The Lady of Big Shanty

The Lady of Big Shanty

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Title: The Lady of Big Shanty
Author: Frank Berkeley Smith
Release Date: July 22, 2004 [EBook #12989]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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The Lady of Big Shanty

By
F. BERKELEY SMITH

1909
TO THE READER
This story, written by a man who has passed many years of his life in
the Adirondack woods, strikes a note not often sounded--the power of
the primeval over the human mind.

Once abandoned in the wilderness, wholly dependent upon what can be
wrested from its clutch to prolong existence, all the ordinary standards
and ambitions of life become as naught: for neither love, hatred,
revenge, honour, money, jewels, or social success will bring a cup of
water, a handful of corn or a coal of fire. Under this torture Nature once
more becomes king and man again an atom; his judgment clarified, his
heart stripped naked, his soul turned inside out. The untamed, mighty,
irresistible primitive is now to be reckoned with, and a lie will no
longer serve.
Such is the power of the primeval, and for the unique way in which it
has been treated between these covers, the father takes off his hat to the
son.
F. HOPKINSON SMITH.
_September_, 1909.

THE LADY OF BIG SHANTY

CHAPTER ONE
It was the luncheon hour, and The Players was crowded with its
members; not only actors, but men of every profession, from the tall,
robust architect to the quiet surgeon tucked away among the cushions
of the corner divan. In the hall--giving sound advice, perhaps, to a
newly fledged tragedian--sat some dear, gray-haired old gentleman in
white socks who puffed silently at a long cigar, while from out the
low-ceiled, black-oak dining room, resplendent in pewter and hazy with
tobacco smoke, came intermittent outbursts of laughter. It was the hour
when idlers and workers alike throw off the labours of the day for a
quiet chat with their fellows.
Only one man in the group was restless. This was a young fellow who
kept watch at the window overlooking the Park. That he was greatly
worried was evident from the two tense furrows in his brow, and from
the way his eyes scanned the street below.
"The devil!" he grumbled. "I wonder if Billy's missed his train--another
Adirondack express late, I suppose." He flicked the ashes from his

cigarette and, wheeling sharply, touched a bell.
"John," he said, as the noiseless old steward entered.
"Yes, Mr. Randall."
"Find out at the desk if a Mr. William Holcomb from Moose River has
called or telephoned."
"Very good, sir."
"He's a tall, sun-burned young man, John--and he may be waiting
below. You understand."
"I'll go and see, sir," and the steward turned.
"And, John--tell August we shall be five at luncheon."
The next moment two hands gripped him from behind by both
shoulders.
"Well! I'm glad _you're_ here, Keene, at any rate!" cried Randall as he
smashed the bell hard. "Two dry Martinis"--this to the
yellow-waistcoated steward now at his elbow. "It's Billy Holcomb
you've come to meet. He wrote me he was coming to New York on
business and I made him promise to come here first. He and I hunted
together last fall and I wanted you and Brompton to know him. What
I'm afraid of is that he has missed the night express. Moose River's a
long ways from the railway, and you know what an Adirondack road is
this time of year. I hope The Players won't scare him."
"Oh! we'll take care of him," laughed Keene good-humouredly. "Thank
God he's not a celebrity; I'm sick of celebrities. It'll be a treat to meet a
plain human being. Hello! here comes Brompton!"
Randall rose to his feet.
"Glad you could come, old man. There's only five of us--you, and
Keene, Sam Thayor, and a friend of mine from the woods. Touch the

bell and give your order."
Again the noiseless John appeared.
"Any news, John?"
"Yes, sir; Mr. Holcomb is waiting for you below, and Mr. Thayor has
telephoned he will be here in a moment."
Jack started for the stairs.
"Good!" he cried. "I'll be back in a second."
If the actor and Keene had expected to see a raw-boned country boy,
reticent and ill at ease, they got over