Riding the Flume Read Online Free PDF Page B

rings for him. I don’t want to break my promise.”
    â€œIt’s a promise you should never have made,” her father said. There was no anger there; his voice had the same flat tone as always. “You’ll just have to tell Mr. Court you’re unable to fulfill your obligations. I’m sure he can get someone else to help.”
    â€œBut that’s just the point, Father,” Francie countered. “You can’t stop him from finding out how old the tree was, so I might as well get to keep my promise.” Her father smoothed down his mustache with one finger, and Francie took it as a sign that he was listening. “Could I just go to the basin until I finish counting the tree rings? Then I promise I’ll never go back.”
    â€œYou know I don’t hold with what Court is doing,” her father said at last. “He’s standing in the way of human progress.”
    Francie took a breath. Was he wavering? She crossed her fingers under the table.
    Her father sighed. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re taking your promises seriously,” he said. He frowned at her. “I don’t say it’s safe . . .”
    â€œI’ll be very careful,” Francie said. “I won’t go anywhere near the logging.”
    Francie’s mother came into the dining room with oatmeal in a pottery dish. She placed it in front of Francie’s father, who plopped a steaming spoonful of the cereal in Francie’s bowl. “Only until you’ve finished counting the rings.” He served Francie’s mother and then himself. “Atleast Court can’t accuse me of choosing sides,” he muttered.
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    Francie sang as she helped Josie change the sheets in the hotel rooms. But by the time she’d finished that and helped her mother make raspberry tarts for the hotel guests’ dinners, washed up all the dirty breakfast dishes and then the dinner dishes, it was late afternoon. “It’s not fair,” she mumbled, hanging the wet dishrag on its rack by the sink. “They tell me I can go to the basin and then keep me so busy there’s no time.”
    â€œDid you say something, Francie?” Her mother pumped a last stream of water from the small hand pump on the counter to rinse the dishpan clean of suds. The hotel boasted the latest in modern conveniences—there was even a drain connecting the dry sink to a pipe that ran under the hotel and emptied the sink water out away from the buildings.
    â€œNo, ma’am.” Francie turned away so her mother couldn’t see her face. “When do we need to begin supper?”
    Her mother dried her hands on her apron. “Oh, not for a while, and I can get it started.” She pulled a pin out of her hair and repositioned it. “I’ve got some paperwork to finish now.” She was on her way out of the hotel kitchen, and then turned around. “Do you need something to do?”
    Francie glanced up to see her eyes twinkling. “No, ma’am,” she answered, grinning. “I can find something tooccupy myself.” She followed her mother out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the lobby of the hotel. Father always said their lobby was as elegant as any in New York City. A large Oriental carpet covered the floor, and chairs and tables, mostly in the French Victorian style, were arranged conveniently for guests to converse with one another. A glittering crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. The windows looking out onto the street had carved panes of leaded glass. Her father and Mr. Morgan, one of the regular guests, were sitting in wing-back chairs in the corner of the room. Their teacups were forgotten on the small round table between them while they talked intensely about something. “Probably the depression,” Francie muttered. It was the only thing anyone talked about these days. She walked around the perimeter