CHAPTER IV
Thearena and the grand-stand were packed, the S.R.O. sign having been hung out at two o’clock. The cosmopolitan crowd sat in solid ranks, tier upon tier, from the select ringside seats to the topmost rail. Judges, lawyers, doctors and bankers sat with labourers, miners, loggers, bartenders, and bootblacks. Men of the underworld sat side by side with men that make and administer our laws. There was a sprinkling of Japs, Chinamen and negroes. The turbanned Hindu made bright splotches of colour here and there in the vast sea of faces. Of class distinction there was none; all welded as one in the love of the boxing game.
The preliminaries were over, and the vast crowd had settled in their seats. Suddenly there was a stir, a craning of necks. Down the aisle on the west side of the arena came Donald, followed by Andy and the two seconds, the latter carrying buckets, sponges, towels and bottles. Donald wore a dark-coloured bathrobe thrown over his shoulders. There was a murmur of applause that swelled to a tumult as he clambered through the ropes. He seemed cool as Andy piloted him to his corner, but as he sat down and stretched out his long legs, he appeared ill at ease.
Although the crowd had given him a handsome welcome, prophecies were shouted down from the top seats that he would not last very long with the formidable champion. Donald was palpably nervous, as evidenced in the quick turning of his head and the shuffling of his feet. He looked slight and frail as he leaned forward in his chair, the black bathrobe accentuating the paleness of his face. A feeling of friendlessness came over him as he gazed at the huge, strange crowd who were loudly predicting his defeat.
A well-known judge, wearing glasses and a big black hat, turned to his companion. “It’s a hanged shame, Tom, to match that slim boy with a brute like Garrieau.”
The one addressed was one of the City’s leading dentists and an ardent boxing fan. “Don’t you believe it, Bill,” he returned. “Just wait until you see this boy strip.”
“Here he comes!”
A roar of applause greeted the champion as he came down the east aisle bowing right and left in answer to their plaudits. His dark, massive body seemed fairly to shine as he leaped to the ring with easy grace and stripped off his robe. He stood in his corner with hands on the ropes, shuffling his feet in the resin, still smiling and glancing about the arena. Evidently he loved the limelight.
In appearance the champion very much resembled the ape. His bullet-like head was close cropped. The small piggish eyes were deep set under overhanging, beetling brows, and the nose was flat like a negro’s. His lips were thick, with a repulsive twist that gave his face a sinister look. His massive jaw was purposely left unshaved to rasp the tender skin of his opponent’s shoulders in the clinches. His enormous barrel-shaped chest was covered with a thick growth of hair. His shoulders were broad and his disproportionately long arms, heavily muscled, terminated in two thick ham-like hands. He gazed confidently across at Donald’s corner.
A pasteboard box containing the gloves was tossed to the centre of the ring. There was a stir as the announcer pushed his way through the ropes. Andy crossed the ring to examine the champion’s hands for tape and to test thoroughly the new gloves for any trace of sewed in shot or lotion that would cause the eyes to smart. One of Garrieau’s seconds was making a similar examination in Donald’s corner.
A big man in a wide-brimmed hat, with a mackinaw coat over his arm, came walking down the steps of the arena. The look of astonishment on his face gradually gave place to one of joy. He ran to the ringside.
“Donald!” he shouted joyously, as he sprang through the ropes. With a thrill of pleasure Donald held out his hand to Jack Gillis. The big man’s face was beaming. “Just got in,” he said. “Bin lookin’ all over town for you! I come to the fight and—holy mackerel!—here you are one of the fighters!”
Andy noted the glad look in Donald’s eyes and he spoke sharply to Donald’s seconds, who were for ordering the boisterous visitor out of the ring. The word “pyschology” was foreign to Andy, but he knew that Donald’s mind had for a moment drifted away from the fight. Donald was surprised to see Douglas greet Gillis warmly as the big man left the ring.
“I have two good friends in the audience, anyway,” whispered Donald to himself.
Andy leaned over him, talking in a low voice, giving him comfort and advice. “E’ll try right along, Donnie, to get your goat by cursing and using vile language, but don’t listen to ’im, and don’t lose your temper. ’E fights with ’is chin tucked in the ’ollow of ’is left shoulder and ’is neck muscles rigid. It’s mighty ’ard to land on ’is jaw with a right. Now the first round,” Andy went on, “you just jab ’im light with your left; don’t ’it ’ard, just a good snappy punch. ’E’ll think you ’ave no sting in it, and the next round ’e’ll get careless and let you ’it ’im so’s to get in a punch. Of course, if you see a good opening, let fly with all you ’ave, but ’e won’t open up until ’e tries you out a bit. Watch the dirty blighter in the clinches; ’e’ll foul you if ’e gets a chance. Another thing: this is to be twenty rounds, so tyke your time. Now is everything clear to you, Donnie?”
“Yes, Andy.”
Andy patted Donald’s bare shoulder affectionately.
The contestants stood in their corners as they were introduced. The referee beckoned them to the centre of the ring for instructions. As Donald slipped the enveloping bathrobe from his shoulders and stepped forward, a murmur of admiration swelled from the crowd. His lean loins and broad shoulders showed to advantage in the bright light. The long, flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved, like those of a panther. Loud applause came from all over the arena. Garrieau, thinking the ovation was for himself, turned and ducked his head with a motion that was intended for a bow.
A rough voice near the top shouted: “Aw! that wasn’t for you, you big stiff!”
The judge and the dentist turned and looked at each other. The eyes of the latter seemed to say, “I told you so.” The judge smiled and nodded.
A fat man, who could not have been more than thirty-five years of age, yet with rolls of fat at his waist-line, a bulbous nose and florid face, bit savagely on a big cigar. “By gad!” he ejaculated, “that man is perfect.” There was a look of admiration and envy in his red-rimmed eyes. Thus do men admire the strong, well-kept body of the athlete, even though their own physical self has degenerated to mere paste.
“Two to one that Garrieau wins inside of ten rounds!” shouted a voice. Douglas covered the bet at once.
“Now, men,” instructed the referee briskly, “this is to be for twenty rounds. You are to fight clean breaks. You can hit with one arm free, but you cannot hold with one and hit with the other. When I say ‘Break’ I want you to break at once and step back. Do you understand fully? Good! To your corners.”
Donald glanced at his friends, who sat with their eyes upon him. He felt Andy’s hand upon him gently stroking his arm, yet he could not suppress the trembling in his limbs.
“Everything’s all right, Donnie,” whispered Andy softly.
The gong rang.
Garrieau assumed the crouch Andy had predicted, his chin resting in the hollow of his shoulder, his eyes seeming to retreat into his skull under the overhanging brows. This was the champion’s famous “fighting face.”
“Pretty boy, ain’t yer?” he scoffed. “I’m goin’ to knock dose pretty teet’ down yer throat, you——” he cursed.
Donald snapped a light left to the ugly face and danced out of range. The champion’s thick lips parted in a fiendish grin. “My, mamma’s nice boy has a terrible punch!” he derided.
Donald continued his dazzling footwork, keeping the champion in pursuit and contending himself with occasional left-hand jabs that kept his opponent’s head rocking. He shot glances at intervals to his corner for instructions from Andy, who nodded his head in approval of his tactics.
The round finished in the challenger’s favour by a wide margin on points. The champion had not landed a single effective blow during the round.
The action of the first round caused Donald to forget his nervousness. Andy crowded between his knees and gently massaged his body, all the while speaking words of commendation and counsel.
“Now that you find that you can reach ’im easily with your left, watch me for signals. If I see that ’e’s openin’ up, I’ll give you the sign to shoot your left with all you ’ave. If he swings again with ’is left, try for ’is bread basket. You understand me, Donnie?”
“Easiest thing I’ve picked yet,” chuckled the champion as he came to his corner.
“He may be stalling,” cautioned his evil-faced manager.
“Huh!” grunted the champion. “I can take all he has in dat left and never feel it. I’m goin’ to open up on him de last part of de next round.”
The gong rang for the second round.
Donald caught a glimpse of Pursell’s face as he crouched in the opposite corner. Such a look of vicious hate shot from his one gleaming eye that Donald shivered.
The rough element began to boo Donald for his running tactics. Some fans feel that they are cheated out of the price of admission unless they can witness the spectacle of two boxers slugging toe to toe until one goes down. Science counts for nothing with this small minority.
“Whadda ya think this is, a marathon?” they shouted.
“Powder-puff punch!” derided another.
Garrieau suddenly tore in, letting loose a terrific right that would have stopped the bout right then if it had landed. From a clinch Donald looked to his corner. Andy went through the pantomime of shooting a straight left. Donald nodded.
“Powder-puff punch!” again shouted the disgruntled fan.
“Did ya hear that?” hissed Garrieau, twisting his mouth into an apish grin. “Yo can’t hit hard enough to break an egg. I’m goin’ to fix dose teet’ for you now.” He leered brutally as he tore after Donald, disdainful of the belittled left.
Donald stopped abruptly in his flight and shot a lightning left across to his pursuer’s jaw. The champion saw it coming, but too late to block it. He threw his body into reverse, robbing the blow of a great deal of its force; yet enough was left to send him reeling back to the ropes, his head whirling and his knees wobbly. With a roar the spectators came to their feet as one man. The gong saved Garrieau.
The crowd gave Donald a deafening ovation as he walked to his corner. He looked for his friends and saw Douglas and Gillis locked in an embrace and dancing madly in the narrow aisle.
“Pretty near got ’im that time, Donnie!” cried Andy gleefully. “If you can get ’im to lift ’is jaw off ’is shoulder, send in your right.” Andy’s hands were shaking with excitement, while Donald was cool and collected.
“Let me go after him, Andy,” he begged; “I can whip him at his own game.”
“No, no!” admonished Andy, “keep on as you are. Don’t try to swap punches with ’im!”
Garrieau’s seconds were working over him feverishly. Pursell leaned over the heavily-breathing champion, his evil face sick with apprehension.
“What’d I tell yer?” he exclaimed. “They’ve stuck a ringer in on us; dat feller ain’t no amachoor! If he beats ya we’re both bums! Foul him dis round, for de——” he finished with a savage oath.
At the beginning of the third round Garrieau charged his elusive adversary like a mad bull. Donald easily side-stepped him and he plunged into the ropes. As he rebounded, Donald landed a left and danced safely away without reprisal.
“You can do pretty footwork,” snarled the champion with a look of Simian ferocity, “but I’ll get you yet, you——” There followed a burst of wild cursing. He tried to rush Donald to the ropes, feinted for the wind, and let loose a powerful right for the jaw. Paying no attention to the feint, Donald ducked the blow and, countering, shot his left to his opponent’s mid-section. The champion grunted aloud, fell into a clinch, and hung on grimly. The referee pried them apart. Again the crowd came to their feet to shout in a frenzy of excitement.
Garrieau fell into a clinch, then wrestled about until he placed his opponent between himself and the referee. He loosed his right in a terrific upper-cut that missed, but his left smashed with fearful force to Donald’s groin—the most brutal foul that can be delivered. The referee did not see the blow.
Donald’s nerves quivered with agony. A wave of torment and the awful nausea that follows such a blow swept through him. His face writhing with anguish, his gloved hands clutching his groin, he crashed forward on his face. His body twitched for a moment, then lay still.
The crowd came to their feet and many moved toward the exits. Another victim, they thought, to the champion’s terrible punch. A number at the ringside, who had witnessed the foul blow, stood upon their seats and screamed denunciations at the referee.
The referee stood with one hand on Garrieau’s massive chest. The latter was lustfully straining forward while the fatal seconds were tolled off.
The roar of the crowd came to Donald’s ears like the dash of waves on a distant shore. At the count of five his body stirred. At the count of eight, his jaw sagging, his face distorted, he struggled to his knees. He saw Andy’s agonised face as through a fog and heard his desperate cry of appeal.
“Up, Donnie! Up!”
At the count of nine Donald’s benumbed muscles answered the call of his brain. With tremendous effort he staggered to his feet and wound his arms about his face. The crowd yelled themselves hoarse in tribute to his courage.
Garrieau was upon him with a growl like a wild beast. Donald stood in the centre of the ring reeling drunkenly. Garrieau shot a terrific right for Donald’s wind that struck his weakly protecting elbows. The impact carried him to the ropes, and he fell forward to his knees. Again the referee’s arm rose and fell as he counted the seconds. Again Donald tottered to his feet to meet a fusilade of short-arm jolts that pierced his guard and sent him staggering.
The gong rang. With body swaying unsteadily and legs wavering, Donald walked to his corner and sank down heavily. What a blessed relief to lie and relax! His head felt leaden and there was a ringing in his ears.
His seconds worked over him in furious haste. Andy knew all the tricks of resuscitation: the upward sweep of hand on the midriff that brings the big nerve centre to life; the quick raising of the chest that brings air to the remote corners of the lungs. With a sudden choking in his throat, the little Australian realized that this boy was very dear to him. A prayer on his lips, his hands trembling, but sure and deft, he strove to restore the shattered nerves.
The colour came slowly to Donald’s cheeks and the haze cleared away as the cold water was showered upon him. He felt his strength returning. A long deep breath and he was himself again. Youth and his fine body had saved him. He looked across the ring at Garrieau, whose vulture-like manager was leaning over him with an exultant look on his face. This brute had deliberately fouled him. A cold and terrible rage swept through every fibre of Donald’s being. He had demeaned himself by entering the prize-ring. This was bad enough; but tolosethe battle!—Never!He looked for his friends. Their faces, he saw, were tense and full of misery.
“Andy, I’m going after him,” he declared in a hard voice.
Andy was about to remonstrate, but he caught a flash of the hard light in Donald’s eyes, and the words died on his lips. He hesitated. Maybe he should have let Donald take the aggressive from the start.
“Are you strong enough, Donnie?”
Donald’s eyes held a dull glow. “Yes!” he gritted.
Andy patted his arm as the gong rang. “Give ’im ’ell, Donnie!” And then added reverently: “May God give ’im strength.”
Donald shot from his corner as though thrown from a catapult to meet Garrieau before he was fairly out of his chair. The spectators held their breath. Was this the man who a minute before had walked staggering and beaten to his chair? When the referee pried the fighters apart after a fierce mix-up in the champion’s corner, a puffed eye and a bloody face showed that Garrieau had absorbed severe punishment. Donald was everywhere, dancing in for a fierce rally and out again, always without a return.
The arena fairly rocked to the cheers of the crowd as Donald stood in the centre of the ring and exchanged punches with the champion. Head to head they stood while Donald’s arms worked with such lightning speed that the champion’s blows were smothered. And, marvel of marvels, the champion was giving ground. The pursued had become pursuer. The tide had turned. With his arms wound about his face the champion retreated. As he assayed a lead, Donald’s fist smote his face before he could again cover up. Following relentlessly, Donald penetrated his opponent’s guard with rights and lefts until the champion’s face was a smear of red.
A bedlam of sound came from the audience as they stood on their seats and roared their admiration for the challenger’s wonderful exhibition. Andy, his face set, his eyes bulging clung to the corner of the ring.
Garrieau drove heavily at his elusive foe and missed. The impetus swung him to one side. For an instant his chin was without the protecting shelter of his shoulder. With a bewilderingly swift move Donald stepped forward, pivoted on his toes, and with the full weight of his powerful young body behind it, he whipped his right to the champion’s unprotected jaw. Plop! Garrieau fell upon his face and sprawled like a baboon on the floor. Donald walked to his corner, thrust his gloved hands towards Andy, who stood as though paralyzed, and said; “Take them off, Andy.” His voice was audible throughout the arena. The referee rushed to Donald’s side and raised his arm aloft in token of victory.
With a roar the crowd came to its senses to realize that the fight was over. Pandemonium broke loose. A struggling mass of humanity surged into the ring. Every man wanted to shake hands with the new champion. Garrieau, the possessor of the “punch” they had so much admired, was forgotten. The king is dead—long live the king! Such is life, especially in the boxing game!
CHAPTER V
Withmuch difficulty Donald and his friends forced their way through the cheering throng to the dressing-room. Weak and tired, Donald lay on a cot, while his handlers gently massaged his sore body. Andy moved to the cot and stood looking down on his protégé.
Donald opened his eyes. “Hello, Andy, he smiled weakly.
“Hello, Donnie,” said Andy huskily, as he patted Donald’s dark head.
Donald’s hand stole out to meet the warm clasp of his friend.
“Some little fight,” said Andy, summoning a smile.
“Not bad,” agreed Donald.
Gillis pulled his hat brim down over his eyes to hide his emotion. “I’ve a good mind to go out and give that brute another lickin’,” he growled.
One of the promoters thrust his head through the door. “Come and get your dough!” he shouted.
“Strike me lucky!” returned Andy, “those words ’ave a pleasant sound.” He picked up a small handbag and left the room. In a few moments he returned, his face beaming. He tapped the satchel. “Chuck full,” he said happily.
At the gymnasium they gathered in Andy’s room, and for the first time Donald told them of the attempted “frame-up” proposed by Garrieau’s manager. Douglas strode across the room and gripped Donald’s hand. Not a word was uttered by anyone, but the silence was more eloquent than speech.
They were all in a happy mood after the prolonged strain of the day. Andy was in particularly high spirits. “Gentlemen,” he began grandiloquently, “I ’ave before me on the tyble ’ere a most wonderful little ’andbag. All it ’ad in it this morning was a dirty collar and a shirt stud. Now,” making a dramatic gesture, “it’s the bloomin’ ’orn of plenty!” He turned the satchel upside down and a mass of bills, coins and cheques fell upon the table.
“ ’Ere, Gillis,” cried Andy, as he selected a bill, “will you go out and get some champagne, and when you goes in the bar buy a drink for the ’ouse. Bring ginger ale for Donnie; ’is manager’ll drink ’is share of the wine.”
Andy sorted the money into piles and sat quietly counting for a few minutes. “Fifteen thousand and a few odd dollars,” he announced.
“What!” ejaculated Donald. He was astounded. He had given the size of the purse little thought. “I had no idea it would be so much,” he said in a surprised tone.
“Oh, the boxin’ gyme is a great gyme,” said Andy.
“Yes,” remarked Douglas, “but after seeing that bout to-day I’m going to take up tiddly-winks instead; it’s not so rough.”
When the big man returned with the wine Donald turned to Douglas. “It seems that you and Gillis are old friends.”
“Why, yes, Jack’s been one of Dad’s right-hand men for—how long, Jack?”
“About ten years,” replied Gillis.
“And I’m equally interested to know how you and Jack know each other so well,” said Douglas curiously.
“I met Donald on the train comin’ out,” answered Gillis quickly.
“Come on, boys,” cried Andy, “we’ll drink to the new champ—to Donnie’s health.” Andy held his glass aloft. “Boys, I can’t make much of a speech, as I ’ave only ’ad one drink. Stand up while we drink to our Donnie. I knows that ’e’s goin’ to leave me, and that ’e’s goin’ to give up the boxin’ gyme. I knows that ’e isn’t in the ’abit of mixin’ with the likes o’ me. I knows that I’m lucky to be blackin’ the boots o’ a man like ’im. But when I knows that ’e went into this fight to ’elp a poor little bloke like me out of an ’ole, I’m proud, boys, I’m proud! I’ve seen many a fight, and I’ve seen many a gyme man. But strike me blind if Donnie didn’t this day teach me something about sheer grit. When ’e came stumblin’ to me at the end of that—that third round—I—I——” He stopped. “You know what ’appened,” he continued in a husky voice. “I ask nothin’ better’n to ’ave ’im for me pal. ’Ere’s to the gymest man that ever stepped in shoe-leather! ’Ere’s to ’im!” Andy turned away quickly to light a cigarette. His eyes were moist. The room was silent.
Donald was deeply moved by his little friend’s show of feeling. Douglas broke the silence. “You got back to the Coast just in time, Jack.”
“How’s that?”
“Dad has started on the biggest job that he’s tackled yet.
“What is it?”
“Do you remember the big tract of timber that he bought in the Cheakamus Valley?”
“Yes, he bought on my advice,” answered Gillis.
“Well, he’s going to run a railroad in and build sawmills, and saw the logs right on the spot instead of shipping them to the Coast.”
“Good!” said Gillis heartily. “There’s a wonderful stand of timber in that valley.”
“But here’s the best part of it,” Douglas went on eagerly; “Dad’s going to send you in to cruise the timber around Summit Lake, and I’m to go with you. It’s a wonderful country. I was up there last summer.” He turned to Donald. “Will you go with us?”
“I’ll be glad to,” assented Donald.
“Good!” cried Douglas. “It will be fine camping with you and Jack.”
Little Andy sat patiently listening to this lively conversation, in which he had been completely ignored. He could contain himself no longer.
“I s’y,” he blurted, “am I such a blinkin’ dwarf that you’ve forgotten that I’m in this ’ere crowd? Isn’t me ’ead above the tyble? Where the ’ell do I get off on this ’ere bloomin’ picnic, I asks you?”
One look into the Australian’s seriously comic face with its heavy blond eyebrows wagging up and down set Douglas into paroxysms of laughter. “Andy,” he declared, “I’m going to take you along, even if we have to mark you ‘excess baggage.’ Can you cook?”
“Can I cook?” repeated Andy. “ ’E asks me can I cook! That’s me first name; that’s me profession. I’ve cooked on sailing ships, steamboats, in camps, in the Army, an’ I did thirty days in Sydney jail, and blime me if they didn’t make me ’ead cook. I was so good they wanted me to sty.”
“You’re hired, Andy,” said Douglas decidedly. “But isn’t it going to be pretty tough to quit the boxing game for cooking?”
“Seein’ as you ’ave asked me I’ll say that it’s a blinkin’ sight better than quittin’ it for tiddledy-winks!”
Douglas came to his feet. “I want you to meet Dad, Donald, and we’ll find out when we are to start.”
Andy patted his stomach contemplatively. “Well, with this ’ere champagne under me belt, I think I’ll start in ’ere and ’ave a drink and a fight in every bar from ’ere to Cordova Street. About meetin’ you, Donnie,” he added scratching his head reflectively, “the way I feel right now I think by to-morrow morning you’ll find me in the bridal-chamber of the Vancouver Hotel.” Saying which with straightened shoulders, his head set at a characteristic angle, he swaggered down the street and with a wave of his hand disappeared within the swinging doors of the first saloon. In his present mood Andy envied no millionaire.
“You’ll like Dad,” said Douglas, as they ran up the steps of the big office building. “He’s rather severe looking and pretty straight-laced, but the face he wears in the office isn’t the face he wears at home.” He finished with a laugh.
Robert Rennie was the sole owner of the Rennie Construction and Logging Company, one of the largest organizations of its kind on the Coast. He now rose from his chair and came around the desk, all the while studying Donald’s face, which bore unmistakable traces of the afternoon’s fight.
“Dad, this is Donald McLean, whom I told you about last night. I don’t want to take up much of your time; just wanted you to meet Donald and find out when we can start on the trip to the mountains.”
“Now that Gillis is here to go with you, you can go any time; the sooner the better, as we expect to have the railroad to the summit in a few weeks,” responded his father, his eyes still on Donald.
“Thanks, Dad,” said Douglas. “We can be ready to-morrow and leave the next day.”
“Douglas, will you please go to Bowser’s office and get some papers he promised to have ready to-day?” asked Robert Rennie.
Donald moved toward the door with Douglas.
“Sit down, Mr. McLean, and wait until Douglas comes back,” invited Robert Rennie politely, as he pushed a chair toward Donald. He then closed the door of the outer office, where a girl sat pounding a typewriter.
When the older man turned his face was set in a broad smile and he crossed the room to seize the hand of his astonished visitor in a hearty grip. “Man! man!” he exclaimed, as he pumped Donald’s hand vigorously, “that was a great fight to-day! When you got Garrieau with your left in the second round and that d—— gong rang, I—I—heavens, but I was excited!” He was gazing at Donald with admiration glowing in his eyes.
“You—you were there!” gasped Donald.
Robert Rennie chuckled. “Top row—nigger heaven! When that brute fouled you I think I could have shot him!”
“Mr. Rennie, I’m not a professional fighter, I—I——”
“Tut! tut!” interrupted the enthusiastic fan, “I can see that. By gad! that last round was a whirlwind. That right you landed on his jaw—I got so excited that I fell down between the seats and skinned my shins.” He rubbed his leg ruefully. “I never saw such speed as you showed in that last. . . .”
Here footsteps sounded outside, Robert Rennie moved quickly to his chair, adjusted his glasses and assumed a serious expression. “Not a word to Doug,” he whispered.
“Bowser says that he told you he’d have the papers to-morrow,” informed Douglas.
“Very well,” answered his father.
Donald turned as he was leaving the room and saw Robert Rennie close one eye in a wise wink.
CHAPTER VI
Atthe breakfast table the next morning Douglas was talking happily of their departure for Summit Lake.
“You’ll have to hustle the work of timber cruising,” his father admonished. “There won’t be any time for play, as we expect to have the road finished in a few weeks.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. This is my first real job, and I am going to make good,” declared Douglas stoutly.
“I hope so, Douglas. As you know, I want you to work your way up on your own merits. I’m not going to show any favouritism. We are going to put in a larger mill at Cheakamus, and one at Summit Lake, so there will be good opportunities for advancement for you and McLean if you show the right spirit.
“Is Mr. McLean going with you?” interposed Janet in a casual tone.
“Yes.”
“How can he leave his business for so long?”
“He’s not actively engaged in business just at present,” explained Douglas glibly.
“You might ask him out to dinner to-night. I am having a few friends in for the evening.”
“You bet I will.”
Donald accepted Janet’s invitation with alacrity. Living within the four bare walls of a room and eating in restaurants had long since palled on his taste.
“Formal or informal?” he asked.
Douglas made a deprecatory gesture. “Formal, very formal. You don’t know Janet or you wouldn’t ask that question. My sister is a stickler for ceremony. How are you off for ‘soup and fish’?”
“I have the necessaries,” smiled Donald.
Donald spent more than the usual time in dressing. He stood before the small mirror and surveyed himself with a critical eye. “Pretty soft for you,” he apostrophized himself, “eating in ten-cent restaurants one day and dining in a millionaire’s home the next, and on the invitation of the most beautiful girl you have ever met.”
Douglas called for him with his car and whisked him to the palatial Rennie residence on Shaughnessy Heights. The imposing evidence of wealth was written in bold headlines on the whole street of beautiful homes.
Mrs. Rennie met them at the door and greeted Donald warmly. He could not repress a start as he noted her likeness to Janet, and when she spoke her voice held the same deep tone as her daughter’s. She led him to a large room flanked by two enormous bays that looked out on the Avenue. There was a spaciousness in all the rooms, a rare combination of beauty and good taste in the furnishings, that were luxurious without being ornate. Robert Rennie came forward and gave him a cheery welcome. Donald heard Janet’s voice behind him and turned to gaze on a vision of loveliness.
Janet had dressed for the occasion with unusual care. A dark red evening gown of a filmy material showed to advantage the delicate contour of her form and the graceful curve of her snow-white shoulders and neck. Her lovely hair was wound in shining coils and held with a comb that sparkled with small but brilliant diamonds. Her long dark lashes drooped, and she flushed slightly as she met Donald’s look of undisguised admiration.
Mrs. Rennie was an excellent hostess. Her cultured and charming personality put Donald quite at ease. It seemed ages since he had worn a dress-suit and been entertained in a home of luxury and refinement. After the coarse fare of noisy restaurants which had been his, the excellent food, the rich linen, the home-like atmosphere and the subdued voices now gave him a pleasant thrill.
The conversation during dinner was on various subjects. At times it swung perilously near to matters pertaining to Donald’s personal affairs. On such occasions Douglas adroitly shifted it to other channels.
Janet studied Donald covertly. His perfect poise, his air of refinement and his evident lack of self-consciousness impressed her. “He is cultured and well-bred,” she thought as she noted his well-shaped head, his powerful shoulders and his clean-cut profile.
Near the finish of dinner, while waiting for coffee to be served, there came a lull in the conversation which was finally broken by Janet. “Doug tells me that you are engaged in the glove business, Mr. McLean,” she stated.
Donald shot a quick glance at Douglas, but his friend’s face was hidden in his handkerchief to smother a sudden attack of coughing. In spite of Donald’s great effort at self-control, he felt a warm flush rise in his cheeks. What had Douglas divulged? Did his sister know of his participation in a boxing-match? He looked at Douglas appealingly. It was evident that he would receive no aid from that quarter, as that young man’s only assistance was a prolonged coughing that effectually drowned immediate conversation, but would have to stop sooner or later for lack of breath.
At this crucial moment Robert Rennie came to his assistance. “I would like Mr. McLean to witness a sunset from our roof,” he said as he rose from the table. “Let us have our coffee served there. The light will be gone if we wait longer.”
As they ascended the stairs Donald gave his host a grateful look, which Mr. Rennie returned understandingly. That moment cemented an instant friendship in Donald’s heart for this broad-minded Western millionaire.
From the eminence of the tiny roof garden the City, sliced with streets, lay at their feet. To the north the mountains were invested with a mystic blue haze, through which towered the snow-clad peaks. To the west lay the curving white sands of English Bay, and beyond, in the clear air of the long British Columbia twilight, they could see the strong mountainous profile of Vancouver Island.
“The topography of our City,” explained Robert Rennie, “lying between Burrard Inlet and False Creek, is very much like that of New York on Manhattan Island. The narrows are deep enough for the largest ship afloat, and the Inlet—a veritable inland sea—has unlimited room for docks.
“The name ‘Narrows’ seems a feeble word for such a magnificent spot,” observed Donald.
“Quite true,” admitted Robert Rennie. “It was only yesterday that one of our public-spirited citizens suggested the name ‘Lions’ Gate’.”
“Oh, Dad, that would be lovely!” exclaimed Janet, her eyes shining. “The ‘Lions’ Gate,’ with the two watchful Lions looking down on all who enter. The name is most fitting.”
“Yes,” concurred Douglas, “Canada being one of the Lion’s whelps, what more appropriate name than ‘Lions’ Gate,’ the western gateway to the British Empire?”
“The Creator was wonderfully kind to us in His allotment of mountains,” said Janet’s father; “mountains that are not only valuable for their scenic beauty, but for their mineral-filled rocks and forest-clad sides. Our bays, inlets and streams are filled with fish, and our climate is so mild on the Coast that man can live in comfort amid congenial surroundings the year round.
“Here we have the last of the Great West,” continued Mr. Rennie. “With nearly four hundred thousand miles of territory, a coast line seven thousand miles in length, our population for the entire Province is less than one of the Coast cities to the south of us. Here in this vast untouched hinterland,” swinging his arm to the north and east, “lies a potential wealth that will support millions, a wealth that is awaiting the magic touch of capital and settlers—capital to provide railways; farmers to till the rich valley; miners to unlock the vast hoards of gold and copper; and loggers to fell the virgin forests. Some day—and that day is not far distant—all this will come to pass, and you young folks will see a railroad from Vancouver to the Behring Sea.” The speaker’s face was flushed and his eyes were glowing. “Who knows,” he finished dreamily, “but what the railroad I am building will be a link in the Alaskan road of the future?”
“Here is a family,” thought Donald, “all native-born, who have a deep and abiding faith in the destiny of the land of their birth.”
Addressing Mr. Rennie, he said: “If the love that you and yours have for this Province is typical of the average citizen, I see no need to fear for the future of your country.”
“Thank you,” the older man replied gravely. “Our population is made up of people from all parts of the world, as our native-born are few. A cosmopolite is more or less indifferent to the future of the country in which he resides. ‘Get the money’ is unfortunately the slogan of many of our business men, who make no attempt to build for the future. Until such time as there is ingrained in the hearts of our citizens a true love for our Province; until such time as our cities and towns forget petty bickerings and jealousies and work together and harmoniously, then—and only then—will British Columbia become what Nature intended, the crowning jewel of the British Empire.”
Janet’s guests arrived in groups of two and three until about twenty of Vancouver’s younger set were scattered about the large rooms. In introducing Donald to her friends Janet felt a warm glow of satisfaction as she saw the many glances of keen interest directed toward her stranger guest.
A slender girl with elaborately coiffed golden hair, looking like a white butterfly, fluttered to Janet’s side and shook a reproving finger in her face. “ ’Fess up now, Janet,” she pouted; “how long have you been hiding this handsome man? Who is this Prince Charming?”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” was Janet’s evasive reply.
Donald had no penchant for social functions, but this lively party was a grateful respite from a whole winter of lonely evenings, and he entered into the spirit of the occasion wholeheartedly.
A game of whist and then the big rooms were cleared and they danced until a late hour. At Donald’s request Janet sang for them. Her rich contralto voice seemed to fill the room and set the air pulsing with sweet harmony. She sang a song of love and passion that seemed to bear Donald into another world. As he turned the final sheet and the last liquid note travelled through the rooms he roused himself as though from a spell. That voice! How strangely it affected him! He looked down to find Janet’s dark eyes fixed on his.
“Will you please sing again?” he implored.
“The same?” she questioned softly.
He nodded. Donald’s gaze travelled from the flying white fingers to the lovely face of the singer. As their eyes met Janet’s face flushed slightly, and at the finish of the verse she changed quickly to a rollicking song of the sea. “All join in,” she called merrily over her shoulder.
After Janet’s other guests had departed Donald, Douglas and Janet sat for an hour chatting by the large fireplace.
“May I go with you as far as Squamish to-morrow?” asked Janet.
“Certainly, Sis.”
“And when the railroad is through I will visit you,” she added.
Douglas looked at her curiously. Janet abhorred roughing it. Riding around Stanley Park and an occasional game of tennis comprised the extent of her outdoor activities. Douglas glanced at the clock and came quickly to his feet. “I’d better hustle you home, Donald,” he said, “as we have to be up early.”
The tinted shade of the hall light lent a soft radiance to the dark beauty of Janet’s face and gave to her eyes a deep and languorous glow.
“I have enjoyed every moment. Thank you so much,” Donald said earnestly.
“I’m glad,” she answered in a quiet voice.
He took her hand and held it in a strong pressure. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Yes,” she murmured softly.
The door closed gently and Janet heard him run down the steps to the whirring motor. She stood immovable until the sound of the car died in the distance, then walked meditatively to the fireplace, sank to a big chair and stared dreamily into the dying embers. Idly she reached for the evening paper and spread it on her knees.
“Such dignity and poise! He is wonderful!” she whispered aloud. “I must ask Douglas more about him.”
She lowered her eyes to the paper, then came slowly to her feet, a look of blank amazement on her face. Smiling up at her was the face of the man of whom she had been dreaming.