A Daughter of the Land

He awakened shortly after, burning with heat and thirst. He arose

and slipped to the back porch for a drink. Water was such an

aggravation, he crossed the yard, went out the back gate, and down

the alley. When he came back up the street, he was pompously,

maliciously, dangerously drunk. Either less or more would have

been better. When he came in sight of the mill, standing new and

shining in the moonlight, he was a lord of creation, ready to work

creation to his will. He would go over and see if things were all

right. But he did not cross the bridge, he went down the side

street, and entered the yard at the back. The doors were closed

and locked, but there was as yet no latch on the sliding windows

above the work bench. He could push them open from the ground.

He leaned a board against the side of the mill, set his foot on

it, and pulled himself up, so that he could climb on the bench.

That much achieved, he looked around him. After a time his eyes

grew accustomed to the darkness, so that he could see his way

plainly. Muddled half-thoughts began to filter through his brain.

He remembered he was abused. He was out of it. He remembered

that he was not the buyer for the mill. He remembered how the men

had laughed when he had said that he was to be the salesman. He

remembered that Milton had said that he was not to touch the

machinery. He at once slid from the bench and went to the boiler.

He opened the door of the fire-box and saw the kindling laid ready

to light, to get up steam. He looked at the big log on the set

carriage. They had planned to start with a splurge in the

morning. Kate was to open the throttle that started the

machinery. He decided to show them that they were not so smart.

He would give them a good surprise by sawing the log. That would

be a joke on them to brag about the remainder of his life. He

took matches from his pocket and started the fire. It seemed to

his fevered imagination that it burned far too slowly. He shoved

in more kindling, shavings, ends left from siding. This smothered

his fire, so he made trip after trip to the tinder box, piling in

armloads of dry, inflammable stuff.

Then suddenly the flames leaped up. He slammed shut the door and

started toward the saw. He could not make it work. He jammed and

pulled everything he could reach. Soon he realized the heat was

becoming intense, and turned to the boiler to see that the fire-

box was red hot almost all over, white hot in places.