CHAPTER XIII
THE COOK’S MUSICIAN
Kit did not know where he would get breakfast, and he indulged his appetite. The food was good and all that bothered him was he could not copy the workmen’s speed. Bacon, fried potatoes, beans and slabs of pie vanished; the men drained cans of tea and shouted for fresh supplies. They were muscular fellows. Although they were Western, Kit thought their type simpler, and, in a way, more primitive than the mechanics he had known. The shipyard workers were sportsmen, politicians, and sometimes philosophers. At the engine shops one heard much about racing, football and social economics. It looked as if the Canadians concentrated on their occupation, and now they frankly concentrated on their supper. In fact, Kit felt the rude feast was marked by something of a Homeric touch.
The men’s clothes were thin, and one saw their bodies were molded on classical lines; sometimes an unconscious pose was statuesque. Then one got a hint of careless, optimistic confidence. The bridge gang obviously did not bother; they labored, fought, and trusted their luck. Kit felt the gang and the bunk-house harmonized. The piles of food, rusty stove, and battered tin lamps were properly in the picture. All was rude and vigorous, and had nothing to do with modern cultivation.
Before Kit was altogether satisfied the men were gone, and the cook began to carry off the plates. Kit helped and afterwards they lighted their pipes.
“If ye’ll get your fiddle, I’ll let ye see how yon march should go,” the cook said by and by.
Kit played a few bars; and then the other, drumming on the table, marked the puzzling rhythm.
“I think I see,” said Kit. “It’s a linked note trick; you drive the last quaver across the bar. Let’s try——”
“Noo ye have got it,” the cook approved. “If ye could stop for a week, I’d show ye how a Strathspey is played. Highland music is no’ like ither music.”
“Five beats to a bar are awkward,” Kit agreed. “Anyhow, I can’t stop for a week. In fact, since your foreman has no use for me I ought to shove off.”
“Ye’ll get breakfast before ye tak’ the road. Do ye waken early?”
Kit said when he was at the shipyard he was forced to get up soon, and the cook nodded.
“Then, if ye’ll light the stove in the morning and play yon march, ye might bide until the boss comes back. We do not expect him for two, three days. I reckon ye’d help me chop wood and cut potatoes?”
Kit was willing. He liked the cook and it was not important that the hospitality the fellow offered was the company’s.
“Thank you,” he said. “But why do you want me to play the march?”
The other told him. Long since, when he was a herd boy, a Highland gentleman occupied a shooting lodge near the Scottish village, and in the morning his piper played on the terrace. Kit had not thought the Scots romantically sentimental, and he remarked the cook’s apologetic smile. The fellow admitted that he himself played the pipes.
“To hear the music in the fresh morning was fine,” he said. “I was away early with the dogs when a’ was quiet and only the sheep were moving on the moor. Maybe ye’d hear a cock-grouse crow, and then the pipes began. Weel, I was a raw herd laddie and I thought, if I got rich, my piper would waken me with music like yon. Ye see, the march is famous; I’m thinking the Prince’s pipers played it on the road to Derby....”
He knocked out his pipe, smiled, and resumed:
“It’s lang syne and I’m no yet rich. To the moor where the sheep fed is a far cry, but when ye began yon march I saw the mist roll up the brae and I thought the grouse were calling. Weel, until the boss comes back I’ve got my piper, and I’ll lie until ye play for me the morn. In the meantime I must make the coffee and slice the breakfast pork.”
He went to his store, and Kit went to a bench in front of the shack. In the distance the prairie was blue; the sky was saffron and red. By the river bank dark trees cut the sunset, and fading reflections touched the stream. The camp was quiet but hammers rang along the bridge, and after a time a pillar of fire leaped up. For a few moments the flame was smoky, and then the light got clear and Kit knew somebody adjusted the blast-lamp’s valves.
Braced columns and steel lattice shone like silver, and on the high platforms workmen’s figures, in black silhouette, cut the strong illumination. Grass and leaves sparkled as if touched by frost, and a glittering flood broke against the piers. The sunset’s reflections vanished, and where the bright beam did not reach all was dark.
The hammers beat faster and small pale flames marked the rivet forges. Kit saw red specks move along the bridge and sparks fly, and he ruminated humorously. His fiddle had earned his supper, and for two or three days he could reckon on his food and a bunk-house bed; but he was not ambitious to be a cook’s musician. His job was at the bridge. Well, there was no use in brooding, and his first post in Canada was rather a joke. By and by he returned to the bunk-house and was soon asleep.
Not long after daybreak he got down from his bunk and stole across the floor. The bridge gang slept noisily, and to waken the men before the usual time might be rash. To light the stove was perhaps not a minstrel’s job, but he had undertaken to do so, and since it was his first experiment, he had got up early.
The stove was in a lean-to shed and did not bother Kit. The poplar billets snapped behind the bars and the iron got red. He liked the smell of the wood, the morning was fresh, and the warmth was soothing. Pulling out his watch, he saw he did not waken the cook for some time, and he made coffee and found a slab of pie. When he had drained the can and the pie was gone, he lighted his pipe. After all, to help the cook had some advantages.
At length, he got up and tuned his fiddle by the track. Mist floated about the river and dew sparkled on the grass. All was fresh and bracing, and Kit’s mood was buoyant. He put the fiddle to his shoulder and a joyous reveille roused the sleeping gangs. Then for a few moments Kit stopped. Sometimes at camps he had known reveille was not joyous, and he pictured tight-mouthed men strapping up packs and ground-sheets and taking the muddy road. The road faced the rising sun, but it had carried Kit’s pals West.
Well, it was done with and one must look ahead. Kit was the cook’s piper, and he pulled the bow across the lower strings. He thought the pipes began on under tones; and then he leaped an octave to the ranting tune. The music was not great music, but it fired the blood and moved one’s feet. Kit was not playing for critics; he called muscular men to work. Perhaps the chords were like the pipes, but no pipes could give the clear ringing notes one got from the high strings. If the cook had imagination, he would hear the broadswords rattle and the clansmen’s feet. The Highlanders marched for Derby to a tune like that.
The music carried far and men came from the house and tents, splashed at the wash bench, and waved to Kit.
“Some tune, stranger! Hit her up!”
By and by the foreman walked along the line.
“I reckoned you had quit!”
Kit said the cook had stated he might stay for a day or two, and the other nodded.
“Well, you can play mornings and evenings. If I hear the fiddle after the boys get busy, I’ll put you off the camp.”
It looked as if the cook were important, but somebody beat a suspended iron bar and the men started for the house. Kit went with the others and the cook pushed a big coffee can into his hands.
“Hustle round the table and keep the boys supplied. When all’s gone ye’ll get a fresh lot in the shack.”
Kit saw he must earn his breakfast. In Canada, a minstrel was evidently not an honored guest, but he must not grumble, and he ran about with the can. When the men went off, the cook gave him a heaped plate and he noticed that the bacon was thin and crisp and the sliced potatoes were golden brown. Kit imagined the gang did not get the best.
After breakfast they cleaned the plates, and then Kit chopped wood and carried water. In the afternoon he pulled down and mended the smoking stove pipe, and when dusk fell he admitted that to help the cook was not the joke he thought.
A day or two afterwards he carried a tub of potatoes to a shady spot under the trees, and sitting down in the chopped branches, sharpened his knife on his boot. The bridge gang was not fastidious, and the knife was dull. His clothes were greasy and his skin was not clean, for he had recently scraped the stove flues, and the soap was not very good. Then he had burned his hand and to play the fiddle hurt, but in the morning he must play the Highland chieftain’s march. The march began to get monotonous, and on the whole Kit thought when the construction boss returned and sent him off he would be resigned to go.
By and by he heard steps and looked up. Gordon, whose children he had amused on board the cars, stopped in front of the potato tub. He threw down the pack he carried, and when he studied Kit his eyes twinkled.
“You made it! A fellow at the settlement reckoned I’d find you at the bridge.”
“I arrived two or three days ago, but I’m not staying long.”
“Don’t you like your job?”
“The trouble is, I haven’t got a job. Anyhow, I’m not on the pay-roll. My business is to play the fiddle mornings and evenings. Between times I carry coal, cut potatoes, and clean the stove, so to speak, for relaxation.”
“Something fresh?” said Gordon. “In the Old Country you didn’t carry coal.”
“At an English shipyard the trucks discharge into the furnace hoppers. All the same, at the beginning I used a forge hammer.”
“Now you talk!” said Gordon. “If you were at a shipyard I guess I can fix you. We’ll go along and see the smith.”
“I saw the foreman and admitted I was not a smith. He stated he had no use for a roustabout.”
“A foreman knows where he mustn’t make trouble.”
“I fancied that was so, because your cook allowed me to stay. I expect a good cook is important.”
“A good smith’s important, and Bill’s my pal. Come on. We’ll see what he can do.”
They went along the track and Kit inquired for the children.
“They’re pretty spry,” said Gordon. “When I dumped them at Portage they allowed if I met up with you I was to send you back. They’re surely keen on conjuring.”
Kit laughed and remarked that he thought Portage was on another line. Gordon nodded.
“That’s so. I went back to Winnipeg. Mr. Austin’s at the Strathcona, and since I was some time in Ontario, I wanted to see if he’d kept my job.”
“But has a gentleman at Winnipeg something to do with the bridge?”
“Mr. Austin’s the company’s engineer; he took a holiday. Wheeler’s head construction boss, but he’s not around all the time. If we can fix you up, you’ll like Austin. He’s a pretty good sort of boss.”
Kit was not interested, and by and by Gordon stopped at the forge. The smith threw a glowing iron in a tank and looked up. He was a big fellow and his lined face was wet by sweat. He knitted his brows as if he frowned unconsciously.
“Howd’y, Jake. You’re back. Are you wanting something?”
“You want help, Bill, my partner, Carson, is your man. He was raised at an Old Country shipyard, but he can clean a cook stove, conjure with a shoe-string, and play the fiddle.”
“Can he sharpen tools?” Bill inquired.
“Let me try,” said Kit, and the smith pulled some chisels from a box. Then he turned to Gordon.
“I don’t want you, Jake. Get going!”
Gordon gave Kit a smile, and when he went off Kit looked about. A revolving shaft crossed the roof, and when he put a belt on a pulley, a small thick wheel began to spin. At the shipyard, Kit was for a time at the lathe-shop, and he thought he knew something about grinding tools. Moreover, he saw he must not bother the smith. He claimed he could sharpen tools and the fellow had given him the chisels. When Kit carried back the chisels he would know. The Canadians were a sternly logical lot.
To hold the steel on the spinning stone absorbed Kit. He liked to mold the bevel and see the thick edge melt to an almost invisible line. The roll of the shaft and the noise the slapping belt made were soothing. Perhaps he had some talent for music, but he was, by inheritance, an engineer. After a time, Bill picked up a chisel and felt the edge.
“Pretty good! You can go ahead.”
Kit turned and pulled off the belt.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay.”
“Then why in thunder did you begin?”
“Gordon thought you wanted help, but the boys will soon be ready for supper, and I left a tub of potatoes by the track. Jock expects me to cut the potatoes, and I think he’s asleep.”
“Some folks get their dollars easy,” the smith remarked. “Well, I reckon I could put you on the pay-roll, but I want you now.”
“It’s awkward,” said Kit. “I’d sooner grind the tools, but when I arrived Jock gave me supper, and until he lets me go I’m his man.”
“You get your grub; but you don’t know if I can hire you up?”
“I don’t think it’s altogether my argument,” Kit replied. “If you like, I’ll come back in the morning.”
“You make me tired,” said the smith. “You better cut your blamed potatoes. Get out!”
Kit went and rather moodily helped the cook serve supper. In Canada a smith’s pay is good, but a minstrel’s reward was small. Moreover, at the smithy the glimmering forge, the red iron, and the rows of tools had called. There was Kit’s occupation; he did not know much about cooking, and all he did know he did not like. When the plates were cleaned he went to the bridge-head and lighted his pipe. After breakfast he resolved to start for the water tank. By and by Gordon arrived, and when he noted Kit’s rueful look he smiled.
“Bill wants you in the morning. The foreman agrees he can try you out.”
“Then I expect you’re accountable,” said Kit. “Bill declared I made him tired and ordered me to be off.”
“Bill is like that, but I reckon you don’t get us,” Gordon remarked with a grin. “You want to remember you have done with the Old Country.”
“It’s rather obvious,” said Kit. “All the same, I begin to think a good Canadian’s a first-class type. I won’t bother you by examples, but I met a young fellow at Winnipeg station I’d like to meet another time. However, Jock expects some music, and I’m in the mood to play a rousing tune.”