Introducing Dave Porter
DAVE PORTER AT OAK HALL
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING DAVE PORTER
"Hello, Dave, where are you going?"
"I'm going up the mountainside, to look for huckleberries, Ben. Do you want to go along?"
"How much is there in it?" asked Ben Basswood, with a grin. "I never work unless I get paid for it."
"Well, you can have all the huckleberries you find. Mr. Jackson is paying eight cents a quart for them," answered Dave Porter.
"Eight cents! And how many quarts do you think I can pick in an afternoon?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Ben—six or eight quarts at least."
"That wouldn't pay me," said Ben Basswood, whose parents were well-to-do and who was furnished regularly with spendlng-money. "But I'll go along, just the same, to keep you company," he added. "How is old Potts this morning?"
"Mr. Potts isn't feeling very well. His head seems to bother him a great deal lately," and for a moment a shadow crossed Dave Porter's face. "I really think he ought to have a doctor."
"Won't he have any?"
"No. He says he can't afford it, and besides he would rather doctor himself."
"He's just a bit off, isn't he?" went on Ben, with a curious look at his companion. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Dave," he added, hastily. "But that's true, isn't it? I heard some men downtown talking about it."
"I don't know what you mean by 'off,'" answered Dave. "He is rather peculiar, but so are lots of other folks around here."
"He isn't any relation to you, is he?"
"No."
"How long have you lived with him?"
"About six years."
"Then you ought to know him pretty well, Dave."
"I do—after a fashion. He's a hard man to understand. Sometimes he is cheery and talkative and then again he will say but little all day."
"He hasn't been able to do much on the farm this summer, I suppose?"
"Hardly anything, Ben. I've had to do what was done."
"It's rather rough on you."
"Oh, I haven't minded it," was Dave Porter's cheery answer. "I only wish Mr. Potts would get better."
There was a brief spell of silence, during which time both boys trudged along the road leading to the mountainside. Dave carried a tin kettle and a basket, which he hoped to fill with huckleberries before sundown. It was a warm summer day, with the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing merrily, just the day to make the heart of any boy glad. Yet Dave heaved a long sigh, which his companion could not help but notice.
"I suppose it makes you feel bad to have him sick," said Ben.
"It isn't only that, Ben, it's something else."
"Oh!"
"I don't know that I ought to say anything, but I feel as if I must tell somebody," continued Dave. "You know old Aaron Poole, from Dixonville."
"Of course I do, Diamond Poole they used to call him. He's got a son, Nat, a regular high-flyer, so they tell me."
"Aaron Poole holds a mortgage on our farm. Mr. Potts can't pay the interest this year, and Mr. Poole says he is going to foreclose."
"And sell the place?"
"I suppose so."
"How much is the mortgage?"
"Twelve hundred dollars."
"That's as much as the place is worth."
"I suppose that is true."
"If the place is sold what will you and old Potts do?" went on Ben, with added interest.
"I don't know, and that is what is bothering me. If he was a younger man, and well, we might hire some other farm, but as it is I can't see any way to turn."
"You might get a place on some other farm, Dave. I know you can do a regular man's work."
"Yes, but that wouldn't help Mr. Potts, and I feel that I ought to do all I can for him. He did what he could for me."
"You'll have a job of it, supporting yourself and a sick man, too. Besides, if he gets much worse he'll have to have somebody to take care of him, and you can't do that and work, too."
"I'll have to do it—or do the best I can," and Dave heaved another sigh, for the prospect ahead was certainly a dark one.
"How soon do you expect to hear from Aaron Poole?"
"The interest on the mortgage is due to-morrow, and Mr. Poole says he won't wait for his money."
"He's a hard-hearted wretch, if ever there was one!" burst out Ben, indignantly. "Do you remember the widow Fram? He put her out of her cottage in the dead of winter just because she got behind in her rent. Father said it was the meanest thing he had ever heard of. He got the widow another place."
"Well, we have got to do something, that is certain," said Dave. "For the present I am going to pick all the huckleberries I can for Mr. Jackson. That will give us a little money to fall back on."
"And I'l help you, Dave. I can't pick many, I know; but every little helps, they say." And a moment later the conversation came to an end and each of the lads began to gather the berries, which grew in scattered patches all over the mountain.
Dave Porter was a youth of fifteen, of medium size, with dark eyes and curly dark hair. He was healthy, with muscles hardened by constant work in the open air. His look was both fearless and frank, and there was an expression about his mouth which spoke of a will power bound to assert itself whenever needed.
Dave