yard: Stanley, Nawosad, Shilloe, and Hartley. He heard of much damage done.
The bridge had been carried away; Hartley's shack had been swept from the railway ties and tilted up: wife and children were climbing about on a slanting floor; Shilloe had had to abandon his place; Blaine, who had converted what was meant to be a teacher's office in the school into a small bedroom, was a prisoner there, without food, for he had been boarding at Nicoll's.
“Where did you go?” Abe asked of Shilloe.
“To Mr. Stanley's. I am staying in his granary.”
Stanley and Nicoll had no damage to report except that their cellars were flooded and the floors of their stables covered with water.
Abe assumed command. “We must get Blaine out.”
“By golly!” Hartley exclaimed. “This isn't a country fit to live in, what with no roadsâ”
“We'll get the roads,” Abe said briefly, and, turning to Shilloe, “Take one of Nicoll's horses and go to my place. Tell Bill to hitch up the Percherons and bring them along, with a wagon. Tie Nicoll's horse behind. You take the Clyde team. Put some eveners into the wagon, and all the chains and ropes you can find.”