In the Midst of Alarms | Page 9

fix," said Yates confidentially. "I've got a tent and some camp things down below at the customhouse shanty, and I want to get them taken into the woods, where I can camp out with a friend. I want a place where we can have absolute rest and quiet. Do you know the country round here? Perhaps you could recommend a spot."
"Well, for all the time I've been here, I know precious little about the back country. I've been down the road to Niagara Falls, but never back in the woods. I suppose you want Some place by the lake or the river?"
"No, I don't. I want to get clear back into the forest--if there is a forest."
"Well, there's a man in to-day from somewhere near Ridgeway, I think. He's got a hay rack with him, and that would be just the thing to take your tent and poles. Wouldn't be very comfortable traveling for you, but it would be all right for the tent, if it's a big one."
"That will suit us exactly. We don't care a cent about the comfort. Roughing it is what we came for. Where will I find him?"
"Oh, he'll be along here soon. That's his team tied there on the side street. If he happens to be in good humor, he'll take your things, and as like as not give you a place to camp in his woods. Hiram Bartlett's his name. And, talking of the old Nick himself, here he is. I say, Mr. Bartlett, this gentleman was wondering if you couldn't tote out some of his belongings. He's going out your way."
Bartlett was a somewhat uncouth and wiry specimen of the Canadian farmer who evidently paid little attention to the subject of dress. He said nothing, but looked in a lowering way at Yates, with something of contempt and suspicion in his glance.
Yates had one receipt for making the acquaintance of all mankind. "Come in, Mr. Bartlett," he said cheerily, "and try one of my friend's excellent cocktails."
"I take mine straight," growled Bartlett gruffly, although he stepped inside the open door. "I don't want no Yankee mixtures in mine. Plain whisky's good enough for any man, if he is a man. I don't take no water, neither. I've got trouble enough."
The bartender winked at Yates as he shoved the decanter over to the newcomer.
"Right you are," assented Yates cordially.
The farmer did not thaw out in the least because of this prompt agreement with him, but sipped his whisky gloomily, as if it were a most disagreeable medicine.
"What did you want me to take out?" he said at last.
"A friend and a tent, a jug of whisky and a lot of jolly good tobacco."
"How much are you willing to pay?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm always willing to do what's right. How would five dollars strike you?"
The farmer scowled and shook his head.
"Too much," he said, as Yates was about to offer more. "'Taint worth it. Two and a half would be about the right figure. Don'no but that's too much. I'll think on it going home, and charge you what it's worth. I'll be ready to leave in about an hour, if that suits you. That's my team on the other side of the road. If it's gone when you come back, I'm gone, an' you'll have to get somebody else."
With this Bartlett drew his coat sleeve across his mouth and departed.
"That's him exactly," said the barkeeper. "He's the most cantankerous crank in the township. And say, let me give you a pointer. If the subject of 1812 comes up,--the war, you know,--you'd better admit that we got thrashed out of our boots; that is, if you want to get along with Hiram. He hates Yankees like poison."
"And did we get thrashed in 1812?" asked Yates, who was more familiar with current topics than with the history of the past.
"Blessed if I know. Hiram says we did. I told him, once that we got what we wanted from old England, and he nearly hauled me over the bar. So I give you the warning, if you want to get along with him."
"Thank you. I'll remember it. So long."
This friendly hint from the man in the tavern offers a key to the solution of the problem Of Yates' success on the New York press. He could get news when no other man could. Flippant and shallow as he undoubtedly was, he somehow got into the inner confidences of all sorts of men in a way that made them give him an inkling of anything that was going on for the mere love of him; and thus Yates often received valuable assistance from his acquaintances which other reporters could not get for money.
The New Yorker found the professor sitting on a bench by the customhouse, chatting