E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Project Gutenberg Beginners Projects,
Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
by
Author of Bunker Bean, Ruggles of Red Gap, Somewhere in Red Gap,etc.
1919
From the Arrowhead corrals I strolled up the poplar-bordered lane thatleads past the bunk house to the castle of the ranch's chatelaine. Itwas a still Sunday afternoon—the placid interlude, on a day of rest,between the chores of the morning and those of evening. But the calm wasfor the ear alone. To the eye certain activities, silent but swift, wereunder way. On the shaded side piazza of the ranch house I could discernmy hostess, Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill; she sat erect, even in arocking-chair, and knitted. On the kitchen steps, full in the westeringsun, sat the Chinese chef of the Arrowhead, and knitted—a yellow,smoothly running automaton. On a shaded bench by the spring house, aplaid golfing cap pushed back from one-half the amazing area of his barepate, sat the aged chore-boy, Boogles, and knitted. The ranch was on awar basis.
And more: As I came abreast of the bunk house the Sabbath calm waspunctured by the tart and careless speech of Sandy Sawtelle, a top riderof the Arrowhead, for he, too, was knitting, or had been. On a stooloutside the doorway he held up an unfinished thing before his grievedeyes and devoutly wished it in the place of punishment of the wickeddead. The sincere passion of his tones not only arrested my steps butlured through the open doorway the languorous and yawning Buck Devine,who hung over the worker with disrespectful attention. I joined the pair.To Buck's query, voiced in a key of feigned mirth, Sandy said with simpledignity that it was going to be a darned good sweater for the boys in thetrenches. Mr. Devine offered to bet his head that it wasn't going to beanything at all—at least nothing any one would want round a trench. Mr.Sawtelle ignored the wager and asked me if I knew how to do this here,now, casting off. I did not.
"I better sneak round and ask the Chink," said Sandy. "He's the starknitter on the place."
We walked on together, seemingly deaf to certain laboured pleasantries ofMr. Devine concerning a red-headed cow-puncher that had got rejected forfighting because his feet was flat and would now most likely get rejectedfor knitting because his head was flat. By way of covering the heartylaughter of Mr. Devine at his own wit I asked why Sandy should notconsult his employer rather than her cook.
With his ball of brown wool, his needles and his work carried tenderlybefore him Sandy explained, with some embarrassment as it seemed, thatthe madam was a good knitter, all right, all right, but she was an awful