The camp's evening bonfire was made of logs on end about a stake of
iron. As the logs blazed up, the guests on the circle of benches crooned
"Suwanee River," and "Old Black Joe," and Claire crooned with them. She
had been afraid that her father would be bored, but she saw that, above
his carefully tended cigar, he was dreaming. She wondered if there had
been a time when he had hummed old songs.
The fire sank to coals. The crowd wandered off to their tents. Mr.
Boltwood followed them after an apologetic, "Good night. Don't stay up
too late." With a scattering of only half a dozen people on the benches,
this huge circle seemed deserted; and Claire and Milt, leaning forward,
chins on hands, were alone--by their own campfire, among the mountains.
The stars stooped down to the hills; the pines were a wall of blackness;
a coyote yammered to point the stillness; and the mighty pile of coals
gave a warmth luxurious in the creeping mountain chill.
The silence of large places awes the brisk intruder, and Claire's voice
was unconsciously lowered as she begged, "Tell me something about
yourself, Mr. Daggett. I don't really know anything at all."
"Oh, you wouldn't be interested. Just Schoenstrom!"
"But just Schoenstrom might be extremely interesting."
"But honest, you'd think I was--edging in on you!"
"I know what you are thinking. The time I suggested, way back there in
Dakota, that you were sticking too close. You've never got over it. I've
tried to make up for it, but---- I really don't blame you. I was horrid.
I deserve being beaten. But you do keep on punishing ra----"
"Punishing? Lord, I didn't mean to! No! Honest! It was nothing. You were
right. Looked as though I was inviting myself---- But, oh, pleassssse,
Miss Boltwood, don't ever think for a sec. that I meant to be a
grouch----"
"Then do tell me---- Who is this Milton Daggett that you know so much
better than I ever can?"
"Well," Milt crossed his knees, caught his chin in his hand, "I don't
know as I really do know him so well. I thought I did. I was onto his
evil ways. He was the son of the pioneer doctor, Maine folks."
"Really? My mother came from Maine."
Milt did not try to find out that they were cousins. He went on, "This
kid, Milt, went to high school in St. Cloud--town twenty times as big
as Schoenstrom--but he drifted back because his dad was old and needed
him, after his mother's death----"
"You have no brothers or sisters?"
"No. Nobody. 'Cept Lady Vere de Vere--which animal she is going to get
cuffed if she chews up any more of my overcoat out in my tent
tonight!... Well, this kid worked 'round, machinery mostly, and got
interested in cars, and started a garage---- Wee, that was an awful
shop, first one I had! In Rauskukle's barn. Six wrenches and a
screwdriver and a one-lung pump! And I didn't know a roller-bearing from
three-point suspension! But---- Well, anyway, he worked along, and built
a regular garage, and paid off practically all the mortgage on it----"