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Authors: Helen MacInnes
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point: beyond twelve inches of snow, no.) She left him, feeling slightly more happy about him, and hoping he was more reassured.
He was—much more than she had guessed. The men who shared the large room with him were friendlier than he had first thought. Whenever they paid you an insult it was a compliment. Whenever they kept their faces solemn it was a joke. So all he had to do, when they mentioned flowers, was to smile as if he were enjoying himself. That had had amazing results. Bert had even searched for a bottle of Dr. White’s Poison-ivy Lotion in the bottom of the small wooden chest, where he kept special things like mateless socks and buttons and letters and broken knives and bits of wood to carve into ornaments. He also found some Sure-cure Snakebite and Sore-tail Ointment, and he presented these to Jackson too. Just in case, as he confided in Ned, the Hungarian Cowboy was going to show them all how to ride. Ned agreed that this was the kind of guy that always caught trouble; kind of helpless; made you think of a roped calf just at the moment it stopped kicking and turned its big brown eyes up at you. Robb suggested that—when you got right down to it—they might act just as helpless in a place as peculiar as that Hungary. This remark was followed by a period of silence. Chuck nodded his head: he never had any objections to this foreign fellow—best listener he had found in years.
So Mrs. Peel returned to Mrs. Gunn’s kitchen, where she was given a nice cup of coffee to reassure her still more. “We couldn’t do without Jackson,” she explained, rocking herself gently in Mrs. Gunn’s chair. “Which is funny... At first, you know, he was so dependent on us. He couldn’t even speak much French when we met him. He was earning a pittance in a Paris garage doing odd jobs. He had been a refugee, you see, from Bela Kun.”
Mrs. Gunn didn’t see, but she waited hopefully.
“The Communist,” Mrs. Peel went on. “Jackson’s father was a farmer. Although I don’t quite understand how Communists will go around shooting farmers who disagree with them, and then blame their famines on countries that don’t shoot their farmers.”
Mrs. Gunn said it seemed kind of unreasonable to her, at that.
“He was so lost in Paris, poor Jackson. His name was Tisza Szénchenyi in those days, which complicated life considerably, I’m sure. And he was so proud, he wouldn’t admit he was lost. We engaged him one summer to drive us through Provence— we wanted someone who didn’t know the way, so annoying to be taken on a tour—and he has been with us ever since. Now it is we who would be lost without Jackson. That’s why I’m so relieved to feel he will probably stay at Rest and be Thankful. I noticed, for instance, just as I was leaving him, that Robb came in before going to Sweetwater to measure him with string for some suitable ranch clothes. So clever the way Robb put knots in it. I was fascinated. But how does he remember which knot is which? Or has he a system? Which reminds me, what should I wear out here, Mrs. Gunn? I don’t feel quite right in these clothes somehow.” Besides, it was silly to wear good clothes, even of pre-War Paris vintage, where they were never noticed.
“The ladies over at the dude ranches dress just like cowboys,” Mrs. Gunn said, and smoothed her flowered apron over her neat blue dress.
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Peel said, thinking of her hip-line. “But I am not a cowboy. Wouldn’t it look rather silly to pretend I was? Perhaps I’ll send Miss Bly another telegram, though. Abercrombie and Fitch must know what we ought to wear out West.”
Mrs. Gunn looked puzzled, recovered, and said, “If it’s clothes you need, the stores in Sweetwater have some nice things. This dress cost me only seven forty-nine.”
Mrs. Peel smiled vaguely. “We must drive in sometime and have a look at the shops.” And then she went away to battle with the telephone, so that the telegram could be sent
He was—much more than she had guessed. The men who shared the large room with him were friendlier than he had first thought. Whenever they paid you an insult it was a compliment. Whenever they kept their faces solemn it was a joke. So all he had to do, when they mentioned flowers, was to smile as if he were enjoying himself. That had had amazing results. Bert had even searched for a bottle of Dr. White’s Poison-ivy Lotion in the bottom of the small wooden chest, where he kept special things like mateless socks and buttons and letters and broken knives and bits of wood to carve into ornaments. He also found some Sure-cure Snakebite and Sore-tail Ointment, and he presented these to Jackson too. Just in case, as he confided in Ned, the Hungarian Cowboy was going to show them all how to ride. Ned agreed that this was the kind of guy that always caught trouble; kind of helpless; made you think of a roped calf just at the moment it stopped kicking and turned its big brown eyes up at you. Robb suggested that—when you got right down to it—they might act just as helpless in a place as peculiar as that Hungary. This remark was followed by a period of silence. Chuck nodded his head: he never had any objections to this foreign fellow—best listener he had found in years.
So Mrs. Peel returned to Mrs. Gunn’s kitchen, where she was given a nice cup of coffee to reassure her still more. “We couldn’t do without Jackson,” she explained, rocking herself gently in Mrs. Gunn’s chair. “Which is funny... At first, you know, he was so dependent on us. He couldn’t even speak much French when we met him. He was earning a pittance in a Paris garage doing odd jobs. He had been a refugee, you see, from Bela Kun.”
Mrs. Gunn didn’t see, but she waited hopefully.
“The Communist,” Mrs. Peel went on. “Jackson’s father was a farmer. Although I don’t quite understand how Communists will go around shooting farmers who disagree with them, and then blame their famines on countries that don’t shoot their farmers.”
Mrs. Gunn said it seemed kind of unreasonable to her, at that.
“He was so lost in Paris, poor Jackson. His name was Tisza Szénchenyi in those days, which complicated life considerably, I’m sure. And he was so proud, he wouldn’t admit he was lost. We engaged him one summer to drive us through Provence— we wanted someone who didn’t know the way, so annoying to be taken on a tour—and he has been with us ever since. Now it is we who would be lost without Jackson. That’s why I’m so relieved to feel he will probably stay at Rest and be Thankful. I noticed, for instance, just as I was leaving him, that Robb came in before going to Sweetwater to measure him with string for some suitable ranch clothes. So clever the way Robb put knots in it. I was fascinated. But how does he remember which knot is which? Or has he a system? Which reminds me, what should I wear out here, Mrs. Gunn? I don’t feel quite right in these clothes somehow.” Besides, it was silly to wear good clothes, even of pre-War Paris vintage, where they were never noticed.
“The ladies over at the dude ranches dress just like cowboys,” Mrs. Gunn said, and smoothed her flowered apron over her neat blue dress.
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Peel said, thinking of her hip-line. “But I am not a cowboy. Wouldn’t it look rather silly to pretend I was? Perhaps I’ll send Miss Bly another telegram, though. Abercrombie and Fitch must know what we ought to wear out West.”
Mrs. Gunn looked puzzled, recovered, and said, “If it’s clothes you need, the stores in Sweetwater have some nice things. This dress cost me only seven forty-nine.”
Mrs. Peel smiled vaguely. “We must drive in sometime and have a look at the shops.” And then she went away to battle with the telephone, so that the telegram could be sent
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