Brown Wolf and Other Jack London Stories | Page 4

sighing
through their redwoods, had Walt properly devoted his energies to
song-transmutation and left Wolf alone to exercise a natural taste and

an unbiased judgment.
"It's about time I heard from those triolets," Walt said, after a silence of
five minutes, during which they had swung steadily down the trail.
"There'll be a check at the post office, I know, and we'll transmute it
into beautiful buckwheat flour, a gallon of maple syrup, and a new pair
of overshoes for you."
"And into beautiful milk from Mrs. Johnson's beautiful cow," Madge
added. "To-morrow's the first of the month, you know."
Walt scowled unconsciously; then his face brightened, and he clapped
his hand to his breast pocket.
"Never mind. I have here a nice, beautiful, new cow, the best milker in
California."
"When did you write it?" she demanded eagerly. Then, reproachfully,
"And you never showed it to me."
"I saved it to read to you on the way to the post office, in a spot
remarkably like this one," he answered, indicating, with a wave of his
hand, a dry log on which to sit.
A tiny stream flowed out of a dense fern-brake, slipped down a
mossy-lipped stone, and ran across the path at their feet. From the
valley arose the mellow song of meadow larks, while about them, in
and out, through sunshine and shadow, fluttered great yellow
butterflies.
Up from below came another sound that broke in upon Walt reading
softly from his manuscript. It was a crunching of heavy feet, punctuated
now and again by the clattering of a displaced stone. As Walt finished
and looked to his wife for approval, a man came into view around the
turn of the trail. He was bareheaded and sweaty. With a handkerchief in
one hand he mopped his face, while in the other hand he carried a new
hat and a wilted starched collar which he had removed from his neck.
He was a well-built man, and his muscles seemed on the point of
bursting out of the painfully new and ready-made black clothes he
wore.
"Warm day," Walt greeted him. Walt believed in country democracy,
and never missed an opportunity to practice it.
The man paused and nodded.
"I guess I ain't used much to the warm," he vouchsafed half
apologetically. "I'm more accustomed to zero weather."

"You don't find any of that in this country," Walt laughed.
"Should say not," the man answered. "An' I ain't here a-lookin' for it
neither. I'm tryin' to find my sister. Mebbe you know where she lives.
Her name's Johnson, Mrs. William Johnson."
"You're not her Klondike brother!" Madge cried, her eyes bright with
interest, "about whom we've heard so much?"
"Yes'm, that's me," he answered modestly. "My name's Miller, Skiff
Miller. I just thought I'd s'prise her."
"You are on the right track then. Only you've come by the footpath."
Madge stood up to direct him, pointing up the canyon a quarter of a
mile. "You see that blasted redwood! Take the little trail turning off to
the right. It's the short cut to her house. You can't miss it."
"Yes'm, thank you, ma'am," he said.
He made tentative efforts to go, but seemed awkwardly rooted to the
spot. He was gazing at her with an open admiration of which he was
quite unconscious, and which was drowning, along with him, in the
rising sea of embarrassment in which he floundered.
"We'd like to hear you tell about the Klondike," Madge said. "Mayn't
we come over some day while you are at your sister's! Or, better yet,
won't you come over and have dinner with us?"
"Yes'm, thank you, ma'am," he mumbled mechanically. Then he caught
himself up and added: "I ain't stoppin' long. I got to be pullin' north
again. I go out on to-night's train. You see, I've got a mail contract with
the government."
When Madge had said that it was too bad, he made another futile effort
to go. But he could not take his eyes from her face. He forgot his
embarrassment in his admiration, and it was her turn to flush and feel
uncomfortable.
It was at this juncture, when Walt had just decided it was time for him
to be saying something to relieve the strain, that Wolf, who had been
away nosing through the brush, trotted wolf-like into view.
Skiff Miller's abstraction disappeared. The pretty woman before him
passed out of his field of vision. He had eyes only for the dog, and a
great wonder came into his face.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" he enunciated slowly and solemnly.
He sat down ponderingly on the log, leaving Madge standing. At the
sound of his voice, Wolf's ears had flattened down, then his mouth had

opened in a laugh. He trotted slowly up to the