"To-be-sure," said Uncle Bobbie, "I know. To-be-sure. Sometimes a bad feller like him gets tangled up with good people in such a way you jist got t'er let 'em alone; tares an' wheat you know; tares and wheat. To-be-sure Christianity aint 'rithmetic, and you can't save souls like you'd do problems in long division, ner count results like you'd figger interest. What'd ye say?—Suppose you skip down to the corner and fetch him up here."
Dick glanced at the negro. "Never you mind him," said the old gentleman, with a fierce scowl. "Your uncle'll shoot the blamed head off him if he so much as bats an eye; he knows it too." And he trained the long gun on the trembling black.
Dick slipped out of the back door and soon returned holding Frank firmly by the collar. As they entered, Uncle Bobbie said to the negro, "Now's yer chance, Bill; git out quick 'fore we change our minds." And the astonished darkey bolted.
"Now Frank," said the old gentleman kindly, when Dick had placed his prisoner in a chair, "tell us all about it." And young Goodrich, too frightened almost to speak above a whisper, told the whole miserable story.
"Too bad; too bad," muttered Uncle Bobbie, when Frank had finished. "To-be-sure, taint no more'n I expected; gamblin' church members ain't got no call to kick if their children play cards fer money. What'll we do, Dick?"
Dick was silent, but unseen by Frank, he motioned toward the door.
[Illustration: "Too bad, too bad, muttered Uncle Bobbie."]
Uncle Bobbie understood. "I reckon yer right," he said, slowly, "tares an' wheat—tares an' wheat. But what about them notes?"
"I'll fix Whitley," replied Dick.
Frank looked at him in wonder.
"Air you sure you can do it?" asked Uncle Bobbie; "'cause if you can't—"
"Sure," replied Dick; "I'll write him a line tonight." Then to Frank: "You can go now, sir, and don't worry about Jim Whitley; he will never trouble you by collecting the notes."
Frank, stammering some unintelligible reply, rose to his feet.
"Wait a bit young man," said Uncle Bobbie, "I want to tell ye somethin' before ye go. To-be-sure, I don't think ye'll ever be a verybadcitizen, but you've shown pretty clearly that ye can be a mighty mean one. An' I'm afraid ye'll never be much credit to the church, 'cause a feller's got to be amanbefore he can be much of a Christian. Pieces of men like you don't count much on either side; they just sort o' fill in. But what ye want to do is to quit tryin' so blamed hard to be respectable and bedecent. Now run on home to yer maw and don't tell nobody where ye've been to-night. Mr. Falkner he will look after yer friend Whitley."
The sun was nearly three hours high above the western hilltops in the mountain district of Arkansas, as a solitary horseman stopped in the shadow of the timber that fringed the edge of a deep ravine. It was evident from the man's dress, that he was not a native of that region; and from the puzzled expression on his face, as he looked anxiously about, it was clear that he had lost his way. Standing in the stirrups he turned and glanced back over the bridle path along which he had come, and then peered carefully through the trees to the right and left; then with an impatient oath, he dropped to the saddle and sat staring straight ahead at a lone pine upon the top of a high hill a few miles away.
"There's the hill with the signal tree beyond Simpson's all right," he said, "but how in thunder am I to get there; this path don't go any farther, that's sure," and from the distant mountain he turned his gaze to the deep gulch that lay at his feet.
Suddenly he leaned forward with another exclamation. He had caught sight of a log cabin in the bottom of the ravine, half hidden by the bushes and low trees that grew upon the steep banks. Turning his horse, he rode slowly up and down for some distance, searching for an easy place to descend, coming back at last to the spot where he had first halted. "It's no go, Salem," he said; "we've got to slide for it," and dismounting, he took the bridle rein in his hand and began to pick his way as best he could, down the steep incline, while his four-footed companion reluctantly followed. After some twenty minutes of stumbling and swearing on the part of the man, and slipping and groaning on the part of the horse, they stood panting at the bottom. After a short rest, the man clambered into the saddle again, and fording a little mountain brook that laughed and sang and roared among the boulders, rode up to the clearing in which the cabin stood.
"Hello!" he shouted.
There was no answer, and but for the thread of smoke that curled lazily from the mud and stick chimney, the place seemed deserted.
"Hello!" he called again.
A gaunt hound came rushing from the underbrush beyond the house, and with hair bristling in anger, howled his defiance and threats.
Again the horseman shouted, and this time the cabin door opened cautiously and a dirty-faced urchin thrust forth a tousled head.
"Where's your father?"
The head was withdrawn, and a moment later put forth again."He's done gone ter th' corners."
"Well, can you tell me the way to Simpson's? I don't know how to get out of this infernal hole."
Again the head disappeared for a few seconds, and then the door was thrown wide open and a slovenly woman, with a snuff stick in one corner of her mouth, came out, followed by four children. The youngest three clung to her skirts and stared, with fearful eyes, at the man on the horse, while he of the tousled head threw stones at the dog and commanded him, in a shrill voice, to "shet up, dad burn ye Kinney, shet up. He's all right."
"Wanter go ter Simpson's at the corners, do ye?" said the woman."Wal, yer right smart offen yer road."
"I know that," replied the stranger, impatiently; "I've been hunting turkeys and lost my way. But can't I get to the corners from here?"
"Sure ye kin. Jes' foller on down the branch 'bout three mile till ye come out on the big road; hit'll take ye straight ter th' ford below ol' Ball whar' the lone tree is. Simpson's is 'bout half a quarter on yon side the creek."
The man thanked her gruffly, and turning his horse, started away.
"Be you'ns the feller what's stoppin' at Sim's ter hunt?" she called after him.
"Yes, I'm the man," he answered, "Good-evening." And he rode into the bushes.
Catching the oldest urchin by the arm, the woman gave him a vigorous cuff on the side of the head and then whispered a few words in his attentive ear. The lad started off down the opposite side of the ravine at a run, bending low and dodging here and there, unseen by the stranger.
The hunter pushed on his way down the narrow valley as fast as he could go, for he had no time to spare if he would reach his stopping-place before night, and he knew that there was small chance of finding the way back after dark; but his course was so rough and obstructed by heavy undergrowth, fallen trees and boulders, that his progress was slow and the shadow of the mountain was over the trail while he was still a mile from the road at the end of the ravine. As he looked anxiously ahead, hoping every moment to see the broader valley where the road lay, he caught a glimpse of two men coming toward him, one behind the other, winding in and out through the low timber. While still some distance away, they turned sharply to the left, and as it seemed to him, rode straight into the side of the mountain and were lost to sight.
Checking his horse, he watched for them to come into view again, and while he waited, wondering at their strange disappearance, the men urged their mules up a narrow gulley that was so hidden by the undergrowth and fallen timber as to escape an eye untrained to the woods and hills. After riding a short distance, they dismounted, and leaving the animals, quickly scaled the steep sides of the little cut and came out in an open space about two hundred yards above the trail along which the solitary horseman must pass. Dropping behind the trunk of a big tree that lay on the mountain side, uprooted by some gale and blackened by forest fires, they searched the valley below with the keen glance of those whose eyes are never dimmed by printed page or city lights. Dressed in the rude garb of those to whom clothes are a necessity, not a means of display, tall and lean with hard muscles, tough sinews and cruel stony faces, they seemed a part of the wild life about them; and yet withal, there was a touch of the mountain grandeur in their manner, and in the unconscious air of freedom and self-reliance, as there always is about everything that remains untouched by the conventionality of the weaker world of men.
"'Bout time he showed up, aint it, Jake?" said one as he carefully rested his rifle against the log and bit off a big piece of long green twist tobacco.
"Hit's a right smart piece ter ol' Josh's shack an' th' kid done come in a whoop," returned the other, following his companion's example. "He can't make much time down that branch on hoss back an' with them fine clothes of his, but he orten ter be fur off."
"D'ye reckon he's a durned revenoo sure, Jake?"
"Dunno, best be safe," with an ugly scowl. "Simpson 'lows he's jes' layin' low hisself, but ye can't tell."
"What'd Sim say his name war?"
"Jim Whitley," returned the other, taking a long careful look up the valley.
"An' whar' from?"
"Sim say St. Louie, or some place like that. Sh—thar' he comes."
They half rose and crouching behind the log, pushed the cocked rifles through the leaves of a little bush, covering the horseman below.
"If he's a revenoo he'll sure see th' path ter th' still," whispered the one called Jake; "an' if he turns ter foller hit into th' cut drap him. If he goes on down th' branch, all right."
All unconscious of the rifles that wanted only the touch of an outlaw's finger to speak his death, the stranger pushed on his way past the unseen danger point toward the end of the valley where lay the road.
The lean mountaineers looked at each other. "Never seed hit," said one, showing his yellow teeth in a mirthless grin; "an' I done tole Cap las' night, hit was es plain es er main traveled road an' orter be kivered."
"Mebbe so," replied the other; "an' then agin he mighter ketched on an' 'lows ter fool us."
The other sprang up with an oath. "We uns aint got no call ter take chances," he growled; "best make sure." And with his rifle half raised, he looked anxiously along the trail, but the stranger had passed from view.
A few minutes longer they waited and watched, discussing the situation; then returning to the mules, they rode out of the little gully and on down the branch in the direction the object of their suspicion had taken.
Just across the road from the mouth of the ravine down which the hunter had come, was a little log cabin, and in the low doorway an old woman sat smoking a cob pipe. "Howdy Liz," said one of the men, "Seed anythin'?"
"Yep," returned the woman. "He done ast th' way ter Simpson's. 'Low'd he'd been huntin' turkey an' lost hisself. I done tole him he orter git someone ter tromp 'roun' with him er he might git killed."
She laughed shrilly and the two men joined in with low guffaws. "Reckon yer right, Liz," said one. "Jake, why don't ye hire out ter him."
Jake slapped his leg. "By gum," he exclaimed, "that thar's a good ide'. I shor' do hit. An' I'll see that he don't find nothin' bigger'n turkey too; less'n he's too durned inquisitive; then I'll be—." He finished with an evil grin. "You all tell Cap I've done gone ter hunt with Mistah Whitley ef I don't show up." And beating his mule's ribs vigorously with his heels, he jogged away down the road, while his companion turned and rode back up the little valley.
Jim Whitley, enraged at Frank's failure to rescue the papers held by Dick, and alarmed by the latter's letter telling him of young Goodrich's confession, had come into the wild backwoods district to await developments. He was more determined now than ever, to gain possession of the evidence of his crime, and in his heart was a fast-growing desire to silence, once for all, the man whose steady purpose and integrity was such an obstacle in his life. But he could see no way to accomplish his purpose without great danger to himself; and with the memory of the gray eyes that had looked so calmly along the shining revolvers that night in the printing office, was a wholesome respect for the determined character of the man who had coolly proposed to die with him if he did not grant his demands. He feared that should Dick find Amy and learn the truth, he would risk his own life rather than permit him to go unpunished, and so he resolved to bury himself in the mountains until chance should reveal a safe way out of the difficulty, or time change the situation.
The afternoon of the day following his adventure in the little valley, Whitley sat on the porch of the post office and store kept by his host, telling his experience to a group of loafers, when the long mountaineer called Jake, rode up to the blacksmith shop across the street. Leaving his mule to be shod, the native joined the circle just in time to hear the latter part of Whitley's story.
"Lookin' fer turkey, war ye Mister?" asked Jake, with a wink at the bystanders.
"Yes, have you seen any?" replied Jim.
"Sure, the bresh's full of 'em ef ye know whar' ter hunt."
The company grinned and he continued: "I seed signs this mo'nin' in th' holler on yon side ol' Ball, when I war' huntin' my mule. An' thar's a big roost down by th' spring back of my place in th' bottoms."
Whitley was interested. "Will you show me where they are?" he asked.
"Might ef I could spar' th' time," replied Jake slowly; "butI've got my craps ter tend."
Another grin went the rounds. "Jake's sure pushed with his craps," remarked one; "Raises mo' corn, 'n 'ary three men in Arkansaw," remarked another, and with this they all fired a volley of tobacco juice at a tumble bug rolling his ball in the dust near by.
Needless to say, the conversation resulted in Whitley's engaging the moonshiner for seventy-five cents a day, to hunt with him; and for the next two weeks they were always together.
All day long the native led the way over the hills and through the deep ravines and valleys, taking a different course each day, but always the chase led them away from the little ravine that opened on the big road. When Whitley suggested that they try the country where he had lost his way, his guide only laughed contemptuously, "Ain't ye killin' turkey every trip. Ye jist foller me an' I'll sure find 'em fer ye. Ain't nothin' over in that holler. I done tromped all over thar' huntin' that dad burned ol' mule o'mine, an' didn't see nary sign. Thay's usen' 'round th' south side th' ridge. Ye jist lemme take ye 'round." And Jim was forced to admit that he was having good luck and no cause to complain of lack of sport. But he was growing tired of the hills and impatient to return to the city, while his hatred of the man whom he feared, grew hourly.
Jake, seeing that his employer was fast growing tired of the hunt, and guessing shrewdly, from his preoccupied manner, that hunting was not the real object of his stay in the mountains, became more and more suspicious. His careless, good-natured ways and talk changed to a sullen silence and he watched Whitley constantly.
One morning, just at daybreak, as they were walking briskly along the big road on their way to a place where the guide said the game was to be found, Take stopped suddenly, and motioning Jim to be silent, stood in a listening attitude.
Whitley followed his companion's example, but for a minute could hear nothing but the faint rustle of the dead leaves as a gray lizard darted to his hiding place, and the shrill scream of a blue-jay calling his sleepy mates to breakfast. Then the faint thud, thud, thud, of a galloping horse came louder and louder through the morning mist. Evidently someone was riding rapidly toward them.
"Whitley was about to speak, when the other, with a fierce oath and a threatening gesture, stopped him.
"Git inter th' bresh thar' quick an' do's I tell ye. Don't stop t' plaver. Git! An' gimme yer gun."
Too astonished to do anything else, Jim obeyed, and hastily thrusting the rifle under a pile of leaves by a log near by, the moonshiner forced his companion before him through the underbrush to a big rock some distance from the road. The sound of the galloping horse came louder and louder.
"Stand thar' behin' that rock 'n if ye stir I'll kill ye," whispered Jake; and taking a position behind a tree where he could watch Jim as well as the road, he waited with rifle cocked and murder written in every line of his hard face.
Nearer and nearer came the galloping horse. Whitley was fascinated and moved slightly so that he could peep over the rock. A low hiss from Jake fell upon his ear like the warning hiss of a serpent, and half turning, he saw the rifle pointing full at him. He nodded his head, and placing his finger upon his lips to indicate that he understood, turned his face toward the road again, just as the horse and his rider came into view.
The animal, though going freely, was covered with dust and dripping with sweat, which showed a creamy lather on his flanks, and where the bridle reins touched his neck. The rider wore a blue flannel shirt, open at the throat, corduroy trousers, tucked in long boots, and a black slouch hat, with the brim turned up in front. At his belt hung two heavy revolvers, and across the saddle he held a Winchester ready for instant use. He sat his horse easily as one accustomed to much riding, but like the animal, he showed the strain of a hard race.
Whitley was so wrought up that all these details impressed themselves upon his mind in an instant, and it seemed hours from the moment the horseman appeared until he was opposite the rock, though it could have been but a few seconds.
The watcher caught one glimpse of the rider's face, square jawed, keen eyed, determined, alert, stained by wind and weather.
"Crack!" went the rifle behind Whitley.
Like a flash the weapon of the rider flew to his shoulder. "Crack!" and the bark flew from the tree within an inch of Jake's face.
Whitley saw the spurs strike and the rider lean forward in his saddle to meet the spring of his horse. "Crack!" Jake's rifle spoke again. A mocking laugh came back from the road as the flying horseman passed from sight. Then, "I'll see you later," came in ringing tones, and the thud, thud, thud, of the galloping horse died away in the distance.
The mountaineer delivered himself of a volley of oaths, while Whitley stood quietly looking at him, his mind filled with strange thoughts. The man who could deliberately fire from ambush with intent to kill was the man for his purpose.
"Who is he?" Jim asked at last, when the other stopped swearing long enough to fill his mouth with fresh tobacco.
"A revenoo, an' I done missed him clean." He began to curse again.
"He came near getting you though," said the other, pointing to the mark of the horseman's bullet.
"Yas, hit war' Bill Davis. Aint nary other man in the hull dad burned outfit could er done hit." He looked with admiration at the fresh scar on the tree.
"But what is he doing?" asked Whitley.
Jake looked at him with that ugly, mirthless grin. "Mebbe he's huntin' turkey too."
Whitley laughed, "I guess he was goin' too fast for that," he said; but his companion's reply changed his laughter to fear.
"Thar's them that better be a follerin' of him mighty sudden."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you, Mister. The boys has had ther' eye on ye fer sometime. We know yer huntin's all a blind, an' now Bill Davis he's come in. I aint right shor' myself er I'd a kep' mum an' he'pped 'em take ye."
Whitley turned pale. "Do you mean that the people here think I'm a revenue agent looking for moonshiners?"
"That's about hit, Mister, an' they'll be fer takin' ye out ter night shor'."
The fellow's meaning was too clear to be mistaken, and for some timeWhitley remained silent. He was thinking hard. At last he said: "Jake,I'll tell you something. The boys are mistaken. I'm not here to getanybody into trouble, but because I'm in a hole myself."
"As how?" asked Jake, moving nearer and speaking in a lower tone.
"I won't tell you how unless you'll help me; and if you will, I'll pay you more money than you can make in this business in a thousand years."
The moonshiner's eyes gleamed. "Bill Davis is sure after us an' that thar' means trouble every time," he said slowly. "Ye heard him say as how he'd see me agin, an' I never knowed him ter miss befo'." He looked at the bullet mark on the tree again. "Tell ye what, Mister Whitley, I'll chance her; but we ain't got no time ter talk now. We gotter git away from here, fer some er the boys 'll be along purty quick. We'll just mosey 'round fer a spell an' then go back ter th' corners. I'll send th' boys off on er hot chase en' fix Sim so's ye kin git erway t'-night, an' ye come ter my shack; hit's on th' river below that hill with the lone tree on top, jes' seven mile from th' corners. Ye can't miss hit. I'll be thar an' have things fixed so's we kin light out befo' th' boys git back."
They reached Simpson's in time for dinner and Jake held a long whispered conversation with that worthy, while Jim sat on the porch after the meal.
As Jake passed him on his way to the mule that stood hitched in front of the blacksmith shop as usual, he said, in the hearing of those near: "Hit's all right fer to-morrow, is hit, Mister Whitley? An' we'll go over tother side Sandy Ridge?"
The words "all right" were accompanied by a wink that Whitley understood.
"Yes," he answered carelessly, "I'll be ready. I want to rest this afternoon and get a good sleep tonight. I'll be with you in the morning."
Jake rode off, and all the rest of the day Whitley felt that he was the mark for many scowling glances, while many whispered words were passed between the gaunt natives as they slouched in and out of the post office. Later, when the loafers had seemingly disappeared, Simpson came, and leaning carelessly against the door post within a few feet of Whitley, said, in a low voice: "They's a watchin' ye from th' shop yonder; be keerful an' don't let on. Yer hoss is tied in th' bresh down th' road a piece. Ride easy fer th' first mile."
Jim rose slowly to his feet, and stretching his arms above his head, yawned noisily. "Guess I'll turn in," he said. And then as he passed Simpson, he put a roll of bills into his hand. The landlord stepped out on the porch and took the chair Whitley had just left, while that gentleman slipped quietly out by the back door and crept away to his horse.
An hour later, Whitley knocked at the door of the cabin on the river bank and was admitted by Jake.
"Did ye make hit all right?" the mountaineer asked, as Jim entered.
The other nodded. "Simpson is sitting on the front porch and I'm supposed to be in bed."
Jake chuckled. "Cap an' th' boys air way up th' holler after Bill Davis, an' I'm in the bresh er watchin' you. Now let's git down ter biz right sharp."
Whitley soon told enough of his story, omitting names and places, to let his companion understand the situation.
When he had finished, Jake took a long pull from a bottle, and then said slowly: "An' ye want me ter put that feller what holds th' papers out o' yer' way?"
Whitley nodded. "It'll pay you a lot better than shooting government agents, and not half the risk."
"What'll ye give me?"
"You can name your own price?"
The outlaw's face glittered and he answered in a hoarse whisper, "I'll do hit. What's his name, an' whar'll I find him?"
"Richard Falkner. He lives in Boyd City—"
Slowly the man who had just agreed to commit a murder for money rose to his feet and stepped backward until half the width of the room was between them.
The other, alarmed at the expression in his companion's face, rose also, and for several minutes the silence was only broken by the crackling of the burning wood in the fireplace, the shrill chirp of a cricket and the plaintive call of a whip-poor-will from without. Then with a look of superstitious awe and terror upon his thin face, the moonshiner gasped, in a choking voice, "Boyd City—Richard Falkner—Mister, aint yo' mistaken? Say, ar' ye right shor'?"
Whitley replied, with an oath, "What's the matter with you? You look as though you had seen a ghost."
The ignorant villain started and glanced over his shoulder to the dark corner of the cabin; "Thar' might be a ha'nt here, shor' 'nough," he whispered hoarsely. "Do yo' know whar' ye air, Mister?"
Then as Whitley remained silent, he continued: "This here's th' house whar' Dickie Falkner war' borned; an' whar' his mammy died; an'—an' I'm Jake Tompkins; me 'n his daddy war' pards."
Whitley was dazed. He looked around the room as though in a dream; then slowly he realized his situation and a desperate resolve crept into his heart. Carefully his hand moved beneath his coat until he felt the handle of a long knife, while he edged closer to his companion.
The other seemed not to notice, and continued, as though talking to himself: "Little Dickie Falkner. Him what fed me when I war' starvin', an' gimme his last nickel when he war' hungry hisself; an' yo' want me ter kill him."—He drew a long shuddering breath. "Mister, yo' shor' made 'er bad mistake this time."
"I'll fix it though," cried Whitley; and with an awful oath he leaped forward, the knife uplifted.
But the keen eye of the man used to danger, had seen his stealthy preparation, and his wrist was caught in a grasp of iron.
The city-bred villain was no match for his mountain-trained companion and the struggle was short.
Keeping his hold upon Whitley's wrist, Jake threw his long right arm around his antagonist and drew him close, in a crushing embrace. Then, while he looked straight into his victim's fear-lighted eyes, he slowly forced the uplifted hand down and back.
Whitley struggled desperately, but his left arm was pinned to his side and he was held as in a circle of steel. In vain he writhed and twisted; he was helpless in the powerful grasp of the mountaineer. Slowly the hand that held the knife was forced behind him. He screamed in pain. The glittering eyes that looked into his never wavered. Jake's right hand behind his back, touched the knife, and Whitley saw that evil, mirthless grin come on the cruel face, so close to his own. The grip on his wrist tightened. Slowly his arm was twisted until his fingers loosened the hold of the weapon, and the handle of the knife was transferred to the grasp of the man who held him. Then there were two quick, strong thrusts, a shuddering, choking cry, and the arms were loosed as the stricken man fell in a heap on the cabin floor, on the very spot where years before, the dying mother had prayed: "Oh Lord, take ker' o' Dick."
"You—have—killed—me—"
"I reckon that's about hit, Mister."
"Tell—Falkner—I—lied—Amy—is—pure—and tell—"
But the sentence was never finished.
After several weeks of careful investigation and study of the conditions and needs of Boyd City, along the lines suggested by Rev. Cameron in his address before the Young People's Union, a plan to meet these conditions was at last fixed upon, the main points of which were as follows: That a society or company be organized and incorporated to furnish places of recreation and education for young men and women; the place to be fitted with gymnasium, library, reading rooms, social parlors, a large auditorium and smaller class-rooms for work along special lines. There should also be a department where men out of employment might earn something to eat and a place to sleep, by working in wood-yards, coal mines, factories, or farms connected with the institution; and a similar place for women. It also provided for a medical dispensary and hospital for the care of the sick. The whole institution was to be under the charge of some Christian man who should deliver an address on the teachings of Christ every Sunday afternoon in the large auditorium.
Besides this, Bible classes could be organized by different workers as they chose, with this restriction, that no teaching of any particular sect or denomination should be allowed, and only the life and laws of Jesus Christ should be studied. Classes in other studies, such as pertain to the welfare or the government of the people, could be organized for those who wished, all educational work being under the supervision of directors elected by the society.
Every department of the institution was to be free to the public at all hours. To make this possible, the funds of the Society would be raised from the sale of shares, for which the holder was to pay annually twenty-five dollars. Members of the Association were entitled to one vote in the society for every four shares. It was expected that the department for the needy would be self-supporting.
The purpose and plans of the society were to be fully set forth in a little pamphlet, and placed in the hands of every citizen. The people were to be urged to co-operate with the institution by refusing absolutely to give any man, able to work, either food, clothing or lodging, on the ground that he could obtain the needed help by paying for it in labor at the institution; and that they further assist the work by contributing clothing, by employing laborers, and using the products of the institution as far as possible.
The office of the Superintendent was to be in direct communication with the police station, and anyone applying for help and refusing to work, when it was offered, would be turned over to the authorities to be dealt with for vagrancy. The hope was expressed that the city would co-operate with the institution by contributing liberally for the building fund, and by using the workers in their street-cleaning department.
When the time came to hear the committee's report, the opera house was crowded as it seldom was for any political speech or theatrical display. The young people from the various societies occupied the front seats on the floor of the house; and back of them, in the dress circles and galleries, were the general public, while on the rostrum were the leading business men, bankers, merchants, and the city officials, together with the committee.
"Look there, Bill," said a saloon keeper, who had come to watch his interest, "look at that. Blast me if there aint Banker Lindsley; and see them reporters. And there's the editor of the Whistler. Say, this aint no bloody church meeting; there aint a preacher on the stage. Them fellers mean business. We've got to watch out if they keep on this tack. And would you look at the people?"
"Come on out of here," growled his companion, a gambler; "we don't want any truck with this outfit."
"I'm going to stay and see what they propose doing," said the other."Get a grip on yourself and wait."
Just then the assembly was called to order, and the two men dropped into seats near the rear entrance.
The president stated the object of the meeting and reviewed the action of the previous one at the Zion Church, where Cameron had spoken, strongly emphasizing the fact that this was not a meeting of the young people's societies only, but that every one present was to have a share in it, and all should feel free to express themselves either by voice or ballot. "Mr. Richard Falkner, the chairman of the committee, will make the report, and at their request, will speak for a few moments on the subject."
As Dick arose from his place in the rear of the stage and stepped forward, the saloon keeper turned to his companion, and in a loud whisper said, "Say, aint he that bum printer of Udell's?"
The other nodded and then replied, as his companion began to speak again, "Shut up, let's hear what he is going to say."
As Dick came slowly forward to the front of the rostrum, and stood for a moment as though collecting himself, the audience, to a man almost, echoed the thought that the saloon keeper had so roughly expressed. "Could it be possible that this was the poor tramp who had once gone from door to door seeking a chance to earn a crust of bread?" And then as they looked at the calm, clear-cut, determined features, and the tall, well-built figure, neatly clothed in a business suit of brown, they burst into involuntary applause. A smile crept over Dick's face as he bowed his handsome head in grateful acknowledgment. And then he held up his hand for silence.
Instantly a hush fell over the audience, and in a moment they were listening, with intense interest, to the voice of the once tramp printer.
"Our president has already detailed to you an account of the meeting preceding this. You understand that I am but the mouthpiece of the council appointed at that time, and that I do but speak their will, their thoughts, their aims, as they have voiced them in our meetings."
He then told of the methods adopted by the committee, of the help they had received, and how they had at last decided upon the report which he was about to submit; then carefully detailed the plan, enlarging upon the outlines as he proceeded. Drawing upon the mass of information gathered in the few weeks, he painted the city in its true colors, as shown in the light of their investigation; and then held out the wonderful promises of the plan for the future.
As he talked, Dick forgot himself, and forgot his audience. He saw only the figure of the Christ, and heard Him say, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, my Brethren, ye did it unto me." While his hearers sat lost to the surroundings under the magic spell of his eloquence; an eloquence that even his most intimate friends never dreamed that he possessed.
Charlie Bowen was enraptured. Clara Wilson wept and laughed and wept again. Uncle Bobbie could only say, "I jing," and "To-be-sure," while George Udell sat in wonder. Could this splendid man who, with his flashing eye and glowing face, with burning words and graceful gestures, was holding that immense audience subject to his will, could this be the wretched creature who once fell at his feet fainting with hunger? "Truly," he thought, "the possibilities of life are infinite. The power of the human soul cannot be measured, and no man guesses the real strength of his closest friend."
As Dick finished and turned to resume his seat by the side of Mr. Wicks, a perfect furor of applause came from the people. In vain the chairman rapped for order; they would not stop; while on the rostrum men were crowding about the young orator, standing on chairs and reaching over each other's shoulders to grasp his hand. At last, the president turned to Dick. "Mr. Falkner, can you stop them?"
Dick, with face now as pale as death, and lips trembling with emotion, came back to the front of the stage. "I thank you again and again, for your kindness and the honor you show me, but may I further trespass upon that kindness by reminding you that this matter will never be met by clapping hands or applauding voices. Too long in the past have we applauded when our hearts were touched, and allowed the sentiment to die away with the echo of our enthusiasm. Shall it be so this time? Men and women, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ who died on Calvary, what will you do for the least of these, His Brethren?"
As he again took his seat, the gambler, who with his friend had been sitting drinking in every word of Dick's speech, sprang to his feet and cried, in a loud, clear voice, "Mr. President."
Upon being recognized by the chair, who knew him and called him by name, every head turned, for all knew of Chris Chambers, the most notorious gambler in the city.
Said Chambers, "I came here to-night out of curiosity, to see if this movement in any way threatened my business as a professional gambler. I have, as most of you know, for the last five years, been conducting my place in your city, in open violation of your laws. To-night, for the first time, I see myself in the true light, and as a testimony of my good faith, and as evidence of the truth of my statement, when I say that I will never again take money from my fellow men but in honest business, I wish to make the motion that the report of this committee be accepted, that the plan be approved, and that the committee be discharged with the hearty thanks of the citizens of Boyd City."
The motion was seconded and carried. Then came the critical moment. For a full minute there was a pause. "What is the will of the meeting?" said the chairman, calmly, but with a silent prayer. There was a buzz of conversation all over the house. Every man was asking his neighbor, "What next?"
For a short time it looked as if things were at a standstill, but upon the stage men were putting their heads together, and soon Banker Lindsley shouted: "Mr. Chairman."
Instantly the people became quiet and all turned toward Boyd City's leading financier.
"I am requested to ask all those who wish to become charter members of an association as suggested in the report of the council, to meet here on the stage at once, and I move that we adjourn."
The president, after calling attention of the audience to the importance of answering Mr. Lindsley's request, immediately put the question, and the assembly was dismissed.
Among the first to push his way to the front was the stalwart form of the gambler, Chambers, and the stage was soon crowded with business men and not a few women. Mr. Lindsley looked around. "Where's Falkner?" he said. No one knew. And when Dick could not be found, Mr. Lindsley called the company to order.
The editor of the Whistler was chosen to preside, with Mr. Conklin the express agent, for secretary. Then a committee on constitution and by-laws was appointed, and the company adjourned to meet in the Commercial Club rooms the next Wednesday night.
But where was Dick? Unnoticed by the audience while their attention was diverted toward Mr. Lindsley, he had slipped from the rear of the stage and had made his way by the back stairs to the street. A half hour later, some of the people, on their way home from the meeting, noticed a tall figure, dressed in a business suit of brown, standing in the shadow of the catalpa trees on the avenue, looking upward at a church spire, built in the form of a giant hand, and at the darkened stained-glass window, in which was wrought the figure of the Christ holding a lamb in his arms. Later, they might have seen the same figure walking slowly past a beautiful residence a few blocks farther up the street, and when opposite a corner window, pausing a moment to stand with bared head, while the lips moved softly as though whispering a benediction upon one whose memory filled the place with pleasure and with pain.
About one o'clock on the following Wednesday, Uncle Bobbie Wicks dropped into the printing office. Udell had not returned from dinner. "Good afternoon, Mr. Wicks," said Dick, looking up from his work, "take a seat. You want to see a proof of those letter-heads, I suppose. Jack, take a proof of that stuff of Mr. Wicks'."
Uncle Bobbie sank, puffing, into a chair. "I jing. Wish't I didn't getso fat. Quit smokin' about a month ago. Wife, she wanted me to.To-be-sure, I don't care nothin' fer it nohow. Mighty mean habit too.Where's your pipe?"
Dick smiled. "Oh, I haven't any now."
"Uh! took to smokin' segars, I reckon."
"No," said Dick, "I don't smoke at all."
"Oh." Uncle Bobbie looked long and thoughtfully at his young friend. "To-be-sure, I don't,much.—But I told wife this mornin' I'd have to begin agin if I don't quit gettin' so plaguey fat. D' ye reckon it'd make me sick?"
Dick laughed. "You look rather fleshy," he said, encouragingly.
"Well, you're a good deal fatter yourself, than you were when I first seen you," said Uncle Bobbie, looking him over with a critical eye.
"Yes," admitted Dick, "I guess I am; these are my fat years you know.I'm getting to look at those lean ones as a very bad dream."
Dick's young helper handed them a proof-sheet, and after looking over the work for a few moments, Mr. Wicks said: "That new Association meets t'-night, don't it?" Dick nodded; and the old gentleman continued carelessly, as he arose to go, "Stop fer me when you go by, will you? An' we'll go down t'gether."
"But I'm not going," said Dick, quickly. Uncle Bobbie dropped back in his seat with a jar and grasped the arms of his chair, as though about to be thrown bodily to the ceiling. "Not goin'," he gasped; "Why, what's the matter with you?" And he glared wildly at the young man.
"Nothing particularly new is the matter," said Dick, smiling at the old gentleman's astonishment. "My reason is that I cannot become a member of the Association when it is organized, and so have no right to attend the meeting to-night. I may go in after a time, but I cannot now."
"Why not?" said Mr. Wicks, still glaring.
"Because I haven't the money."
Uncle Bobbie settled back in his chair with a sigh of relief. "Oh, is that all? To-be-sure, I thought mebbe you'd got your back up 'bout somthin'."
"Yes, that's all," said Dick quietly, and did not explain how he had spent everything in his search for the wealthy hardware merchant's daughter. But perhaps Uncle Bobbie needed no explanation.
"Well, let me tell you, you're goin' anyhow; and you're goin' t' have votin' power too. Be a pretty kettle o' fish if after that speech of your'n, you weren't in the company. Be like tryin' to make a cheese 'thout any milk."
"But I haven't the money and that's all there is about it. I will go in as soon as I can."
"Well, ye can borrow it, can't you?"
"Borrow. What security can I give?"
"Aint ye'r Christianity security enough?"
Dick laughed at him. "Is that the way men do business in BoydCity?"
"Well, ye kin laugh if you want to, but that's 'bout th' best security a feller can have in th' long run. Anyhow, it's good 'nough fer me. I'll lend you a hundred fer a year. To-be-sure," he added hastily, as he saw Dick's face, "You'll have to pay me th' same interest I can git from the other fellers. I've got th' money to loan, and its all th' same to me whether I loan it to you or some other man."
"Suppose I die, then what?" asked Dick.
"Well, if Christ goes on yer note I reckon it'll be good sometime," muttered Uncle Bobbie, half to himself, as he took a check-book from his pocket and filled it out. "I'll fix up th' papers this afternoon. Don't forget t' stop fer me."
When Dick and Uncle Bobbie reached the rooms of the Commercial Club that evening, they found them filled with a large company of interested citizens, and when the opportunity was given, over two hundred enrolled as members of the Association.
Mr. Lindsley, the banker, was elected president, with Mr. Wallace, a merchant, for vice president. Then, with great enthusiasm, the unanimous ballot of the Association was cast for Mr. Richard Falkner as secretary, while to Dick's great delight, Uncle Bobbie was given the place of treasurer.
The papers of the city gave a full and enthusiastic account of the new movement, and when the citizens saw that the Association was really a fact, with men at its head who were so well qualified to fill their respective positions, they had confidence in the plan, and began straightway to express that confidence by becoming members.
A prospectus setting forth the object of the Association, together with its plans and constitution, was gotten out by the secretary, and sent to the citizens. The papers continued to speak well of the plan, and finally, through the influence of the strong business men interested, the Commercial Club endorsed the movement, and through the influence of that body, the city appropriated five thousand dollars to the building fund, and one thousand a year, for five years.
With such backing as it now had, the Association began preparation for active work. A fine building site was purchased and Dick was sent to study different plans and institutions that were in operation for similar work in several of the large cities.
"Well, good-bye old man," said Udell, when Dick ran into the office on his way to the depot. "I can see right now that I'll lose a mighty good printer one of these days."
Dick shook his head as he grasped his employer's hand, and with hope shining in his eyes, replied: "You know why I am glad for this chance to go east again, George."
And his friend answered, "Right as usual, Dickie; God bless you. IfClara was somewhere way out there in the big world without a friend,I-I reckon I'd go too."
Amy was kindly received by Madam when she reached her house after that terrible night on the streets of Cleveland, and under the woman's skillful treatment, rapidly regained her strength and beauty. Never doubting that Whitley had made it impossible for her ever to return to Boyd City, she felt that she was dead to the kindly world she had once known, and looked upon the life she was entering as her only refuge from the cruel world she had learned to know. Several of the girls proved very pleasant and sympathetic companions. Little by little she grew accustomed to her surroundings and learned to look upon the life they led from their point of view; and when the time came for her to join the company in the parlor she accepted her lot with calm resignation.
When she had carefully dressed in a silken evening gown provided by Madam, she made her way alone down to the wine rooms. The scene that met her eye was beautiful and fascinating. The apartment was large and brilliantly lighted; the furniture, appointments and pictures were of the finest, with rare bits of statuary half-hidden in banks of choicest flowers. Upon the floor were carpets and rugs, in which the foot sank as in beds of moss; and luxurious chairs and couches invited the visitor to ease and indolence. From behind silken curtains came soft strains of music, and deft waiters glided here and there, bearing trays of expensive wines and liquors.
Seated at the card tables, drinking, laughing and playing, were the wealthy patrons of the place, and mingling with them, the girls, all of exceptional grace and beauty, dressed in glittering evening costume; but not one eclipsed the radiant creature who stood with flushed cheeks and shining eyes hesitating on the threshold.
Madam, moving here and there among her guests, saw Amy as she stood in the doorway, and went to her at once. Leading the girl to a little alcove at one end of the room, she presented her to a middle-aged man who was seated by himself and seemed to be waiting for someone. Amy did not know that he was waiting for her. As the three stood there chatting, a servant came quietly to Madam's side and whispered in her jeweled ear.
"Certainly," she answered, "Tell them to come in." Then turning, she stepped to a table and rapping with her fan to attract attention, cried, "The Salvation Army people want to hold a prayer meeting here, what do you say?"
There was a babble of voices, shrieks of feminine laughter, and an oath or two from the men. Some shouted, "Let them come." Others protested until Madam stopped the clamor by saying sharply: "Of course they shall come in. You know it is my custom never to refuse these people. I respect and admire them. They believe in their own teaching and live what they preach; and I want it understood that they shall not be insulted in this house. Jake—" A huge ex-prize fighter stepped into the room from a side door. "You all know Jake, gentlemen," continued Madam, with a smile; "and if you are not acquainted with him you can easily obtain an introduction by making some slighting remark, or offering an insult to these Salvation Soldiers. Here they come; remember."
As the little band of men and women filed slowly in, everybody rose at a sign from Madam, and gathered about the soldiers, who took their position in the center of the room; all except the girl in the alcove, who turned her back to the group and stood partly screened by the lace drapery of the archway.
The visitors opened their service with a song, rendered with much good taste and feeling. Not loud and martial as on the street, but soft, low and pleading. Many eyes glistened and many lips trembled when the song came to a close; and as the singers dropped to their knees, not a few heads involuntarily bowed.
One after another, the little band prayed, pleading with God to be kind and merciful to the erring; asking the Father, in the name of Jesus, to pity and forgive. Truly it was a picture of great contrasts—of brightest lights and deepest shadows—almost as when the Son of God prayed for his enemies, and wept because they were his enemies.
Three out of the six had offered their prayers and the fourth began to speak: "Our Father and our God,"—At the first word, uttered in a clear, manly, but subdued tone, the girl behind the curtain started violently; and as the prayer continued slowly, in that voice so full of manly truth and vigor, she raised her head and the rich blood colored neck and cheek. Little by little the hard look in her eyes gave way to mingled wonder, doubt and awe; then the blood fled back to the trembling heart again, leaving her face as white as the marble figure near which she stood; and then, as though compelled by a power superior to her own will, she turned slowly, and stepped from her hiding place into full view. As if stricken dumb, she stood until the prayer was finished. The captain gave the signal and the little company rose to their feet.
"O God!" The young soldier who had prayed last, sprang forward; but he was not quick enough, for before he could cross the room, with a moan of unutterable anguish, the girl sank to the floor.
"God help us, she's dead," cried Dick. And dropping on one knee, he supported the senseless girl in his arms.
All was confusion in an instant. Men and women crowded about their companion, and the Salvationists looked at one another in pity, surprise and wonder. Then Madam spoke: "Girls be quiet. Gentlemen make way. Amy is not dead. Bring her in here." The stalwart prize-fighter touched Dick on the shoulder and the latter, with the lovely form still in his arms, followed as in a dream, to Madam's own private apartments. A doctor came, in answer to a hurried call, and after no little effort the color slowly returned to the cheeks and the long, dark lashes began to tremble.
The physician turned to Dick. "Leave us now; she must not see you at first."
Dick looked at Madam. "May I have a few words privately with you?"
The woman nodded; and with the Army captain, they retired to another room, leaving Amy in charge of the doctor and one of the Salvation lassies.
Then Dick told Madam and the captain the whole story of Amy's life and home, how she had gone away because of her father's mistake, how Whitley had deceived her, and how they had searched for her in vain. Then as he told of the mother's broken health, and the sorrowing friends, though he made no mention of himself, they could not but read as he spoke of others, something of his own trouble.
Tears gathered in Madam's eyes, and when the tale was finished, she said: "Somehow I have always felt that Amy would never remain with us." And then she told of the poor girl's bitter experience alone in the great city, and how as a last resort, she had accepted her present situation. "She is more refined and gentle than the others," continued Madam, "and in my heart, I have always hoped that she would leave here. But what could she do? She had no friends; and we can't afford to have any feelings in this wretched business. Oh sir, this life is a very Hell on earth, and bad as I am, I would never lay a straw in any girl's way who wanted to get out of it. I am glad, glad, that you came in time. You know, captain, that I have never opposed your work; and have seen you take several girls from my place without protest. But I can't be expected to look after them myself."
They discussed the situation for some time, and finally Madam said again, "Mr.—; I don't know your name, and I don't want to; you wear that uniform and that's enough for me—just let Amy remain here for a day or two. One of the Salvation girls will stay with her, and can do more for her than you. She shall have my own room and no one shall see her. Then when she is strong enough, you may come and take her if she will go; and I am sure she will. She will be as safe here as in her father's home."
The captain nodded. "Madam has passed her word, sir," he said. "You come with me and arrange for the future while your friend is getting strong again. Our Sarah will remain with her and keep us posted."
Dick yielded; and after hearing from the doctor that Amy was resting easier, they bade Madam goodnight and passed out into the room where again the music played, jewels sparkled, wine flowed, and the careless laugh and jest were heard.
With a shudder of horror Dick muttered, "My God, Amy in such a place." And yet—another thought flashed through his mind, that brought a flush of shame to his cheek. "But Amy—" And again the strong man trembled, weeping like a child.
Never, though he lived to be an old man, could Dick look back upon that night and the days following, without turning pale. How he lived through it he never knew. Perhaps it was because he had suffered so much in his checkered career that he was enabled to bear that which otherwise would have been impossible. And the consciousness of the great change in his own life led him to hope for Amy, when others would have given up in despair.
On his tour of study and investigation for the Association, he had presented his letters to the Salvation Army people, and had been warmly welcomed by them, as is everyone who manifests a desire to help humanity. Every kindness and courtesy was shown him, and at the invitation of the captain, he had gone with them on one of their regular rescue trips. He had donned the uniform of the Army, for greater convenience and safety; for the blue and red of these soldiers of the cross is received and honored in places where no ordinary church member, whatever be his professed purpose, would be admitted.
While Dick and his friends planned for Amy's future, Sarah, the Salvation girl, remained by her bedside caring for her as a sister. Not one hint of reproach or censure fell from her lips; only words of loving kindness, of hope and courage. At first the poor girl refused to listen, but sobbing wildly, cried that her life was ruined, that she could only go on as she had started, and begged that they leave her alone in her disgrace and sin.
But Sarah herself could say, "I know sister, I have been through it all; and if Jesus could save me he can save you too." So at last love and hope conquered; and as soon as she was strong enough, she left the place and went with Sarah to the latter's humble home. There Dick called to see her.
"Mr. Falkner," she said, sadly, after the pain and embarrassment of the first meeting had passed off a little. "I do not understand; what makes you do these things?"
And Dick answered, "Did I not tell you once that nothing could make me change; that nothing you could do would make me less your friend? You might, for the time being, make it impossible for me to help you, but the desire, the wish, was there just the same, and sought only an opportunity to express itself. And besides this," he added gently, "you know I'm a Christian now."
Amy hung her head. "Yes," she said slowly, "you are a Christian. These Salvation soldiers are Christians too; and I—I—am—oh, Mr. Falkner, help me now. Be indeed my friend. Tell me what to do. I cannot go back home like this. I do believe in Christ and that He sent you to me. I'm so tired of this world, for I know the awfulness of it now; and these good people have taught me that one can live close to Christ, even in the most unfavorable circumstances."
Dick told her of their plan; how his friend, the captain, had arranged for her to live with his brother on a farm in northern Missouri, and that they only wanted her consent to start at once. Would she go?
"But how can I? I have no money, and I have never been taught to work."
"Miss Goodrich," answered Dick, "can you not trust me?"
Amy was silent.
"You must let me help you in this. Thank God, I can do it now. Prove to me that you are still my friend, by letting me make this investment for Christ. Will you?"
The next day they bade good-bye to the sturdy soldiers of the cross who had been so true to them, and started on their westward journey.
Dick saw Amy safe in her new home, and then with a promise that she would write to him regularly, and an agreement that he would send her letters and papers addressed to the people with whom she lived, he left her; satisfied that she was in kind hands, and that a new life was open before her.
But when Dick was once more aboard the train, alone with his thoughts, without the anxiety for Amy's immediate welfare upon his mind, the struggle of his life began. He loved Amy dearly; had loved her almost from the moment she came into George Udell's printing office three years ago; loved her in spite of the difference in their position, when he was only a tramp and she was the favored daughter of wealth; when he was an unbeliever and she was a worker in the church; loved her when he saw her losing her hold on the higher life and drifting with the current; loved her when she left home, and as he thought, honor behind. And he was forced to confess, in his own heart, that he loved her yet, in spite of the fact that their positions were reversed; that he was an honored gentleman, respected and trusted by all, while she, in the eyes of the world, was a fallen woman with no friend but himself.
But what of the future? Dick's dreams had always been that he would win such a position in the world as would enable him, with confidence, to ask her to share his life. But always there had been the feeling that he never could be worthy. And with the dark picture of his own past before him, he knew he had no right to think of her as his wife. But now there was no question as to his position. But what of hers? Could he think of taking for a wife, one whom he had seen in that house at Cleveland? On the one hand, his love plead for her; on the other, the horror of her life argued against it. Again his sense of justice plead, and his own life came before him like a horrid vision as it had done that morning when he learned of his father's death. He saw his childhood home, smelt the odor of the fragrant pines upon the hills, and heard the murmur of the river running past the cabin. Again he heard his drunken father cursing in his sleep, and caught the whisper of his mother's dying prayer; and again he crept stealthily out of the cabin into the glory of the morning, with a lean hound his only companion.
Slowly and painfully he traced his way along the road of memory, recalling every place where he had advanced; every place where he had fallen; going step by step from the innocence of boyhood to the awful knowledge of the man of the world. He had fought, had fallen, had conquered and risen again; always advancing toward the light, but always bearing on his garment the smell of the fire, and upon his hands the stain of the pitch. And now, because he was safe at last and could look back upon those things, should he condemn another? Would not Amy also conquer, and when shehadconquered, by what right could he demand in her that which he had not in himself? Christ would as freely welcome her as He had welcomed him. Christianity held out as many glorious hopes for her as for him. Her past might be past as well as his. Why should he not shut the door upon it forever, and live only in the present and future? And then his mind fell to picturing what that future, with Amy by his side, might be. They were equals now, before God and their own consciences. What should he care for the world?
And so the fight went on in the battle-ground of his inner life, until the whistle blew a long blast for the station, and looking from the window of the car, he saw the smelter smoke and dust of Boyd City.