CHAPTER VIII
"SACK AND AX"
Scheckennarre's house was duly rebuilt, and in handsomer style than
before; and the winter came, and with it the drawing for recruits. Never
had there been greater lamentation over a "lucky number" than arose when
Damie drew one and was declared exempt. He was in complete despair, and
Barefoot almost shared his grief; for she looked upon this soldiering as
a capital method of setting Damie up, and of breaking him of his
slovenly habits. Still she said to him:
"Take this as a sign that you are to depend upon yourself now, and to be
a man; for you still behave like a little child that can't shift for
itself and has to be fed."
"You're reproaching me now for feeding upon you."
"No, I didn't mean that. Don't be so touchy all the time--always
standing there as if to say: 'Who's going to do anything for me, good or
bad?' Strike about for yourself."
"That's just what I am going to do, and I shall strike with a good
swing," said Damie.
For a long time he would not state what his real intention was; but he
walked through the village with his head singularly erect and spoke
freely to everybody; he worked diligently in the forest with the
woodcutters, having his father's ax and with it almost the bodily
strength of him who had swung it so sturdily in the days that were gone.
One evening in the early part of the spring, when Barefoot met him on
his way back from Mossbrook Wood, he asked, taking the ax from his
shoulder and holding it up before her:
"Where do you think this is going?"
"Into the forest," answered Barefoot.
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