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The Lady of Big Shanty
By
1909
This story, written by a man who has passed many years of his life inthe Adirondack woods, strikes a note not often sounded—the power ofthe primeval over the human mind.
Once abandoned in the wilderness, wholly dependent upon what canbe wrested from its clutch to prolong existence, all the ordinarystandards and ambitions of life become as naught: for neither love,hatred, revenge, honour, money, jewels, or social success will bring acup of water, a handful of corn or a coal of fire. Under this tortureNature once more becomes king and man again an atom; his judgmentclarified, his heart stripped naked, his soul turned inside out. Theuntamed, mighty, irresistible primitive is now to be reckoned with,and a lie will no longer serve.
Such is the power of the primeval, and for the unique way in which ithas been treated between these covers, the father takes off his hat tothe son.
September, 1909.
It was the luncheon hour, and The Players was crowded with itsmembers; not only actors, but men of every profession, from the tall,robust architect to the quiet surgeon tucked away among the cushionsof the corner divan. In the hall—giving sound advice, perhaps, to anewly fledged tragedian—sat some dear, gray-haired old gentleman inwhite socks who puffed silently at a long cigar, while from out thelow-ceiled, black-oak dining room, resplendent in pewter and hazy withtobacco smoke, came intermittent outbursts of laughter. It was thehour when idlers and workers alike throw off the labours of the dayfor a quiet chat with their fellows.
Only one man in the group was restless. This was a young fellow whokept watch at the window overlooking the Park. That he was greatlyworried was evident from the two tense furrows in his brow, and fromthe way his eyes scanned the street below.
"The devil!" he grumbled. "I wonder if Billy's missed histrain—another Adirondack express late, I suppose." He flicked theashes from his cigarette and, wheeling sharply, touched a bell.
"John," he said, as the noiseless old steward entered.
"Yes, Mr. Randall."
"Find out at the desk if a Mr. William Holcomb from Moose River hascalled or telephoned."
"Very good, sir."
"He's a tall, sun-burned young man, John—and he may be waiting below.
You understand."
"I'll go and see, sir," and the steward turned.
"And, John—tell August we shall be five at luncheon."
The next moment two hands gripped him from behind by both shoulders.
"Well! I'm glad you're here, Keene, at any rate!" cried Randallas he smashed the bell hard. "Two dry Martinis"—this to theyellow-waistcoated steward now at his elbow. "It's Billy Holcombyou've come to meet. He wrote me he was coming to New York on businessand I made him promise to come here first. He and I hunted togetherlast fall and I wanted you and Brompton to know him. What I'm afraidof is that he has missed the night express. Moose River's a long waysfrom