The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway - Ernest Hemingway [278]
“No,” said Mr. John. “But he could be listening outside.”
“I think he’s after Nick by now,” the girl said.
“Did you hear them say anything about him at the house?”
“They never mentioned him,” Suzy said.
“Evans must have left him home to do the chores. I don’t think we have to worry about him till they get home to Evans’s.”
“I can row up the lake to home this afternoon and get one of our kids to let me know if Evans hires anyone to do the chores. That will mean he’s turned that boy loose.”
“Both the men are too old to trail anybody.”
“But that boy’s terrible, Mr. John, and he knows too much about Nickie and where he would go. He’d find them and then bring the men up to them.”
“Come in back of the post office,” Mr. John said.
Back of the filing slits and the lockboxes and the registry book and the flat stamp books in place along with the cancellation stamps and their pads, with the General Delivery window down, so that Suzy felt again the glory of office that had been hers when she had helped out in the store, Mr. John said, “Where do you think they went, Suzy?”
“I wouldn’t know, true. Somewhere not too far or he wouldn’t take Littless. Somewhere that’s really good or he wouldn’t take her. They know about the trout for trout dinners, too, Mr. John.”
“That boy?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe we better do something about the Evans boy.”
“I’d kill him. I’m pretty sure that’s why Littless went along. So Nickie wouldn’t kill him.”
“You fix it up so we keep track of them.”
“I will. But you have to think out something, Mr. John. Mrs. Adams, she’s just broke down. She just gets a sick headache like always. Here. You better take this letter.”
“You drop it in the box,” Mr. John said. “That’s United States mail.” “I wanted to kill them both last night when they were asleep.”
“No,” Mr. John told her. “Don’t talk that way and don’t think that way.”
“Didn’t you ever want to kill anybody, Mr. John?”
“Yes. But it’s wrong and it doesn’t work out.”
“My father killed a man.”
“It didn’t do him any good.” “He couldn’t help it.”
“You have to learn to help it,” Mr. John said. “You get along now, Suzy.”
“I’ll see you tonight or in the morning,” Suzy said. “I wish I still worked here, Mr. John.”
“So do I, Suzy. But Mrs. Packard doesn’t see it that way.”
“I know,” said Suzy. “That’s the way everything is.”
Nick and his sister were lying on a browse bed under a lean-to that they had built together on the edge of the hemlock forest looking out over the slope of the hill to the cedar swamp and the blue hills beyond.
“If it isn’t comfortable, Littless, we can feather in some more balsam on that hemlock. We’ll be tired tonight and this will do. But we can fix it up really good tomorrow.”
“It feels lovely,” his sister said. “Lie loose and really feel it, Nickie.”
“It’s a pretty good camp,” Nick said. “And it doesn’t show. We’ll only use little fires.”
“Would a fire show across to the hills?”
“It might,” Nick said. “A fire shows a long way at night. But I’ll stake out a blanket behind it. That way it won’t show.”
“Nickie, wouldn’t it be nice if there wasn’t anyone after us and we were just here for fun?”
“Don’t start thinking that way so soon,” Nick said. “We just started. Anyway if we were just here for fun we wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m sorry, Nickie.”
“You don’t need to be,” Nick told her. “Look, Littless, I’m going down to get a few trout for supper.”
“Can I come?”
“No. You stay here and rest. You had a tough day. You read a while or just be quiet.”
“It was tough in the slashings, wasn’t it? I thought it was really hard. Did I do all right?”
“You did wonderfully and you were wonderful making camp. But you take it easy now.”
“Have we got a name for this camp?”
“Let’s call it Camp Number One,” Nick said.
He went down the hill toward the creek and when he had come almost to the bank he stopped and cut himself a willow stick about four feet long and trimmed it, leaving the bark on. He could see the clear fast water of the stream. It was narrow and deep and the banks were mossy here before the stream