“We always have a light lunch in the evening; won’t you stay?” begged their host.
Andy nodded his blond head vigorously in a silent signal to Donald for acceptance, and acceptance was instantly forthcoming.
The interior of the log cabin was rough in the extreme, but scrupulously clean, with chairs, tables and beds that had never issued from a furniture factory. The window-curtains were made of flour and sugar sacks, on which the names of the manufacturers could still be deciphered. On one wall were two bunks, set one above the other, on which were spread heavy Hudson Bay blankets. No sheets were in evidence, and the pillows were rough sacks stuffed with moss. The lower bunk showed the feminine touch in its drapery of cheap blue print, a pathetic attempt to brighten the coarse surroundings. Behind a small stove in the corner hung an array of cooking utensils, spotlessly clean, but of inferior quality. The one and only table, placed conveniently near the stove, was as white as a ship’s deck from constant scouring.
In direct antithesis to this seeming poverty, one end of the cabin was literally filled with books. These richly-bound volumes looked incongruous in conjunction with the rough tables, the uncomfortable chairs and the rude beds. Donald’s eyes roved over the books, arranged on the shelves standing and crosswise. Most of them were in English, but many were in German, French and Italian; some in what appeared to be Arabic, perhaps Sanskrit; and dozens were on botany, ornithology and natural history.
“A bookworm,” mused Donald, “a bookworm, and at the expense of his personal comfort.” He felt ashamed of his unwarranted criticism of their kind host.
“I built this cabin all alone,” informed Wainwright proudly.
Donald’s eyes rested on the speaker. Wainwright wore a shooting-jacket and riding-breeches of excellent cut and of rare material, but now worn threadbare and neatly patched. Donald knew that those rents had been mended by a woman’s hands. Wainwright’s æsthetic face was impressive. The marks of toil could not hide the delicacy of his thin hands with their long, tapering fingers. The hands of a dreamer or poet, thought Donald, not the hands to wield an axe. A quick admiration for this man’s gameness filled his heart. “A good job,” he lied, as he surveyed the sagging roof and bulging walls.