Go to bed,pards,he called to the hawks.I reckon it's time for me,too!He got up--the sun had disappeared behind the mountain.He stretched himself,lifting his arms high above his head and slowly drawing his fists to his shoulder,his elbows luxuriously crooked.One thing I got,he observed,is room,plenty!Well--he started toward the divide for his upward climb,I've lived a reasonable long life;I am forty-five;but I do think that since I laid down under that tree,I have thought of everything I ever done or said since I was a kid.Guess I'll save the future for another afternoon--and after that,the Lord knows what I'm going to do with my brain,it's that busy.
The next day he began assorting the contents of his granite home,moving to the task with conscientious slowness,stopping a dozen times to make excursions into the outside world.By diligent economy of his working moments,he succeeded in covering almost two weeks in the labor of putting his house into order.His bedroom was next to the barricade that separated the long stone excavation from the bottomless abyss.Divided from the bedroom by an imaginary line,was the store-room of provisions.The cans and boxes were arranged along the floor with methodical exactitude.Different varieties of fruit and preserves were interspersed in such fashion that none was repeated until every variety had been passed.
I begins with this can of peaches,said Willock,laying his finger upon the beginning of the row--then comes apples,pears,plums;then peaches,apples,pears,plums;then peaches,apples,pears,plums;then peaches--blest if I don't feel myself getting sick of 'em already....And now my meats:bacon,ham.My breadstuffs:loaves,crackers.My fillers:sardines,more sardines,more sardines,likewise canned tomatoes.Let me see--is it too much to say that I eats a can of preserves in two days?Maybe three.That is,till I sickens.I begins with peach-day.This is Monday.Say Thursday begins my apple-days.I judge I can worm myself down through the list by this time next month.One thing I am sot on:not to save nothing if I can bring my stomach to carry the burden with a willing hand.I'll eat mild and calm,but steadfast.Brick Willock he says,'Better starve all at once,when there's nothing left,than starve a little every day,'says Brick.'When it's a matter of agony,'says he,'take the short cut.'
In arranging his retreat,he had left undisturbed the wagon-tongue,since removing it from the end of the floor for a more secure barricade;it had stood with several of the sideboards against the wall,as if Brick meditated using them for a special purpose.Such was indeed his plan,and it added some zest to his present employment to think of what he meant to do next;this was nothing less than to make a dugout in the cove.
To this enterprise he was prompted not only by a desire to vary his monotonous days,but to insure safety from possible foes.Should a skulking savage,or,what would be worse,a stray member of the robber band catch sight of him among the hills,the spy would spread the news among his fellows.A relentless search would be instituted,and even if Willock succeeded in escaping,the band would not rest till it had discovered his hiding-place.If they came on the dugout,their search would terminate,and his home in the crevice would escape investigation;but if there was no dugout to satisfy curiosity,the crevice would most probably be explored.
Two homes ain't too many for a character like me,nohow,remarked Brick,as he set the wagon-tongue and long boards on end to be drawn up through the crevice.Cold weather will be coming on in due time--say three or four months--and what's that to me?a mere handful of time!Well,I don't never expect to make a fire in my cave,I'll set my smoke out in the open where it can be traced without danger to my pantry shelves.
He was even slower about building the dugout than he had been in arranging the miscellaneous objects in the cavern on top of the mountain.Transporting the timbers across a mile of ridges and granite troughs was no light work;and when his tools and material were in the cove,the digging of the dugout was protracted because of the closeness of water to the surface.At last he succeeded in excavating the cellar at a spot within a few yards of the mountain,without penetrating moistened sand.He leveled down the walls till he had a chamber about twelve feet square.Over this he placed the wagon-tongue,converting it into the ridge-pole,which he set upon forks cut from the near-by cedars.Having trimmed branches of the trees in the grove,he laid them as close together as possible,slanting from the ridge-pole to the ground,and over these laid the bushy cedar branches.This substantial roof he next covered with dirt,heaping it up till no glimpse of wood was visible tinder the hard-packed dome.The end of the dugout was closed up in the same way except for a hole near the top fitted closely to the stovepipe and packed with mud.
Of the sideboards he fashioned a rude frame,then a door to stand in it,fitted into grooves that it might be pushed and held into place without hinges.Of course I got to take down my door every time I comes in or out,remarked Willock,regarding his structure with much complacency,but they's nothing else to do,and I got to be occupied.
When he had transported the stove to the cove,he set it up with a tingle of expectant pleasure.It was to be his day of housewarming,not because the weather had grown cold,but that he might celebrate.
