The place was clearly the sleeping quarters of a man who worked. Efficiency was its key note, though comfort, not altogether Spartan, was also manifest. The bed was of gray enameled iron to tone with the concrete wall. Across the foot of the bed, an extra coverlet, hung a gray robe of wolfskins with every tail a-dangle[3]. On the floor, where rested a pair of slippers, was spread a thick-coated skin of mountain goat.
Heaped orderly with books, magazines and scribble-pads, there was room on the big reading stand for matches, cigarettes, an ash-tray, and a thermos bottle. A phonograph, for purposes of dictation, stood on a hinged and swinging bracket. On the wall, under the barometer and thermometers, from a round wooden frame laughed the face of a girl. On the wall, between the rows of buttons and a switchboard, from an open holster, loosely projected the butt of a .44 Colts automatic.
At six oclock, sharp, after gray light had begun to filter through the wire netting, Dick Forrest, without raising his eyes from the proofsheets, reached out his right hand and pressed a button in the second row. Five minutes later a soft-slippered Chinese emerged on the sleeping-porch. In his hands he bore a small tray of burnished copper on which rested a cup and saucer, a tiny coffee pot of silver, and a correspondingly tiny silver cream pitcher.
Good morning, Oh My, was Dick Forrests greeting, and his eyes smiled and his lips smiled as he uttered it.
Good morning, Master, Oh My returned, as he busied himself with making room on the reading stand for the tray and with pouring the coffee and cream.
This done, without waiting further orders, noting that his master was already sipping coffee with one hand while he made a correction on the proof with the other, Oh My picked up a rosy, filmy, lacy boudoir cap from the floor and departed. His exit was noiseless. He ebbed away like a shadow through the open French windows.
At six-thirty, sharp to the minute[4], he was back with a larger tray. Dick Forrest put away the proofs, reached for a book entitled Commercial Breeding of Frogs, and prepared to eat. The breakfast was simple yet fairly substantial more coffee, a half grape-fruit, two soft-boiled eggs made ready in a glass with a dab of butter and piping hot, and a sliver of bacon, not over-cooked, that he knew was of his own raising and curing.
By this time the sunshine was pouring in through the screening and across the bed. On the outside of the wire screen clung a number of house-flies, early-hatched for the season and numb with the nights cold. As Forrest ate he watched the hunting of the meat-eating yellow-jackets[5]. Sturdy, more frost-resistant than bees, they were already on the wing and preying on the benumbed flies. Despite the rowdy noise of their flight, these yellow hunters of the air, with rarely ever a miss, pounced on their helpless victims and sailed away with them. The last fly was gone ere Forrest had sipped his last sip of coffee, marked Commercial Breeding of Frogs with a match, and taken up his proofsheets.
After a time, the liquid-mellow cry of the meadowlark, first vocal for the day, caused him to desist. He looked at the clock. It marked seven. He set aside the proofs and began a series of conversations by means of the switchboard, which he manipulated with a practiced hand.
Hello, Oh Joy, was his first talk. Is Mr. Thayer up? Very well. Dont disturb him. I dont think hell breakfast in bed, but find out Thats right, and show him how to work the hot water. Maybe he doesnt know Yes, thats right. Plan for one more boy as soon as you can get him. Theres always a crowd when the good weather comes on Sure. Use your judgment. Good-bye.
Mr. Hanley? Yes, was his second conversation, over another switch. Ive been thinking about the dam on the Buckeye. I want the figures on the gravel-haul and on the rock-crushing Yes, thats it. I imagine that the gravel-haul will cost anywhere between six and ten cents a yard more than the crushed rock. That last pitch of hill is what eats up the gravel-teams. Work out the figures. No, we wont be able to start for a fortnight. Yes, yes; the new tractors, if they ever deliver, will release the horses from the plowing, but theyll have to go back for the checking No, youll have to see Mr. Everan about that. Good-bye.
And his third call:
Mr. Dawson? Ha! Ha! Thirty-six on my porch right now. It must be white with frost down on the levels. But its most likely the last this year Yes, they swore the tractors would be delivered two days ago Call up the station agent. By the way, you catch Hanley for me. I forgot to tell him to start the rat-catchers out with the second instalment of fly-traps Yes, pronto[6]. There were a couple of dozen roosting on my screen this morning Yes Good-bye.
At this stage, Forrest slid out of bed in his pajamas, slipped his feet into the slippers, and strode through the French windows to the bath, already drawn by Oh My. A dozen minutes afterward, shaved as well, he was back in bed, reading his frog book while Oh My, punctual to the minute, massaged his legs.
They were the well-formed legs of a well-built, five-foot-ten man who weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. Further, they told a tale of the man. The left thigh was marred by a scar ten inches in length. Across the left ankle, from instep to heel, were scattered half a dozen scars the size of half-dollars. When Oh My prodded and pulled the left knee a shade too severely, Forrest was guilty of a wince[7]. The right shin was colored with several dark scars, while a big scar, just under the knee, was a positive dent in the bone. Midway between knee and groin was the mark of an ancient three-inch gash, curiously dotted with the minute scars of stitches.
A sudden, joyous nicker from without put the match between the pages of the frog book, and, while Oh My proceeded partly to dress his master in bed, including socks and shoes, the master, twisting partly on his side, stared out in the direction of the nicker. Down the road, through the swaying purple of the early lilacs, ridden by a picturesque cowboy, paced a great horse, glinting ruddy in the morning sun-gold, flinging free the snowy foam of his mighty fetlocks, his noble crest tossing, his eyes roving afield, the trumpet of his love-call echoing through the springing land.
Dick Forrest was smitten at the same instant with joy and anxiety joy in the glorious beast pacing down between the lilac hedges; anxiety in that the stallion might have awakened the girl who laughed from the round wooden frame on his wall. He glanced quickly across the two-hundred-foot court to the long, shadowy jut of her wing of the house. The shades of her sleeping-porch were down. They did not stir. Again the stallion nickered, and all that moved was a flock of wild canaries, upspringing from the flowers and shrubs of the court, rising like a green-gold spray of light flung from the sunrise.
He watched the stallion out of sight through the lilacs, seeing visions of fair Shire colts mighty of bone and frame and free from blemish[8], then turned, as ever he turned to the immediate thing, and spoke to his body servant.
Hows that last boy, Oh My? Showing up?
Him pretty good boy, I think, was the answer. Him young boy. Everything new. Pretty slow. All the same time by him show up good.
Why? What makes you think so?
I call him three, four morning now. Him sleep like baby. Him wake up smiling just like you. That very good.