Mr. Michael Gwynne, the Mapleton storekeeper, was undoubtedly the most popular man not in the village only but in the whole township. To begin with he was a man of high character, which was sufficiently guaranteed by the fact that he was chosen as Rector's Warden in All Saints Episcopal Church. He was moreover the Rector's right-hand man, ready to back up any good cause with personal effort, with a purse always open but not often full, and with a tongue that was irresistible, for he had to an extraordinary degree the gift of persuasive speech. Therefore, the Rector's first move in launching any new scheme was to secure the approval and co-operation of his Warden.
By the whole community too Mr. Gwynne was recognised as a gentleman, a gentleman not in appearance and bearing only, a type calculated to repel plain folk, but a gentleman in heart, with a charm of manner which proceeded from a real interest in and consideration for the welfare of others. This charm of manner proved a valuable asset to him in his business, for behind his counter Mr. Gwynne had a rare gift of investing the very calicoes and muslins which he displayed before the dazzled eyes of the ladies who came to buy with a glamour that never failed to make them appear altogether desirable; and even the hard-headed farmers fell under this spell of his whether he described to them the superexcellent qualities of a newly patented cream separator or the virtues of a new patent medicine for ailing horses whose real complaint was overwork or underfeeding. With all this, moreover, Mr. Gwynne was rigidly honest. No one ever thought of disputing an account whether he paid it or not, and truth demands that with Mr. Gwynne's customers the latter course was more frequently adopted.
It was at this point that Mr. Gwynne failed of success as a business man. He could buy with discrimination, he had a rare gift of salesmanship, but as a collector, in the words of Sam Cheatley, the village butcher, himself a conspicuous star in that department of business activity, “He was not worth a tinker's curse.” His accounts were sent out punctually twice a year. His wife saw to that. At times of desperation when pressure from the wholesale houses became urgent, special statements were sent out by Mr. Gwynne himself. But in such cases the apology accompanying these statements was frequently such as to make immediate payment seem almost an insult. His customers held him in high esteem, respected his intellectual ability—for he was a Trinity man—were fascinated by his charm of manner, loved him for his kindly qualities, but would not pay their bills.
Many years ago, having failed to work harmoniously with his business partner, a shrewd, hard-headed, Belfast draper—hard-hearted Mr. Gwynne considered him—Mr. Gwynne had decided to emigrate to Canada with the remnant of a small fortune which was found to be just sufficient to purchase the Mapleton general store, and with it a small farm of fifty acres on the corner of which the store stood. It was the farm that decided the investment; for Mr. Gwynne was possessed of the town man's infatuation for farm life and of the optimistic conviction that on the farm a living at least for himself and his small family would be assured.
But his years of business in Mapleton had gradually exhausted his fortune and accumulated a staggering load of debt which was the occasion of moments of anxiety, even of fear, to the storekeeper. There was always the thought in his mind that against his indebtedness on the credit side there were his book accounts which ran up into big figures. There was always, if the worst came to the worst, the farm. But if Mr. Gwynne was no business man still less was he a farmer. Tied to his store by reason of his inability to afford a competent assistant, the farming operations were carried on in haphazard fashion by neighbours who were willing to liquidate their store debts with odd days' work at times most convenient to themselves, but not always most seasonable for the crops. Hence in good years, none too good with such haphazard farming, the farm was called upon to make up the deficiency in the financial returns of the store. In bad years notes had to be renewed with formidable accumulations of interest. But such was Mr. Gwynne's invincible optimism that he met every new embarrassment with some new project giving new promise of success.
Meanwhile during these painful years his brave little wife by her garden and her poultry materially helped to keep the family in food and to meet in some degree the household expenses. She was her own servant except that the Widow Martin came to her aid twice a week. Her skill with needle and sewing machine and a certain creative genius which she possessed enabled her to evolve from her husband's old clothes new clothes for her boy, and from her own clothing, when not too utterly worn, dresses for her two little girls. And throughout these years with all their toil and anxiety she met each day with a spirit undaunted and with a face that remained serene as far at least as her husband and her children ever saw. Nor did she allow the whole weight of trials to taint the sweetness of her spirit or to dim her faith in God. Devoted to her husband, she refused to allow herself to criticise his business ability or methods. The failure, which she could not but admit, was not his fault; it was the fault of those debtors who declined to pay their just dues.
In an hour of desperation she ventured to point out to her husband that these farmers were extending their holdings and buying machinery with notes that bore interest. “And besides, Michael,” she said, “Lawrence must go to High School next year. He will pass the Entrance examination this summer, and he must go.”
“He shall go,” said her husband. “I am resolved to make a change in my method of business. I shall go after these men. They shall no longer use my money for their business and for their families while my business and my family suffer. You need not look that way, I have made up my mind and I shall begin at once.”
Unfortunately the season was not suitable for collections. The farmers were engrossed with their harvesting, and after that with the fall ploughing, and later with the marketing of their grain. And as the weeks passed Mr. Gwynne's indignant resolve that his customers should not do business on his money gradually cooled down. The accounts were sent out as usual, and with the usual disappointing result.
Meantime Mr. Gwynne's attention was diverted from his delinquent debtors by an enterprise which to an unusual degree awakened his sympathy and kindled his imagination. The Reverend Heber Harding, ever since his unfortunate encounter with the travelling evangelist, was haunted with the uneasy feeling that he and his church were not completely fulfilling their functions in the community and justifying their existence. The impression had been the more painfully deepened in him by the sudden eruption of a spirit of recklessness and a certain tendency to general lawlessness in some of the young men of the village. As a result of a conference with the leading men of his congregation, he had decided to organise a young men's club. The business of setting this club in active operation was handed over to Mr. Gwynne, than whom no one in the village was better fitted for the work. The project appealed to Mr. Gwynne's imagination. A room was secured in the disused Orange Hall. Subscriptions were received to make purchase of apparatus and equipment necessary for games of various sorts. With vivid remembrance of his college days, Mr. Gwynne saw to it that as part of the equipment a place should be found for a number of sets of boxing gloves.
There were those who were not too sure of the uplifting influence of the boxing gloves. But after Mr. Gwynne had given an exhibition of the superior advantages of science over brute force in a bout with Mack Morrison before a crowded hall, whatever doubt might exist as to the ethical value of the boxing gloves, there was no doubt at all as to their value as an attractive force in the building up of the membership of the Young Men's Club. The boxing class became immensely popular, and being conducted under Mr. Gwynne's most rigid supervision, it gradually came to exert a most salutary influence upon its members. They learned, for one thing, to take hard knocks without losing their tempers.
In the boxing class thus established, none showed a greater eagerness to learn than did Larry. Every moment of his father's spare time he utilised to add to his knowledge of the various feints and guards and cuts and punches and hooks that appeared necessary to a scientific acquaintance with the manly art. He developed an amazing capacity to accept punishment. Indeed, he appeared almost to welcome rough handling, especially from the young men and boys bigger than himself. Light in weight and not very muscular, he was wiry and quick in eye and in action, and under his father's teaching he learned how to “make his heels save his head.” He was always ready for a go with any one who might offer, and when all others had wearied of the sport Larry would put in an extra half hour with the punching bag. With one boy only he refused to spar. No persuasion, no taunts, no challenge could entice him to put on the gloves with Mop Cheatley. He could never look steadily at Mop for any length of time without seeing again on his face the sneering grin and hearing again the terrible words spoken two years ago in the cedar woods behind the mill pond: “You're a coward and your mother's a coward before you.” He refused to spar with Mop for he knew that once face to face with him he could not spar, he must fight. But circumstances made the contest inevitable. In the working out of a tournament, it chanced that Mop was drawn to face Larry, and although the disparity both in age and weight seemed to handicap the smaller boy to an excessive degree, Larry's friends who were arranging the schedule, among them Mack Morrison with big Ben Hopper and Joe Gagneau as chorus, and who knew something of Larry's skill with his hands and speed on his feet, were not unwilling to allow the draw to stand.
The days preceding the tournament were days of misery for Larry. The decision in the contest would of course be on points and he knew that he could outpoint without much difficulty his antagonist who was clumsy and slow. For the decision Larry cared nothing at all. At the most he had little to lose for it would be but small disgrace to be beaten by a boy so much bigger. The cause of his distress was something quite other than this. He knew that from the first moment of the bout he would be fighting. That this undoubtedly would make Mop fight back, and he was haunted by the fear that in the stress of battle he might play the coward. Would he be able to stand up to Mop when the fight began to go against him? And suppose he should run away, should show himself a coward? How could he ever live after that, how look any of the boys in the face? Worst of all, how could he face his father, whose approval in this boxing game since he had revealed himself as a “fighting man” the boy coveted more than anything else. But his father was not present when the boy stepped into the ring. Impelled by the dread of showing himself a coward and running away, Larry flung to the winds his father's favourite maxim, “Let your heels save your head,” a maxim which ought if ever to be observed in such a bout as this in which he was so out-classed in weight.
At the word “Time” Larry leaped for his opponent and almost before Mop was aware that the battle had begun he was being blinded, staggered and beaten all around the ring, and only a lucky blow, flung wildly into space and landing heavily upon Larry's face, saved him from complete defeat in the first round. That single heavy blow was sufficient to give temporary pause to Larry's impetuosity, but as soon as he got back his wind he once more ran in, feinting, ducking, plunging, but ever pressing hard upon his antagonist, who, having recovered from his first surprise, began to plant heavy blows upon Larry's ribs, until at the end of the round the boy was glad enough to sink back into his corner gasping for breath.
Ben Hopper, who was acting as Larry's second, was filled with surprise and indignation at his principal's fighting tactics. “You blame fool,” he said to Larry as he ministered to his all too apparent necessities. “What do you think you're doing? Do you think he's a sausage machine and you a bloody porker? Keep away from him. You know he's too heavy for you. If he were not so clumsy he would have had you out before this. One good punch from him would do it. Why don't you do your foot work?”
“Corec,” said Joe. “Larree, you fight all the same Mack Morrison's ram. Head down, jump in—head down, jump in. Why you run so queek on dat Mop feller? Why you not make him run after you?”
“He's right, Larry,” said Ben. “Use your feet; make him come after you. You will sure get his wind.”
But Larry stood recovering his breath, glowering meanwhile at his enemy across the ring. He neither heeded nor heard the entreaties of his friends. In his ears one phrase only rang with insistent reiteration. “He's a coward, an' his mother's a coward before him.” Only one obsession possessed him, he must keep hard at his enemy.
“Time!” The second round was on. Like a tiger upon his prey, Larry was upon his foe, driving fast and furious blows upon his head and face. But this time Mop was ready for him, and bearing in, head down, he took on his left guard the driving blows with no apparent injury, and sent back some half a dozen heavy swings that broke down Larry's guard, drove him across the ring and finally brought him gasping to his knees.
“Stay where you are,” yelled Ben. “Take your count, Larry, and keep away from him. Do you hear me? Keep away, always away.”
At the ninth count Larry sprang to his feet, easily eluded Mop's swinging blow, and slipping lightly around the ring, escaped further attack until he had picked up his wind.
“That's the game,” yelled Ben. “Keep it up, old boy, keep it up.”
“C'est bon stuff, Larree,” yelled Joe, dancing wildly in Ben's corner. “C'est bon stuff, Larree, for sure.”
But once more master of his wind, Larry renewed his battering assault upon Mop's head, inflicting some damage indeed, but receiving heavy punishment in return. The close of the round found him exhausted and bleeding. In spite of the adjurations and entreaties of his friends, Larry pursued the same tactics in the third round, which ended even more disastrously than the second. His condition was serious enough to bring Mack Morrison to his side.
“What's up with you, Larry?” said Mack. “Where's your science gone? Why don't you play the game as you know it?”
“Mack, Mack,” panted Larry. “It ain't a game. I'm—I'm fighting, and, Mack, I'm not afraid of him.”
Mack whistled. “Who said you are afraid of him, youngster?”
“He did, Mack, he called me a coward—you remember, Ben, up in the cedar bush that day we played hookey—you remember, Ben?” Ben nodded. “He called me a coward and”—grinding the words between his teeth—“he called my mother a coward. But I am not afraid of him, Mack—he can't make me afraid; he can't make me run away.” What with his rage and his secret fear, the boy had quite lost control of himself.
“So that's it,” said Mack, reading both rage and fear in his eyes. “Listen to me, Larry,” he continued in a voice low and stern. “You quit this monkey work right now or, by the jumping Jehoshaphat, I will lick the tar out of you myself when this is over. You're not afraid of him; I know that—we all know that. But you don't want to kill him, eh? No. What you want is to make him look like a fool. Well, then, fight, if you want to fight, but remember your rules. Play with him, make him follow you round until you get his wind; there's your chance. Then get him hard and get away.”
But the boy spoke no word in reply. He was staring gloomily, desperately, before him into space.
Mack seized him, and shaking him impatiently, said, “Larry boy, listen to me. Don't you care for anybody but yourself? Don't you care for me at all?”
At that Larry appeared to wake up as from a sleep.
“What did you say, Mack?” he answered. “Of course I care, you know that, Mack.”
“Then,” said Mack, “for God's sake, get a smile on your face. Smile, confound you, smile.”
The boy passed his gloved hand over his face, looked for a moment into Mack's eyes, and the old smile came back to his lips.
“Now you're all right,” cried Mack in triumph. “Remember your father's rule, 'Keep your head with your heels.'” And Larry did remember! For on the call of “Time” he slipped from Ben's knees and began to circle lightly about Mop, smiling upon him and waiting his chance. His chance soon came, for Mop, thinking that his enemy had had about enough and was ready to quit, adopted aggressive tactics, and, feinting with his right, swung heavily with his left at the smiling face. But the face proved elusive, and upon Mop's undefended head a series of blows dealt with savage fury took all the heart out of him. So he cried to the referee as he ducked into his corner:
“He's fightin'. He's fightin'. I'm not fightin'.”
“You'd better get busy then,” called Ben derisively from his corner. “Now, Larry, sail into him,” and Larry sailed in with such vehemence that Mop fairly turned tail and ran around the ring, Larry pursuing him amid the delighted shouts of the spectators.
This ended the contest, the judges giving the decision to Mop, who, though obviously beaten at the finish, had showed a distinct superiority on points. As for Larry, the decision grieved him not at all. He carried home a face slightly disfigured but triumphant, his sole comment to his mother upon the contest being, “I was not afraid of him anyway, mother; he could not make me run.”
“I am not so sure of this boxing, Lawrence,” she said, but the boy caught the glint in her eyes and was well enough content.
In the late evening Ben, with Larry and Joe following him, took occasion to look in upon Mop at the butcher shop.
“Say, Mop,” said Ben pleasantly, “what do you think of Larry now? Would you say he was a coward?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mop, suspecting trouble.
“Just what I say,” said Ben, while Larry moved up within range, his face white, his eyes gleaming.
“I ain't saying nothing about nobody,” replied Mop sullenly, with the tail of his eye upon Larry's white face and gleaming eyes.
“You say him one tam—in de cedar swamp,” said Joe.
“Would you say Larry was a coward?” repeated Ben.
“No, I wouldn't say nothing of the sort,” replied Mop promptly.
“Do you think he is a coward?” persisted Ben.
“No,” said Mop, “I know he ain't no coward. He don't fight like no coward.”
This appeared to satisfy Ben, but Larry, moving slightly nearer, took up the word for himself.
“And would you say my mother was a coward?” he asked in a tense voice, his body gathered as if for a spring.
“Larry, I wouldn't say nothing about your mother,” replied Mop earnestly. “I think your mother's a bully good woman. She was awfully good to my mother last winter, I know.”
The spring went out of Larry's body. He backed away from Mop and the boys.
“Who said your mother was a coward?” inquired Mop indignantly. “If anybody says so, you bring him to me, and I'll punch his head good, I will.”
Larry looked foolishly at Ben, who looked foolishly back at him.
“Say, Mop,” said Larry, a smile like a warm light passing over his face, “come on up and see my new rabbits.”
Another and greater enterprise was diverting Mr. Gwynne's attention from the delinquencies of his debtors, namely: the entrance of the National Machine Company into the remote and placid life of Mapleton and its district. The manager of this company, having spent an afternoon with Mr. Gwynne in his store and having been impressed by his charm and power of persuasive talk, made him a proposition that he should act as agent of the National Machine Company. The arrangement suggested was one that appealed to Mr. Gwynne's highly optimistic temperament. He was not to work for a mere salary, but was to purchase outright the various productions of the National Machine Company and receive a commission upon all his sales. The figures placed before Mr. Gwynne by the manager of the company were sufficiently impressive, indeed so impressive that Mr. Gwynne at once accepted the proposition, and the Mapleton branch of the National Machine Company became an established fact.
There was no longer any question as to the education of his family. In another year when his boy had passed his entrance examinations he would be able to send him to the high school in the neighbouring town of Easton, properly equipped and relieved of those handicaps with which poverty can so easily wash all the colour out of young life. A brilliant picture the father drew before the eyes of his wife of the educational career of their boy, who had already given promise of exceptional ability. But while she listened, charmed, delighted and filled with proud anticipation, the mother with none the less painful care saved her garden and poultry money, cut to bare necessity her household expenses, skimped herself and her children in the matter of dress, and by every device which she had learned in the bitter school of experience during the ten years of her Canadian life, made such preparation for the expenses of her boy's education as would render it unnecessary to call upon the wealth realised from the National Machine Company's business.
In the matter of providing for the expense of his education Larry himself began to take a not unimportant part. During the past two years he had gained not only in size but in the vigour of his health, and in almost every kind of work on the farm he could now take a man's place. His mother would not permit him to give his time and strength to their own farming operations for the sufficient reason that from these there would be no return in ready money, and ready money was absolutely essential to the success of her plans. The boy was quick, eager and well-mannered, and in consequence had no difficulty in finding employment with the neighbouring farmers. So much was this the case that long before the closing of school in the early summer Larry was offered work for the whole summer by their neighbour, Mr. Martin, at one dollar a day. He could hardly believe his good fortune inasmuch as he had never in all his life been paid at a rate exceeding half that amount.
“I shall have a lot of money, mother,” he said, “for my high school now. I wonder how much it will cost me for the term.”
Thereupon his mother seized the opportunity to discuss the problem with him which she knew they must face together.
“Let us see,” said his mother.
Then each with pencil and paper they drew up to the table, but after the most careful paring down of expenses and the most optimistic estimate of their resources consistent with fact, they made the rather discouraging discovery that they were still fifty dollars short.
“I can't do it, mother,” said Larry, in bitter disappointment.
“We shall not give up yet,” said his mother. “Indeed, I think with what we can make out of the farm and garden and poultry, we ought to be able to manage.”
But a new and chilling thought had come to the lad. He pondered silently, and as he pondered his face became heavily shadowed.
“Say, mother,” he said suddenly, “we can't do it. How much are you going to spend on your clothes?”
“All I need,” said his mother brightly.
“But how much?”
“I don't know.”
“How much did you spend last year?”
“Oh, never mind, Lawrence; that really does not matter.”
But the boy insisted. “Did you spend thirty-one dollars?” His mother laughed at him.
“Did you spend twenty?”
“No.”
“Did you spend fifteen?”
“I do not know,” said his mother, “and I am not going to talk about it. My clothes and the girls' clothes will be all right for this year.”
“Mother,” said Larry, “I am not going to school this year. I am not going to spend thirty-one dollars for clothes while you and the girls spend nothing. I am going to work first, and then go to school. I am not going to school this year.” The boy rose from his chair and stood and faced his mother with quivering lips, fighting to keep back the tears.
Mother reached out her hand and drew him toward her. “My darling boy,” she said in a low voice, “I love to hear you, but listen to me. Are you listening? You must be educated. Nothing must interfere with that. No suffering is too great to be endured by all of us. The time for education is youth; first because your mind works more quickly and retains better what it acquires, and second because it is a better investment, and you will sooner be able to pay us all back what we spend now. So you will go to school this year, boy, if we can manage it, and I think we can. Some day,” she added, patting him on the shoulder, and holding him off from her, “when you are rich you will give me a silk dress.”
“Won't I just,” cried the boy passionately, “and the girls too, and everything you want, and I will give you a good time yet, mother. You deserve the best a woman ever had and I will give it to you.”
The mother turned her face away from him and looked out of the window. She saw not the fields of growing grain but a long vista of happy days ever growing in beauty and in glory until she could see no more for the tears that quietly fell. The boy dropped on his knees beside her.
“Oh, mother, mother,” he said. “You have been wonderful to us all, and you have had an awfully hard time. A fellow never knows, does he?”
“A hard time? A hard time?” said his mother, a great surprise in her voice and in her face. “No, my boy, no hard time for me. A dear, dear, lovely time with you all, every day, every day. Never do I want a better time than I have had with you.”
The event proved the wisdom of Mrs. Gwynne's determination to put little faith in the optimistic confidence of her husband in regard to the profits to be expected from the operations of the National Machine Company. A year's business was sufficient to demonstrate that the Mapleton branch of the National Machine Company was bankrupt. By every law of life it ought to be bankrupt. With all his many excellent qualities Mr. Gwynne possessed certain fatal defects as a business man. With him the supreme consideration was simply the getting rid of the machines purchased by him as rapidly and in such large numbers as possible. He cheerfully ignored the laws that governed the elemental item of profit. Hence the relentless Nemesis that sooner or later overtakes those who, whether ignorantly or maliciously, break laws, fell upon the National Machine Company and upon those who had the misfortune to be associated with it.
In the wreck of the business Mr. Gwynne's store, upon which the National Machine Company had taken the precaution to secure a mortgage, was also involved. The business went into the hands of a receiver and was bought up at about fifty cents on the dollar by a man recently from western Canada whose specialty was the handling of business wreckage. No one after even a cursory glance at his face would suspect Mr. H. P. Sleighter of deficiency in business qualities. The snap in the cold grey eye, the firm lines in the long jaw, the thin lips pressed hard together, all proclaimed the hard-headed, cold-hearted, iron-willed man of business. Mr. Sleighter, moreover, had a remarkable instinct for values, more especially for salvage values. It was this instinct that led him to the purchase of the National Machine Company wreckage, which included as well the Mapleton general store, with its assets in stock and book debts.
Mr. Sleighter's methods with the easy-going debtors of the company in Mapleton and the surrounding district were of such galvanic vigour that even so practiced a procrastinator as Farmer Martin found himself actually drawing money from his hoarded bank account to pay his store debts—a thing unheard of in that community—and to meet overdue payments upon the various implements which he had purchased from the National Machine Company. It was not until after the money had been drawn and actually paid that Mr. Martin came fully to realise the extraordinary nature of his act.
“That there feller,” he said, looking from the receipt in his hand to the store door through which the form of Mr. Sleighter had just vanished, “that there feller, he's too swift fer me. He ain't got any innards to speak of; he'd steal the pants off a dog, he would.”
The application of these same galvanically vigorous methods to Mr. Gwynne's debtors produced surprising results. Mr. Sleighter made the astounding discovery that Mr. Gwynne's business instead of being bankrupt would produce not only one hundred cents on the dollar, but a slight profit as well. This discovery annoyed Mr. Sleighter. He hated to confess a mistake in business judgment, and he frankly confessed he “hated to see good money roll past him.” Hence with something of a grudge he prepared to hand over to Mr. Gwynne some twelve hundred and fifty dollars of salvage money.
“I suppose he will be selling out his farm,” said Mr. Sleighter in conversation with Mr. Martin. “What's land worth about here?”
“Oh, somewhere about a hundred.”
“A hundred dollars an acre!” exclaimed Mr. Sleighter. “Don't try to put anything over on me. Personally I admire your generous, kindly nature, but as a financial adviser you don't shine. I guess I won't bother about that farm anyway.”
Mr. Sleighter's question awakened earnest thought in Mr. Martin, and the next morning he approached Mr. Gwynne with a proposition to purchase his farm with its attached buildings. Mr. Martin made it clear that he was chiefly anxious to do a neighbourly turn.
“The house and the stable ain't worth much,” he said, “but the farm bein' handy to my property, I own up is worth more to me than to other folks, perhaps. So bein' old neighbours, I am willin' to give four thousand dollars, half cash down, for the hull business.”
“Surely that is a low figure,” said Mr. Gwynne.
“Low figure!” exclaimed Mr. Martin. “All right, I ain't pressin' it on you; but if you could get any one in this neighbourhood to offer four thousand dollars for your farm, I will give you five hundred extra. But,” he continued, “I ain't pressin' you. Don't much matter to me.”
The offer came at a psychologically critical moment, when Mr. Gwynne was desperately seeking escape from an intolerable environment.
“I shall consult Mrs. Gwynne,” he said, “and let you know in a few days.”
“Don't know as I can wait that long,” said Mr. Martin. “I made the offer to oblige you, and besides I got a chance at the Monroe fifty.”
“Call to-morrow night,” said Mr. Gwynne, and carried the proposal home to his wife.
The suggestion to break up her home to a woman of Mrs. Gwynne's type is almost shattering. In the big world full of nameless terrors the one spot offering shelter and safety for herself and her family was her home. But after all, her husband was her great concern, and she could see he was eager for the change. She made up her mind to the sacrifice and decided that she would break up the home in Mapleton and with her husband try again their fortune.
“But four thousand dollars,” she said, “is surely a small price.”
“Small? I know it is small, but Martin knows I am in a corner. He is a highway robber.”
It was a bitter experience for him to be forced to confess himself a business failure, and with this bitterness there mingled a feeling of hostility toward all successful business men. To him it seemed that in order to win success in business a man must become, like Mr. Martin, a highway robber. In this mood of bitterness and hostility toward successful men, Mr. Sleighter found him the next day.
“Couldn't find you at the store,” said that gentleman, walking in with his hat on his head. “I wanted to get this business straightened up, so I just came in. Won't take more than five minutes. I guess you won't mind taking a little check from me. Your business turned out better than that fool of an assignee thought. Don't hurt me any, of course. I got all that was comin' to me out of it, but here's this check. Perhaps you'll sign the receipt. I guess they been puttin' it over you all right. You're a little too soft with 'em.”
Mr. Gwynne was an even-tempered man, but Mr. Sleighter's patronising manner and his criticism of his business ability wrought in him a rage that he could with difficulty control. He remembered he was in his own house, however, and that the man before him was a stranger. While he was searching for pen and ink the door opened and his wife entered the room. Mr. Sleighter, with his hat still upon his head, was intently gazing out of the window, easily rocking on the two hind legs of the chair. The door opened behind him.
“My dear,” said Mr. Gwynne, “will you excuse me? I am engaged.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't know any one was here. I merely wanted—”
Mr. Sleighter glanced over his shoulder.
“Mr. Sleighter,” said Mr. Gwynne. “My wife.”
It was not his tone, however, that brought Mr. Sleighter hurriedly to his feet with his hat in his hand. It was something in the bearing of the little lady standing behind him.
“Pleased to meet you, ma'am. I hope you are well,” he said, bowing elaborately before her.
“Thank you very much, I am quite well. I have heard a great deal about you, Mr. Sleighter. I am glad to meet you.”
Mr. Sleighter held her hand a moment while her eyes rested quietly and kindly, if searchingly, upon his face. This was the man who had profited by her husband's loss. Was he too a highway robber? Mr. Sleighter somehow felt as if his soul were being exposed to a searchlight. It made him uncomfortable.
“It's a fine day, ma'am,” he remarked, seeking cover for his soul in conversation. “A little warm for the time,” he continued, wiping his forehead with a highly coloured silk handkerchief.
“Won't you sit down, Mr. Sleighter? Do you find it warm? I thought there was quite a chilly wind to-day. But then you are more accustomed to the wind than I.”
The searching eyes were holding him steadily, but the face was kindly and full of genuine interest.
“I guess so,” he said with a little laugh. He would have scorned to acknowledge that his laugh was nervous and thin. “I come from the windy side of the earth.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, I am from out West—Alberta. We have got all the winds there is and the Chinook besides for a change.”
“Alberta? The Chinook?” The eyes became less searching.
“Yes, that's the wind that comes down from the mountains and licks up the snow at ten miles an hour.”
“Oh!”
“It was an Alberta man, you know, who invented a rig with runners in front and wheels behind.” The lady was bewildered. “To catch up with the Chinook, you see. One of my kid's jokes. Not much of a joke I guess, but he's always ringin' 'em in.”
“You have a son, Mr. Sleighter? He's in Alberta now?”
“No, the missis and the kids, three of them, are in Winnipeg. She got tired of it out there; she was always wantin' the city, so I gave in.”
“I hear it's a beautiful country out there.”
“Now you're talkin', ma'am.” She had touched Mr. Sleighter's favourite theme. Indeed, the absorbing passion of his life, next to the picking up of good salvage bargains, was his home in the Foothill country of the West.
While he was engaged in an enthusiastic description of the glories of that wonderland the children came in and were presented. Mr. Gwynne handed his visitor his receipt and stood suggestively awaiting his departure. But Mr. Sleighter was fairly started on his subject and was not to be denied. The little girls drew shyly near him with eyes aglow while Mr. Sleighter's words roiled forth like a mountain flood. Eloquently he described the beauty of the rolling lands, the splendour of the mountains, the richness of the soil, the health-giving qualities of the climate, the warm-hearted hospitality of the settlers.
“None of your pin-head two-by-four shysters that you see here in the East,” exclaimed Mr. Sleighter. “I mean some folks, of course,” he explained in some confusion.
“And the children, did they like it?” inquired Mrs. Gwynne.
“You bet they did. Why, they was all over the hull prairie, all day and all night, too, mostly—on ponies you know.”
“Ponies!” exclaimed Larry. “Did they have ponies? Could they ride? How big are they?”
“How big? Blamed if I know. Let's see. There's Tom. He's just about a man, or thinks he is. He's sixteen or seventeen. Just now he's in the high school at Winnipeg. He don't like it though.” Here a shadow fell on Mr. Sleighter's face. “And the girls—there's Hazel, she's fifteen, and Ethel Mary, she's eleven or somewhere thereabouts. I never can keep track of them. They keep againin' on me all the time.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gwynne. “It is hard to realise that they are growing up and will soon be away from us.”
“That's so,” said Mr. Sleighter.
“And the schools,” continued Mrs. Gwynne, “are there good schools?”
“Schools?” exclaimed Mr. Sleighter. “There's a real good school not more than a couple of miles away.”
“Two miles,” exclaimed the mother aghast.
“Oh, that's nothin'. They ride, of course. But we ain't got much of a master now. He's rather—you know.” Mr. Sleighter significantly tipped up with his little finger and winked toward Mr. Gwynne.
“But you love that country,” she said.
“Yes, I love it and I hated to leave it. But the missis never liked it. She was city born and bred. She wanted the lights, I guess, and the shows. I don't blame her, though,” he continued rapidly. “It's kind of lonely for women, you know. They've got to have amusements and things. But it's God's own country, believe me, and I would go back to-morrow, if I could.”
“You still own your ranch?”
“Yes; can't sell easily. You see there's not much broke on it—only a hundred acres or so.”
“Why, how big is the ranch?”
“Five hundred acres and a wood lot. I did not farm much, though—mostly cattle and horses. I was away a good deal on the trail.”
“The trail?”
“Yes, buying cattle and selling again. That was the worst of it. I am not much of a farmer, though farming's all right there, and I was away almost all of the time. I guess that made it pretty hard for the missis and the kids.”
At this point the Widow Martin came in to lay the table for tea. Mr. Sleighter took the hint and rose to go.
“You will do us the pleasure of staying for tea, Mr. Sleighter?” said Mrs. Gwynne earnestly.
“Oh, do,” said the youngest little girl, Nora, whose snapping black eyes gleamed with eager desire to hear more of the wonderful western land.
“Yes, do, and tell us more,” said the boy.
“I hope you will be able to stay,” continued Mrs. Gwynne.
Mr. Sleighter glanced at her husband. “Why, certainly,” said Mr. Gwynne, “we would be glad to have you.”
Still Mr. Sleighter hesitated. “Say, I don't know what's come over me. I feel as if I had been on the stump,” he said in an embarrassed voice. “I ain't talked to a soul about that country since I left. I guess I got pretty full, and when you pulled the cork, out she come.”
During the tea hour Mrs. Gwynne tried to draw her visitor out to talk about his family, but here she failed. Indeed a restraint appeared to fall upon him that nothing could dispel. Immediately after tea Mrs. Gwynne placed the Bible and Book of Prayers on the table, saying, “We follow the custom of reading prayers every evening after tea, Mr. Sleighter. We shall be glad to have you join us.”
“Sure thing, ma'am,” said Mr. Sleighter, pushing back his chair and beginning to rock on its hind legs, picking his teeth with his pen knife, to the staring horror of the little girls.
The reading was from the Scripture to which throughout the centuries the Christian Church has gone for authority and guidance in the exercise of charity and in the performance of social service, the story of the Samaritan gentleman to whom the unhappy traveller whose misfortune it was to be sorely mishandled by thieves owed his rescue and his life.
Throughout the reading Mr. Sleighter paid the strictest attention and joined in the prayers with every sign of reverence. At the close he stood awkwardly shifting from one foot to another.
“Well, I'll be goin',” he said. “Don't know how you roped me in for this here visit, ma'am. I ain't et in any one's house since I left home, and I ain't heard any family prayers since my old dad had 'em—a regular old Methodist exhorter he was. He used to pray until all was blue, though most times, specially at night, I used to fall asleep. He was great on religion.”
“I don't suppose he was any the worse for that,” said Mrs. Gwynne.
“Not a mite, not a mite, ma'am. A little strict, but straight as a string, ma'am. No one could say anythin' against Hiram Sleighter—H. P. Sleighter. I was named for him. He used to pray to beat creation, and then some, but he was a straight man all right. And to-night your kids and your family prayers made me think of them old days. Well, good-night and thank you for the good time you gave me. Best I've had in a dog's age.”
“You will come again, Mr. Sleighter,” said Mrs. Gwynne, giving him her hand.
“Yes, and tell us more about that new country,” added her son. “My, I'd like to go out there!”
“It's a wonderful country all right and you might do a hull lot worse.”