IN LONE COVE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VI, Issue 32, 9 August 1890, Page 18

IN LONE COVE.

, T’S the worst spot for loneliness that I /'■ knows of,’ said Sam Heaver, as he stood at the door of his log hut and watched the clouds rolling across the sky. He , -"lMUcould hear the pigs chattering away to themselves in their pen. ‘ I P*S s are squealing for a storm, ' nl thinking,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll have snow. This place is bad enough -WffltSp f° r l° ne l’ ness always,but when there’s snow—- ' V^! . turned from studying the clouds, and '//Wi ’ went in doors to the fire-place. He dragged a 'ty chair, roughly made by himself, to the chimney, and sat down. Opposite to him sat his wife, working an old still' machine, trying to induce it to sew a little coat. ‘ Stop that everlasting racket,’ said Sam, angrily. ‘ I wish we’d left that sewing-machine of yours in Christchurch when we came out to this wild place. It makes as much row as the winds do of nights. Mrs Heaver said nothing. Ever since her husband had been dismissed from a situation as carter in the city because of his habit of taking too much beer, and consequently not always driving his horses as carefully as was necessary in the crowded streets, she had been learning not to answer him when he was cross and irritable, as was too frequently the case. ‘ It’s so dull here,’ said Sam, presently, ‘ I’ve a good mind to go out on Swift for a gallop, and never come back no more.’ Sam was always threatening to do this, so Mrs Heaver took no notice of the remark. ‘ Daresay the little ’un would like a ride,’ he said. ‘You shall not take Charlie out on Swift,’ said his wife. ‘ And why not ?’ retorted Sam. ‘ The little chapis wonderfully plucky, and I’ll take him over to Hampton.’ Mrs Heaver knew that at Hampton there was a very tempting new hotel, and her husband never came back sober when he rode over there. ‘ Yon shall not take Charlie to Hampton,’ she said. *He shall never learn the taste of beer whilst I am alive.’ ‘ I’m going to take him,’ said Sam, angrily. ‘ Sam,’ said his wife, earnestly, ‘ don’t take our little lad into temptation.’ ‘ It’s no business of yours,’ said Sam, roughly. ‘ I’m his mother,’ said Mrs Heaver. But Sam went out ami called ‘ Cooev !’ Through a hole in the fence a little boy ciept. * Did you want me, dad ? I was talking to the new little pigs.’ ‘ Would you like to goto Hampton with nil, Charlie?’ • Oh, wouldn’t I just? On Swift, dad?’ ‘ Yes, on Swift, of course ; how else could you go? It’s a good seven miles.’ Sam saddled the beautiful but very frisky horse, jumped up and told the little boy to put his foot on his father’s and jump too. • • I shall hold you responsible for our laddie,’ said the mother. ‘ You have no right to lake him into danger.’ The father laughed, but somehow he did not feel comfortable, and resolved that he would not have a drop to drink. It was threr o’clock when they started, and at half-past four, when it began to grow dark, and great masses of snow clouds were covering the sky, Mrs Heaver began to get very uneasy. She fancied her husband, perhaps intoxicated, urging the horse home, then losing control of the animal, ami perhaps letting sleepy little Charlie drop oil’ on to the rough track, where he might lie. half-killed, in the bitter cold ; he might even be run over by another horsemen in the darkness. When Sam and his little son reached the hotel they found more than the usual crowd of loafers. • Hullo, Sam !’ they shouted. ‘Have you brought your little ’un to teach him bail ways ?’ ‘ No one is to teach Charlie anything,’ said Sam, as he got oil'the horse, ‘and I'm going straight home.'

‘ Oh, nonsense,’ said the men, ‘ eome in for a few minutes, and get warm.’ Sam went inside, and soon forgot all about Charlie and the horse. ‘lsay, Sam,’ one of the men said presently, ‘that’s a brave little chap of yours.’ ‘ He is,’ answered Sam, ‘ because he’s my son.’ All the men laughed, and one of them said, ‘ He’s a deal braver than his father. He won’t touch a drop of this whisky, and he’s just shivering with the cold. You never were as plucky as that, Sam Heaver.’ Sam got up and went outside. Round his little lad, who was still sitting on Swift, was a crowd of idlers, trying to gersuade the noble little lad to take a drop of ‘ something ot.’ But he always answered, ‘No ; I promised my mother I wouldn’t.’ ' That’s stuff,’ cried one big, ugly fellow. ‘ Here, Bill, you hold this impudent boy, and I’ll make him drink it up.’ ‘ Hands off my Charlie,’ cried Sam, as he pushed the men away. ‘ Now then, Bill, just you take that,’ and he raised his clenched fist, meaning to bring it down on the man’s head. But Bill was too quick for him, and dodged the blow, which came with tremendous force on the horse’s flanks. The frightened Swift made a frantic plunge forward, and the startled men fell back, whilst Charlie uttered a terrified scream, and clung to the horse’s neck.

Out into the rapidly gathering darkness Swift rushed, and disappeared from sight before anyone had recovered from his astonishment. ‘ Lend me a horse,’ gasped Sam. But as no steed was at hand, the unhappy father set off running after his child as rapidly as possible. Every moment he expected to stumble over the little body. How could Charlie, who had never been alone on a horse’s back, hold on whilst Swift was Hying along at almost racing speed ? In a very short time Sam had to give up running, and follow the fugitives at a brisk walk. How his heart ached. He thought of his winsome little laddie with his pleasant chatter ; the only thing, he had often declared, that made life in Lone Cove at all endurable. What should he do without little Charlie ? And then he remembered his wife. What would she say ? Would she ever speak to him again ? He had lost her boy. Would it not break her heart ? On, on, Sam Heaver plodded. He felt he must get home to know the worst. At length he reached his little clearing. There was a faint light in the hut. Ah, yes, of course, the poor mother was sitting up, waiting for her boy. Sam felt lie could not face her. He went round to the stable. Perhaps it would be better to rest there a little, and then go away altogether, never to see his wife again. As he approached the stable he saw that it was locked. He was too dispirited to think how stupid it was of Mrs Heaver to lock the door when the steed was not inside. He easily crept in through the shaky window, and dropped on the soft stiaw with a sigh of utter weariness and misery. Was it a ghost ? From the other side of the rude partition, came a familiar neigh. Could it possibly be Swift ? A minute after Mrs Heaver appeared with a lantern. He started up. ‘ Is that you, Sam ?’ she asked, nervously. She could not tell what sort of a humour he might be in. Sam tried to speak, but could not. ‘ We was afraid you was dead,’ the woman went on. ‘ It was so dreary, waiting. But, Sam, you oughtn’t to have let Charlie come home by himself. It wasn’t safe.’ Sam jumped from the straw. ‘ Nancy,’ he said, ‘ Nancy, is our laddie safe ?’ ‘ Ay, he’s safe, but quite worn out. It was such an awful ride. He thought you had made a mistake and sent him off alone when you were just going to jump on.’ ‘ Nancy,’ cried Sam, and tears of thankfulness were running down the man’s weather-beaten face, ‘ I’ve been a bail

husband, and not a right sort of father, but that little lad shall never be braver than me again. How did he get home ?’ ‘ He just clung on, and Swift galloped home and stopped at the gate and neighed for me, and 1 went out and brought them in.’ Sam went to the hut and kissed his sleeping boy, leaving a warm tear on the round flushed cheek. ‘ I’ll work for you both,’ said Sam, ‘ and I’ll stay at home, and I’ll never find it lonely here whilst I’m the father of a plucky little chap like this.’ And he never did.