"Well," said Ike, "when I hear him speak in meetin', and see him git on one of them smiles of his, I come purty nigh makin' a fool of myself. I guess I'll have to quit goin' to church."
"No, I do not think you will quit, Ike, my boy," said the doctor. "You have become thoroughly well inoculated. You could not, if you tried."
"Well, I surmise it would be difficult, but I wish somethin' would happen."
Ike had his wish; for, when one day his business took him to the Fort, the stage brought a stranger asking the way to Mr. Macgregor's house, and immediately Ike undertook to convoy him thither. It was The Don.
Shock's shout of welcome did Ike good, but the meeting between the two men no one saw. After the first warm greeting Shock began to be aware of a great change in his friend. He was as a man whose heart has been chilled to the core, cold, hard, irresponsive. Toward Shock himself The Don was unchanged in affection and admiration, but toward all the world he was a different man from the one Shock had known in college days.
In Shock's work he was mildly interested, but toward all that stood for religion he cherished a feeling of bitterness amounting to hatred. True, out of respect he attended Shock's services, but he remained unmoved through all; so that, after the first joy in his friend's companionship, the change in him brought Shock a feeling of pain, and he longed to help him.
"We will have to get him to work," he said to the doctor, to whom he had confided The Don's history in part, not omitting the great grief that had fallen upon him.
"A wise suggestion," replied the doctor, who had been attracted by his young brother in the profession, "a wise suggestion. This country, however, is painfully free from all endemic or epidemic diseases."
"Well, doctor, you know we ought to get that hospital going in the Pass. Let us talk it over with him."
At the first opportunity Shock set forth his plans for the physical and moral redemption of the lumbermen and miners of the Pass.
"I have seen the most ghastly cuts and bruises on the chaps in the lumber camps," he said, "and the miners are always blowing themselves up, and getting all sorts of chest troubles, not to speak of mountain fever, rheumatism, and the like. There is absolutely no place for them to go. Hickey's saloon is vile, noisy, and full of bugs. Ugh! I'll never forget the night I put in there. I can feel them yet. And besides, Hickey has a gang about him that make it unsafe for any man to go there in health, much less in sickness. Why, the stories they tell are perfectly awful. A fellow goes in with his month's pay. In one night his fifty or sixty dollars are gone, no one knows how. The poor chap is drunk, and he cannot tell. When a prospector comes down from the hills and sells a prospect for a good figure, from a hundred to five hundred dollars, and sometimes more, these fellows get about him and roll him. In two weeks he is kicked out, half dead. Oh, Hickey is a villain, and he is in league with the red-light houses, too. They work together, to the physical and moral damnation of the place. We want a clean stopping-place, a club-room, and above everything else a hospital. Why, when the miners and lumbermen happen to get off the same night the blood flows, and there is abundant practice for any surgeon for a week or so."
"Sounds exciting," said The Don, mildly interested. "Why don't you go up, doctor?"
"It is not the kind of practice I desire. My tastes are for a gentler mode of life. The dangers of the Pass are too exciting for me. They are a quaint people," the doctor continued, "primitive in their ideas and customs, pre-historic, indeed, in their practice of our noble art. I remember an experience of mine, some years ago now, which made a vivid impression upon me at the time, and indeed, I could not rid myself of the effects for many days, for many days."
"What was that, doctor?" enquired Shock, scenting a story.
"Well, it is a very interesting tale, a very interesting tale. Chiefly so as an illustration of how, in circumstances devoid of the amenities of civilised life, the human species tends toward barbarism. A clear case of reversion to type. There was a half-breed family living in the Pass, by the name of Goulais, and with the family lived Goulais' brother, by name Antoine, or, if you spelled it as they pronounced it, it would be 'Ontwine.' The married one's name was Pierre. Antoine was a lumberman, and in the pursuit of his avocation he caught a severe cold, which induced a violent inflammation of the bowels, causing very considerable distension and a great deal of pain. Being in the neighbourhood attending some cases of fever, I was induced by some friends of the Goulais to call and see the sick man."
"The moment I opened the door I was met by a most pungent odour, a most pungent odour. Indeed, though I have experienced most of the smells that come to one in the practice of our profession, this odour had a pungency and a nauseating character all its own. Looking into the room I was startled to observe the place swimming with blood, literally swimming with blood. Blood on the floor, blood upon the bed, and dripping from it."
"'What does this mean? Is someone being murdered? Whence this blood?'"
"'Non! non!" exclaimed Mrs. Goulais. "There is no one keel. It is one cat blood.'"
"Approaching the bed to obtain a nearer view of the patient, I discovered the cause. Turning down the bed quilt to make an examination, you may imagine my surprise and horror to observe a ghastly and bloody object lying across the abdomen of the sick man. A nearer examination revealed this to be an immense cat which had been ripped up from chin to tail, and laid warm and bleeding, with all its appurtenances, upon the unhappy patient. All through the day the brother, Pierre; had been kept busily engaged in hunting up animals of various kinds, which were to be excised in this manner and applied as poultice."
"In uncivilised communities the animal whose healing virtues are supposed to be most potent is the cat, and the cure is most certainly assured if the cat be absolutely black, without a single white hair. In this community, however, deprived of many of the domestic felicities, the absence of cats made it necessary for poor Pierre to employ any animal on which he could lay his hands; so, throughout the day, birds and beasts, varied in size and character, were offered upon this altar. The cat which I discovered, however, was evidently that upon which their hopes most firmly rested; for, upon the failure of other animals, recourse would be had to the cat, which had been kept in reserve. The state of preservation suggested this."
"A very slight examination of the patient showed me that there was practically no hope of his recovery, and that it would be almost useless in me to attempt to change the treatment, and all the more that I should have to overcome not only the prejudices of the patient and of his sister-in-law, but also of his very able-bodied brother, whose devotion to his own peculiar method of treatment amounted to fanaticism. However, I determined to make an attempt. I prepared hot fomentations, removed the cat, and made my first application. But no sooner had I begun my treatment than I heard Pierre returning with a freshly slaughtered animal in his hand. The most lively hope, indeed, triumph, was manifest in his excited bearing. He bore by the tail an animal the character of which none of us were in doubt from the moment Pierre appeared in sight. It was the mephitis mephitica, that mephitine musteloid carnivore with which none of us desire a close acquaintance, which announces its presence without difficulty at a very considerable distance; in short, the animal vulgarly known as the skunk."
"'Voila!' exclaimed Pierre, holding the animal up for our admiration. 'Dis feex him queek."
"'Ah! Mon Dieu!' exclaimed his wife, covering her face with her apron. But, whether from devotion to his art or from affection for his brother, Pierre persisted in carrying out his treatment. He laid the animal, cleft and pungently odorous, upon the patient. Needless to say, I surrendered the case at once."
The doctor's manner of telling the story was so extremely droll that both The Don and Shock were convulsed with laughter.
"Yes, they need a hospital, I should say," said The Don, when they had recovered.
"Well," said Shock, "we shall go up and have a look at it."
The result of their visit to the Pass was that within a few weeks a rough log building was erected, floored, roofed in, chinked with moss, and lined with cotton, lumbermen and miners willingly assisting in the work of building.
The Don became much interested in the whole enterprise. He visited the various lumber camps, laid the scheme before the bosses and the men, and in a short time gathered about two hundred dollars for furnishing and equipment.
Shock left him to carry out the work alone, but after two weeks had passed he was surprised to receive a message one day that the young doctor was cutting things loose up in the Pass. With a great fear at his heart Shock rode up the next day. The first man whom he met in the little, straggling village was Sergeant Crisp of the North-West Mounted Police, a man of high character, and famed in the Territories alike for his cool courage and unimpeachable integrity.
"Up to see the young doctor?" was the Sergeant's salutation. "You will find him at Nancy's, I guess," pointing to where a red light shone through the black night. "Do you want me along?"
"No, thank you," said Shock. "I think I had better go alone."
For a moment he hesitated.
"How does one go in?" he enquired.
"Why, turn the handle and walk right in," said the Sergeant, with a laugh. "You don't want to be bashful there."
With a sickening feeling of horror at his heart Shock strode to the red-light door, turned the handle, and walked in.
In the room were a number of men, and two or three women in all the shameless dishabille of their profession. As Shock opened the door a young girl, with much of her youthful freshness and beauty still about her, greeted him with a foul salutation.
Shock shrank back from her as if she had struck him in the face. The girl noticed the action, came nearer to him, and offered him her hand. Shock, overcoming his feeling of shame, took the hand offered him, and holding it for a moment, said: "My dear girl, this is no place for you. Your home waits for you. Your Saviour loves you."
In the noise that filled the room no one save the girl herself heard his words; but two or three men who knew Shock well, amazed at his appearance in that place, exclaimed: "It's the preacher!"
Nancy, the keeper of the house, who was sitting at one of the tables gambling with some men, sprang to her feet and, seeing Shock, poured out a torrent of foul blasphemy.
"Get out of this house! Get out, I say! You've no business here. Go, blank your blank soul! Take yourself out of this!"
She worked herself into a raging fury. Shock stood quietly looking at her.
"Here, Tom! Pat! Put this blank, blank out, or you'll go yourselves. What do I keep you for?"
Three or four men, responding to her call, approached Shock.
Meantime The Don, who had been sitting at one of the tables with three others, a pile of money before him, stood gazing in amazement at Shock, unable to believe his eyes.
As the men approached Shock The Don came forward.
"Stop!" he said. "This man is my friend."
"Friend or no friend," shrieked Nancy, beside herself with rage, "out he goes. He called me names in this town. He threatened to drive me out of the town."
"Come, Don," said Shock, ignoring Nancy. "I want you."
"Wait one moment and I am with you," replied The Don, going back to the table where he had been sitting. "We will finish this game again, gentlemen," he said. "Hickey, that's my money. Hand it over."
"You lie!" said Hickey. "Curse you for a blank, blank swell! You can't come that game over us. It aint your money, anyway, and you know it. That's money you raised for the hospital. Come on, boys, let's clean them out. They don't belong to us."
With these words he sprang at The Don, but The Don's training in the 'Varsity gymnasium had not been in vain, and he met Hickey with a straight left-hander that sent him into the corner upon his shoulders, with his feet in the air.
Simultaneously with Hickey's attack, Nancy, shrieking "Kill him! kill him!" flew at Shock, and fastening her fingers in his hair dragged his head downward. Taking advantage of this attack a man from the crowd rushed in and struck him a heavy blow on the neck, and as he was falling kicked him full in his face. Immediately another, jumping on Shock's prostrate form, began kicking him savagely with his heavy calked boots.
"Give it to him!" yelled Nancy, dancing about like a fiend.
"Stop! Stop! You have killed him!" shrieked the young girl, Nellie by name, throwing herself upon Shock and covering him with her body.
"Get up, you blank fool!" yelled Nancy, seizing her by the hair.
At this moment, however, The Don, freed from Hickey, sprang to Shock's side, seized Nancy by the back of the neck and hurled her across the room, caught the man who was still trying to kick Shock to death, by the throat, and holding him at half arm struck him a terrific blow and threw him like a log against his companion, who came rushing to his assistance.
Meantime Nancy, still shrieking her refrain, "Kill him! kill him!" was dragging forward Hickey, who had partially recovered from The Don's blow, to renew the attack.
"Come on, you cowards!" she cried to the other men. "What are you afraid of? Come on."
Stung by her taunts the men, led by Hickey, prepared to rush, when the door opened and Sergeant Crisp appeared. Immediately the men who had attacked Shock vanished through the back door.
"Hickey, I want you. Stand where you are. You too, Nancy, and every man of you. What's this? Someone hurt? Why, it's the preacher. This may be serious," he continued, drawing his revolver. "Don't move. Not a man of you. What does this mean?" he asked, addressing The Don.
"My friend there," said The Don, "came for me. We were going out when they attacked us."
"Go and get help," replied the Sergeant. "We will carry him to the hospital. You would, eh?" to one of the men who started for the door. "Here, put up your hands. Quick!" There was a flash and a click, and the man stood handcuffed.
In a few moments The Don came back with help, and they carried Shock, groaning and bleeding, to the hospital, while the Sergeant, putting a man in charge of Nancy and her gang, accompanied The Don.
In an agony of remorseful solicitude for his friend, and cursing himself for his folly, The Don directed the movements of the bearers.
In the darkness behind them came the girl Nellie, following to the door of the hospital.
"What are you after?" said Sergeant Crisp sharply. "We don't want you here."
"I want to see the doctor," she said earnestly.
"Well?" said The Don, facing round to her.
"Let me nurse him," she said in a hurried, timid voice. "I have had training. You can depend upon me."
The Don hesitated, glancing at her dishevelled, gaudy attire, painted cheeks, and frowsy hair.
"Well," he said, "you may come."
The girl disappeared, and in a very few minutes returned dressed modestly and quietly, the paint and pencilling washed from her face, her hair smoothed behind her ears. The Don looked her over, and nodding approval said: "That is better. Now, hold the light for me."
His examination revealed serious injuries about the head and face, three ribs broken, one piercing the lungs. With Nellie's assistance he managed to dress the wounds and set the broken bones before Shock regained full consciousness.
As they were finishing. Shock opened his eyes and fixed them enquiringly upon The Don's face.
"Well, how do you feel, old chap? Pretty sore, I guess," enquired The Don.
Shock tried to speak, but his attempt ended in a groan. Still his eyes remained fastened enquiringly upon The Don's face. The Don bent over him.
"The money, Don," he said with great difficulty. "Hospital?"
The Don groaned. He understood only too well, and unable to escape the insisting eyes, replied: "Yes, Shock. But I will make it all right. Hickey has it now."
Shock closed his eyes for a few minutes, and then, opening them again, compelled The Don's attention.
"Send for Ike," he whispered. "Right away."
Next day Ike appeared in a cold, white rage at The Don. He had got the whole story from the messenger, and blamed no one but The Don.
As Shock's eyes rested upon Ike's lean, hard face, bent over him so anxiously, he smiled a glad welcome.
"Don't look like that, Ike," he said. "I'll soon be fit."
"Why, you just bet!" said Ike, with a loud laugh, deriding all anxiety.
"Ike," whispered Shock. Ike bent over him. "I want two hundred dollars at once. Don't tell."
Without a word of questioning Ike nodded, saying "In half an hour, I guess." But in less time he appeared and, slipping the roll of bills under Shock's pillow, said: "It's all there."
"Good old boy," said Shock, trying to offer his hand.
Ike took his hand carefully. "Is there anything else?" he said, his voice grave and hoarse.
"No, old boy," said Shock. "Thank you."
"Then," said Ike, "you'll keep quieter without me, I guess. I'll be on hand outside." And with a nod he strode out of the room, his face working with grief and rage.
For a week Ike remained at the Pass in hourly attendance at the hospital, looking in at every chance upon the sick man. In Shock's presence he carried an exaggerated air of cheerful carelessness, but outside he went about with a face of sullen gloom. Toward The Don, with whom he had previously been on most friendly terms, he was wrathfully contemptuous, disdaining even a word of enquiry for his patient, preferring to receive his information from the nurse. In Ike's contempt, more than in anything else, The Don read the judgment of honourable men upon his conduct, and this deepened to a degree almost unendurable his remorse and self-loathing.
One morning, when the report was not so favourable, Ike stopped him with the question: "Will he git better?"
"Well," said The Don gloomily, "I have not given up hope."
"Look here," replied Ike, "I want you to listen to me." His tone was quiet, but relentlessly hard. "If he don't, you'll talk to me about it."
The Don looked at him steadily.
"Would you kill me?" he asked, with a quiet smile.
"Well," drawled Ike slowly, "I'd try to."
"Thank you," said The Don. "That would save me the trouble." And, turning on his heel, he left the cowboy in a very puzzled state of mind.
But Shock did not die. His splendid constitution, clean blood, and wholesome life stood off the grim enemy, and after two weeks of terrible anxiety The Don began to hope, and insisted on the nurse allowing herself some relaxation from her long watch.
But as Shock grew stronger The Don's gloom deepened. He had determined that once his friend was fit for work again he would relieve him of the burden of his presence. He had only brought trouble and shame to the man who was his most trusted, almost his only friend.
Life looked black to The Don in those days. Lloyd's treachery had smitten him hard. Not only had it shaken his faith in man, but in God as well, for with him Lloyd had represented all that was most sacred in religion. Death, too, had robbed him of his heart's sole treasure, and in robbing him of this it had taken from him what had given worth to his life and inspiration to his work. Of what use now was anything he had left?
He was confronted, too, with the immediate results of his recent folly. The hospital funds, of which he was the custodian, had disappeared. He knew that Hickey had robbed him of most of them, but in order to recover them he would have to acknowledge his crime of using them for his own ends. As he moved in and out among the men, too, he had caught murmurs of a charge of embezzlement that in his present condition filled him with shame and fear. If the thing could be staved off for a month he could make it right, but he knew well that the gang would give him as little respite as they could. Indeed, it was only Sergeant Crisp's refusal to entertain any formal charge while Shock's life was in danger, that had saved The Don so far. But while Sergeant Crisp had stood between him and his enemies thus far, he knew that a day of reckoning must come, far the Sergeant was not a man to allow considerations of friendship to interfere with duty. With Sergeant Crisp duty was supreme.
But more than The Don was Shock anxious to have this matter of the hospital funds cleared up, and he only waited an opportunity to speak to The Don about it. The opportunity was forced on him unexpectedly.
One day, as he lay apparently asleep, the Sergeant called The Don into the next room. Through the paper and cotton partition their voices came quite clearly.
"I have been wanting to speak to you about a matter," the Sergeant said, with some degree of hesitation, "Hickey's friends are saying nasty things about you."
"What do you mean?" said The Don, knowing only too well.
"About the hospital funds, you know. In fact, they are saying—"
At this point the nurse came running in.
"Mr. Macgregor wants you, doctor, at once," she cried, and The Don hurried in to him.
"Go and tell the Sergeant to wait," Shock said to the nurse, and she went out leaving The Don alone with him.
"Don," said Shock, "I know all about it. Don't speak. Here," taking the roll of bills from under his pillow, "here is the hospital money. Quick! Don't ask questions now. Go to the Sergeant. Go! go!"
"Nothing wrong?" asked the Sergeant anxiously, when The Don had returned.
"Oh, no," said The Don. "Nothing serious. You were speaking about some hospital funds?"
"Why, yes, the fact is, they are—it's an ugly thing to say—they are charging you with misappropriation of those funds."
"Oh, they are?" said The Don, who had by this time got back his nerve. "Well, Sergeant, let them come on. The accounts will be ready. And, indeed, I shall be glad to turn over the funds to yourself now. Excuse me a moment." He went to his desk and brought out a pass book. "This shows all the subscriptions, about two hundred dollars, I think. And here," he said, drawing the bills out of his pocket, "you will find the whole amount."
"Not at all," said the Sergeant, "not at all, my dear fellow. I thought it right you should know—be prepared, you understand."
"Thank you, Sergeant," said The Don. "Any time my books can be seen. Good-bye."
The Don went in to Shock, sent the nurse out for a walk, shut the door, and then, returning to the bed, threw himself on his knees.
"Oh, Shock," he said, "this is too much. What can I say?"
"Nothing at all, old chap. Don't say anything What is that between us? We have been through too many things together to have this bother us."
"Shock! Shock!" continued The Don, "I have been an awful fool, a blank, cursed fool!"
"Don't swear, old chap," said Shock.
"No, no, I won't, but I curse myself. I have been waiting for this chance to tell you. I don't want you to think too badly of me. This thing began in Hickey's saloon some days before that night. He was playing some fellows from the camp a skin game. I called him down and he challenged me. I took him up, and cleaned him out easily enough. You know my old weakness. The fever came back upon me, and I got going for some days. That night I was called to visit a sick girl at Nancy's. The gang came in, found me there, and throwing down their money dared me to play. Well, I knew it was play or fight. I took of my coat and went for them. They cleaned me out, I can't tell how. I could not get on to their trick. Then, determined to find out, I put up that—that other money, you know—and I was losing it fast, too, when you came in."
As Shock listened to The Don's story his face grew brighter and brighter.
"My dear fellow," he said in a tone of relief, "is that all? Is that the whole thing? Tell me, as God hears you!"
"That's the whole story, as God hears me!" said The Don solemnly.
"Oh, thank God!" said Shock. "I thought—I was afraid—" He paused, unable to go on.
"What! You thought I had forgotten," cried The Don. "Well, I confess things did look bad. But I want to tell you I am clean, and may God kill me before I can forget! No, no woman shall ever touch my lips while I live. Do you believe me, Shock?"
Shock put out his hand. He was still too much moved to speak.
At length he said: "Nothing else matters, Don. I could not bear the other thing."
For some minutes the friends sat in silence.
"But, Don," said Shock at length, "you can not go on this way. Your whole life is being ruined. You cannot draw off from God. You have been keeping Him at arm's length. This will not do."
"It is no use, Shock," said The Don bitterly. "My head is all right. I believe with you. But I cannot get over the feeling I have for that—" He broke off suddenly.
"I know, I know. I feel it, too, old chap, but after all, it is not worth while. And besides, Don, forgive me saying this—if it had not been true about you he could not have hurt you, could he?"
The Don winced.
"I am not excusing him, nor blaming you," continued Shock eagerly, "but a man has got to be honest. Isn't that right?"
"Oh, yes, it is true enough, Shock. I was a beast, as you know, at that time in my life, but I had put it all past me, and I believed that God had forgiven me. And then those two raked it all up again, and broke my darling's heart, and drove me away, an outcast. He is a minister of the gospel, and she is a member of the Christian Church."
"Don," said Shock gravely, "that won't do. You are not fair."
The door opened quietly, and the nurse came in and sat down out of Shock's sight behind the bed.
"Now, Don, I want you to read for me that tale of the Pharisee and the woman who was a sinner. For my sake, mind you, as well as for yours, for I was wrong, too, on this matter. I confess I hated him, for I cannot help thinking that he has done me a great wrongs and I have found it hard enough to say the Lord's Prayer. Perhaps you had better read this letter so that you may understand."
He took from under his pillow Mrs. Fairbanks' letter and gave it to The Don, who read it in silence. Poor Shock! He was opening up wounds that none had ever seen, or even suspected, and the mere uncovering of them brought him keen anguish and humiliation.
As The Don read the letter he began to swear deep oaths.
"Stop, Don. You mustn't swear. Now listen to me. I think she has a perfect right to do as she has been doing. But—Lloyd"—Shock seemed to get the name out with difficulty,—"was my friend, and I think he has not been fair."
"Fair!" burst out The Don. "The low down villain!"
"But listen. The question with me has been how to forgive him, for I must forgive him or keep far from Him who has forgiven me, and that I cannot afford to do. Now read." And The Don took up the Bible from the little table beside Shock's bed, and read that most touching of all tales told of the Saviour of the sinful.
"'Wherefore I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much: but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little. And he said unto her, Thy sins are forgiven. Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace.'"
As The Don finished reading, a sound of sobbing broke the silence in the room.
"Who is that? Is that you, Nell?" said Shock. "What is the matter, Nell? That is for you, too. Now we will have Don read it again." And once more, with great difficulty, The Don read the words, so exquisitely delicate, so divinely tender.
"That is for you, too, Nell," said Shock.
"For me?" she cried. "Oh, no, not for me!"
"Yes, Nell, my sister, it is for you."
"Oh," she cried, with a tempest of sobs, "don't call me that. It cannot be. I can never be clean again."
"Yes, Nell, He says it Himself. 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven,' and He can make you clean as the angels. We all need to be made clean, and He has undertaken to cleanse us."
It was a very humble and chastened man that went out from Shock's presence that evening. Through the days of the week that followed The Don went about his work speaking little, but giving himself with earnestness and in a new spirit, more gentle, more sympathetic, to his ministry to the sick in the camps and shacks round about. But still the gloom was unlifted from his heart. Day by day, however, in response to Shock's request he would read something of the story of that great loving ministration to the poor, and sick, and needy, and of infinite compassion for the sinful and outcast, till one day, when Shock had been allowed for the first time to sit in his chair, and The Don was about to read, Shock asked for the story of the debtors, and after The Don had finished he took from his pocket Brown's letter and said:
"Now, Don, forgive me. I am going to read something that will make you understand that story," and he read from Brown's letter the words that described Betty's last hour.
The Don sat white and rigid until Shock came to the words, "God forgives us all, and we must forgive," when his self-control gave way and he abandoned himself to the full indulgence of his great sorrow.
"It was not to grieve you, Don," said Shock, after his friend's passion of grief had subsided. "It was not to grieve you, you know, but to show you what is worth while seeing—the manner of God's forgiveness; for as she forgave and took you to her pure heart again without fear or shrinking, so God forgives us. And, Don, it is not worth while, in the face of so great a forgiveness, to do anything else but forgive, and it is a cruel thing, and a wicked thing, to keep at a distance such love as that."
"No, no," said The Don, "it is not worth while. It is wicked, and it is folly. I will go back. I will forgive."
The visit of the Superintendent to a mission field varied according to the nature of the field and the character of the work done, between an inquisitorial process and a triumphal march. Nothing escaped his keen eye. It needed no questioning on his part to become possessed of almost all the facts necessary to his full information about the field, the work, the financial condition, and the general efficiency of the missionary. One or two points he was sure to make inquiry about. One of these was the care the missionary had taken of the outlying points. He had the eye of an explorer, which always rests on the horizon. The results of his investigations could easily be read in his joy or his grief, his hope or his disappointment, his genuine pride in his missionary or his blazing, scorching rebuke. The one consideration with the Superintendent was the progress of the work. The work first, the work last, the work always.
The announcement to Shock through his Convener, that the Superintendent purposed making a visit in the spring, filled him with more or less anxiety. He remembered only too well his failure at the Fort; he thought of that postscript in the Superintendent's letter to his Convener; he knew that even in Loon Lake and in the Pass his church organization was not anything to boast of; and altogether he considered that the results he had to show for his year's labour were few and meagre.
The winter had been long and severe. In the Pass there had been a great deal of sickness, both among the miners and among the lumbermen. The terrible sufferings these men had to endure from the cold and exposure, for which they were all too inadequately prepared, brought not only physical evils upon them, but reacted in orgies unspeakably degrading.
The hospital was full. Nell had been retained by The Don as nurse, and although for a time this meant constant humiliation and trial to her, she bore herself with such gentle humility, and did her work with such sweet and untiring patience, that the men began to regard her with that entire respect and courteous consideration that men of their class never fail to give to pure and high-minded women.
The Don was full of work. He visited the camps, treated the sick and wounded there, and brought down to the hospital such as needed to be moved thither, and gradually won his way into the confidence of all who came into touch with him. Even Ike, after long hesitation and somewhat careful observation, gave him once more his respect and his friendship.
The doctor was kept busy by an epidemic of diphtheric croup that had broken out among the children of the Loon Lake district, and began to take once more pride in his work, and to regain his self-respect and self-control. He took especial pride and joy in the work of The Don at the Pass, and did all he could to make the hospital and the club room accomplish all the good that Shock had hoped for them.
But though the hospital and club room had done much for the men of the Pass, there was still the ancient warfare between the forces that make for manhood and those that make for its destruction. Hickey still ran his saloon, and his gang still aided him in all his nefarious work. Men were still "run" into the saloon or the red-light houses, there to be "rolled," and thence to be kicked out, fit candidates for the hospital. The hospital door was ever open for them, and whatever the history, the physical or moral condition of the patient, he was received, and with gentle, loving ministration tended back to health, and sent out again to camp or mine, often only to return for another plunge into the abyss of lust and consequent misery; sometimes, however, to set his feet upon the upward trail that led to pure and noble manhood. For The Don, while he never preached, took pains to make clear to all who came under his charge the results of their folly and their sin to body and to mind, as well as to soul, and he had the trick of forcing them to take upon themselves the full responsibility for their destiny, whether it was to be strength, soundness of mind, happiness, heaven, or disease, insanity, misery, hell. It was heart-breaking work, for the disappointments were many and bitter, but with now and then an achievement of such splendid victory as gave hope and courage to keep up the fight.
At Loon Lake during the winter Shock had devoted himself to the perfecting of his church organization A Communion Roll had been formed and on it names entered of men and women whose last church connection reached back for ten or fifteen or twenty years, and along with those the names of some who had never before had a place in that mystic order of the saints of God. And, indeed, with some of these Shock had had his own difficulty, not in persuading them to offer themselves as candidates, but in persuading himself to assume the responsibility of accepting them. To Shock with his Highland training it was a terribly solemn step to "come forward." The responsibility assumed, bulked so largely in the opinion of those whom Shock had always regarded as peculiarly men of God, that it almost, if not altogether, obliterated the privilege gained.
When a man like Sinclair, whose reputable character and steady life seemed to harmonize with such a step, he had little difficulty; and had the Kid, with his quick intelligence, his fineness of spirit and his winning disposition, applied for admission, Shock would have had no hesitation in receiving him. But the Kid, although a regular attendant on the services, and though he took especial delight in the Sabbath evening gatherings after service, had not applied, and Shock would not think of bringing him under pressure; and all the more because he had not failed to observe that the Kid's interest seemed to be more pronounced and more steadfast in those meetings in which Marion's singing was the feature. True, this peculiarity the Kid shared with many others of the young men in the district, to Shock's very considerable embarrassment, though to the girl's innocent and frank delight; and it is fair to say that the young men, whom Shock had put upon their honor in regard to one who was but a child, never by word or look failed in that manly and considerate courtesy that marks the noble nature in dealing with the weak and unprotected.
The truth about the Kid was that that gay young prince of broncho busters, with his devil-may-care manner and his debonair appearance, was so greatly sought after, so flattered and so feted by the riotous and reckless company at the Fort, of which the Inspector and his wife were the moving spirits, that he was torn between the two sets of influences that played upon him, and he had not yet come to the point of final decision as to which kingdom he should seek.
It was with Ike and men like Ike, however, that Shock had his greatest difficulty, for when the earnest appeal was made for men to identify themselves with the cause that stood for all that was noblest in the history of the race, and to swear allegiance to Him who was at once the ideal and the Saviour of men, Ike without any sort of hesitation came forward and to Shock's amazement, and, indeed, to his dismay, offered himself. For Ike was regarded through all that south country as the most daringly reckless of all the cattle-men, and never had he been known to weaken either in "takin' his pizen," in "playin' the limit" in poker, or in "standin' up agin any man that thought he could dust his pants." Of course he was "white." Everyone acknowledged that. But just how far this quality of whiteness fitted him as a candidate for the communion table Shock was at a loss to say.
He resolved to deal with Ike seriously, but the initial difficulty in this was that Ike seemed to be quite unperplexed about the whole matter, and entirely unafraid. Shock's difficulty and distress were sensibly increased when on taking Ike over the "marks" of the regenerate man, as he had heard them so fully and searchingly set forth in the "Question Meetings" in the congregation of his childhood, he discovered that Ike was apparently ignorant of all the deeper marks, and what was worse, seemed to be quite undisturbed by their absence.
While Shock was proceeding with his examination he was exceedingly anxious lest he should reveal to Ike any suspicion as to his unfitness for the step he proposed to take. At the same time, he was filled with anxiety lest through any unfaithfulness of his on account of friendship a mistake in so solemn a matter should be made. It was only when he observed that Ike was beginning to grow uneasy under his somewhat searching examination, and even offered to withdraw his name, that Shock decided to cast to the winds all his preconceived notions of what constituted fitness for enrollment in the Church of the living God, and proceeded to ask Ike some plain, common sense questions.
"You are sure you want to join this church, Ike?"
"That's what," said Ike.
"Why do you want to join?"
"Well, you gave us a clear invite, didn't you?"
"But I mean, is it for my sake? Because I asked you?"
"Why, sure. I want to stand at your back"
Shock was puzzled. He tried another line of approach.
"Do you know, Ike, what you are joining?"
"Well, it's your church, you said."
"Supposing I was not here at all, would you join?"
"Can't say. Guess not."
Shock felt himself blocked again.
"Ike, do you think you are really fit to do this?"
"Fit? Well, you didn't say anything about bein' fit. You said if anyone was willin' to take it up, to stay with the game, to come on."
"Yes, yes, I know, Ike. I did say that, and I meant that," said Shock. "But, Ike, you know that the Apostle calls those who belong to the church 'saints of God.'"
"Saints, eh? Well, I aint no saint, I can tell you that. Guess I'm out of this combination. No, sir, I aint no paradox—paragon, I mean." Ike remembered the Kid's correction.
His disappointment and perplexity were quite evident. After hearing Shock's invitation from the pulpit it had seemed so plain, so simple.
His answer rendered Shock desperate.
"Look here, Ike, I am going to be plain with you. You won't mind that?"
"Wade right in."
"Well, you sometimes swear, don't you?"
"Yes, that's so. But I've pretty much quit, unless there's some extraordinary occasion."
"Well, you drink, don't you?"
"Why, sure. When I can git it, and git it good, which aint easy in this country now."
"And you sometimes fight?"
"Well," in a tone almost of disappointment, "there aint nobody wantin' to experiment with me in these parts any longer."
"And you gamble? Play poker for money, I mean?"
"Oh, well, I don't profess to be the real thing," replied Ike modestly, as if disclaiming an excellence he could hardly hope to attain, "but I ginerally kin stay some with the game."
"Now, Ike, listen to me. I'm going to give it to you straight."
Ike faced his minister squarely, looking him fair in the eyes.
"You have been doing pretty much as you like all along. Now, if you join the church you are swearing solemnly to do only what Jesus Christ likes. You give your word you will do only what you think He wants. You see? He is to be your Master."
"Yes," said Ike. "Yes, that's so. That's right."
"In everything, remember."
"Why, sure." That seemed quite simple to Ike.
"Swearing, drinking, fighting, gambling," Shock continued.
Ike hesitated.
"Why, you don't suppose He would mind a little thing like a smile with the boys now and then, or a quiet game of poker, do you?"
"What I say, Ike, is this—if you thought He did mind, would you quit?"
"Why, sure. You just bet! I said so."
"Well, Ike, supposing some—one of those chaps from the Pass, say Hickey, should walk up and hit you right the face, what would you do?"
"What? Proceed to eddicate him. Preject him into next week. That is, if there was anything left."
Shock opened his Bible and read, "'But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil; but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other also.' That is what Jesus Christ says, Ike."
"He does, eh? Does it mean just that?" Ike felt that this was a serious difficulty.
"Yes, it means just that."
"Are all you fellers like that?"
This wrought in Shock sudden confusion.
"Well, Ike, I am afraid not, but we ought to be, and we aim to be."
"Well," said Ike slowly, "I guess I aint made that way."
Then Shock turned the leaves of his Bible, and read the story of the cruel bruising of the Son of Man, and on to the words, "Father, forgive them." Ike had heard this story before, but he had never seen its bearing upon practical life.
"I say," he said, with reverent admiration in his voice, "He did it, didn't He? That's what I call pretty high jumpin', aint it? Well," he continued, "I can't make no promises, but I tell you what, I'll aim at it. I will, honest. And when you see me weaken, you'll jack me up, won't you? You'll have to stay with me, for it's a mighty hard proposition."
Then Shock took his hands. "Ike, you are a better man than I am, but I promise you I will stay all I can with you. But there will be days when you will be all alone except that He will be with you. Now listen," and Shock, turning over the leaves of his Bible, read, "Lo, I am with you always," and a little further over and read again, "I can do all things through Christ that strengtheneth me."
"That is His solemn promise, Ike. He has promised to save us from our sins. Do you think you can trust Him to do that?"
"Why, sure," said Ike, as if nothing else was possible. "That's His game, aint it? I guess He'll stay with it. He said so, didn't He?"
"Yes," said Shock, with a sudden exaltation of faith, "He said so, and He will stay with it. Don't you be afraid, Ike. He will see you through."
The Communion Roll when it was completed numbered some eighteen names, and of these eighteen none were more sorely pressed to the wall in God's battle than Ike, and none more loyally than he stayed with the game.
Owing to miscarriage in arrangements, when the Superintendent arrived at the Fort he was surprised to find no one to meet him. This had an appearance of carelessness or mismanagement that unfavorably impressed the Superintendent as to the business capacity of his missionary. He was too experienced a traveller, however, in the remote and unformed districts of the West, to be at all disconcerted at almost any misadventure.
He inquired for Mr. Macfarren, and found him in Simmons' store, redolent of bad tobacco and worse whiskey, but quite master of his mental and physical powers. The Superintendent had business with Mr. Macfarren, and proceeded forthwith to transact it.
After his first salutation he began, "When I saw you last, Mr. Macfarren, you professed yourself keenly desirous of having services established by our church here."
"Yes."
"Why this sudden change, represented by your letter to the Committee, and the petition, which I judge was promoted by yourself? I placed a man here, with every expectation of success. How can you explain this change in you and in the people you represent?"
The Superintendent's bodily presence was anything but weak, and men who could oppose him when at a distance, when confronted with him found it difficult to support their opposition. Macfarren found it so. He began in an apologetic manner, "Well, Doctor, circumstances have changed. Times have been none too good. In fact, we are suffering from financial stringency at present."
"Mr. Macfarren, be specific as to your reasons. Your letter and your petition were instrumental in persuading the Committee to a complete change of policy. This should not be without the very best of reasons."
"Well, as I was saying," answered Macfarren, "finances were—"
"Tut! tut! Mr. Macfarren. You do not all become poor in six months. Your cattle are still here. Your horses have suffered from no plague."
"Well," said Mr. Macfarren, "the people have become alienated."
"Alienated? From the church?"
"Well, yes. They seem to be satisfied with—to prefer, indeed, the Anglican services."
"Mr. Macfarren, do you mean to tell me that the Presbyterians of this country prefer any church to their own? I fear they are a different breed from those I have known, and unworthy to represent the church of their fathers."
"Well, the truth is, Doctor," said Macfarren, considerably nettled at the Superintendent's manner, "the people consider that they were not well treated in the supply you sent them."
"Ah! Now we have it. Well, let us be specific again. Is Mr. Macgregor not a good preacher?"
"No, he is not. He is not such a preacher as many of us have been accustomed to."
"By the way, Mr. Macfarren, what do your people pay toward this man's salary? Five hundred? Three hundred? We only asked you two hundred, and this you found difficult. And yet you expect a two-thousand-dollar preacher."
"Well, his preaching was not his only fault," said Macfarren. "He was totally unsuited to our people. He was a man of no breeding, no manners, and in this town we need a man—"
"Wait a moment, Mr. Macfarren. You can put up with his preaching?"
"Yes."
"Did he visit his people?"
"Yes, goodness knows, he did that enough."
"Was his character good?"
"Oh, certainly."
"Then I understand you to say that as a preacher he was passable, as a pastor and as a man all that could be desired?"
"Oh, yes, certainly. But he was—well, if you have met him you must know what I mean. In short, he was uncouth and boorish in his manners."
The Superintendent drew himself up, and his voice began to burr in a way that his friends would have recognized as dangerous.
"Boorish, Mr. Macfarren? Let me tell you, sir, that he is a Highland gentleman, the son of a Highland gentlewoman, and boorishness is impossible to him."
"Well, that may be too strong, Doctor, but you do not understand our society here. We have a large number of people of good family from the old country and from the East, and in order to reach them we require a man who has moved in good society."
"Well, sir," said the Superintendent, "Jesus Christ would not have suited your society here, for He was a man of very humble birth, and moved in very low circles." And without further word he turned from Macfarren to greet Father Mike, who had entered the store.
"Delighted to see you again, Bishop," said Father Mike. "We are always glad to see you even though you are outside the pale."
"Depends upon which pale you mean, Father Mike," said the Superintendent, shaking him warmly by the hand.
"True, sir. And I, for one, refuse to narrow its limits to those of any existing organization."
"Your principles do you credit, sir," said the Superintendent, giving his hand an extra shake. "They are truly Scriptural, truly modern, and truly Western."
"But, Doctor, I want to ask you, if I may without impertinence, why did you do so great an injury to our community as to remove your missionary from us?"
"Ah, you consider that a loss, Father Mike?"
"Undoubtedly, sir. A great and serious loss. He was a high type of a man. I will quote as expressing my opinions, the words of a gentleman whose judgment would, I suppose, be considered in this community as final on all such matters—General Brady, sir. I think you know him. This is what I heard him say. 'He is an able preacher and a Christian gentleman.'"
"Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir," said the Superintendent. "I thank you for your warm appreciation of one whom, after short acquaintance, I regard as you do."
It was Father Mike who drove the Superintendent to Loon Lake next day, only to find Shock away from home.
"We will inquire at the stopping-place," said Father Mike.
"Let us see," said the Superintendent, who never forgot a name or a face, "does Carroll keep that still? He did five years ago."
"Yes, and here he is," said Father Mike. "Hello, Carroll. Can you tell me where your minister is?"
"By japers, it's a search warrant you'll need for him I'm thinkin'. Ask Perault there. Perault, do you know where the preacher is?"
"Oui. He's go 'way for prospect sure."
"Prospecting?" inquired Father Mike.
"Oui," grinned Perault, "dat's heem, one prospector. Every day, every day he's pass on de trial, over de hill, down de coulee, all over."
"He does, eh?" said Father Mike, delighted at the description of his friend. "What is he after? Coal?"
"Coal!" echoed Perault with contempt. "Not mouche. He's go for find de peep. He's dig 'em up on de church, by gar."
"You see, Doctor," said Father Mike, "no one has any chance here with your fellow. There's Carroll, now, and Perault, they are properly Roman Catholic, but now they are good Presbyterians."
"Bon, for sure. Eh, Carroll, mon garcon?"
"Bedad, an' it's thrue for ye," said Carroll.
It was no small tribute to Shock's influence that the ancient feud between these two had been laid to rest.
"Well, do you know when he will be home?" asked Father Mike.
"I go for fin' out," said Perault, running into his house, and returning almost immediately. "Tomorrow for sure. Mebbe to-night."
"Well, Carroll, this is your minister's bishop. I suppose you can look after him till Mr. Macgregor comes home."
"An' that we can, sir. Come right in," said Carroll readily. "Anny friend of the Prospector, as we call him, is welcome to all in me house, an' that he is."
That afternoon and evening the Superintendent spent listening in the pauses of his letter writing to the praises of the missionary, and to a description, with all possible elaboration and ornament, of the saving of little Patsey's life, in which even the doctor's skill played a very subordinate part.
"An' there's Patsey himself, the craythur," said Mrs. Carroll, "an' will he luk at his father or meself when his riverince is by? An' he'll follie him out an' beyant on that little pony of his."
The Superintendent made no remark, but he kept quietly gathering information. In Perault's house it was the same. Perault, Josie, and Marion sang in harmony the praises of Shock.
Late at night Shock returned bringing the doctor with him, both weary and spent with the long, hard day's work. From Perault, who was watching for his return, he heard of the arrival of the Superintendent. He was much surprised and mortified that his Superintendent should have arrived in his absence, and should have found no one to welcome him.
"Tell Josie and Marion," he said to Perault, "to get my room ready," and, weary as he was, he went to greet his chief.
He found him, as men were accustomed to find him, busy with his correspondence. The Superintendent rose up eagerly to meet his missionary.
"How do you do, sir, how do you do? I am very glad to see you," and he gripped Shock's hand with a downward pull that almost threw him off his balance.
"I wish to assure you," said the Superintendent, when the greetings were over, "I wish to assure you," and his voice took its deepest tone, "of my sincere sympathy with you in your great loss. It was my privilege to be present at your mother's funeral, and to say a few words. You have a great and noble heritage in your mother's memory. She was beautiful in her life, and she was beautiful in death."
Poor Shock! The unexpected tender reference to his mother, the brotherly touch, and the vision that he had from the Superintendent's words of his mother, beautiful in death, were more than he could bear. His emotions overwhelmed him. He held the Superintendent's hand tight in his, struggling to subdue the sobs, that heaved up from his labouring breast.
"I suppose," continued the Superintendent, giving him time to recover himself, "my last letter failed to reach you. I had expected to be here two weeks later, but I wrote changing my arrangements so as to arrive here to-day."
"No, sir," said Shock, "no letter making any change reached me. I am very sorry indeed, not to have met you, and I hope you were not much inconvenienced."
"Not at all, sir, not at all. Indeed, I was very glad to have the opportunity of spending a little time at the Fort, and meeting some of your friends. By the way, I met a friend of yours on my journey down, who wished to be remembered to you, Bill Lee of Spruce Creek. You remember him?"
"Oh, perfectly. Bill is a fine fellow," said Shock, enthusiastically.
"Yes, Bill has his points. He has quit whiskey selling, he said, and he wished that you should know that. He said you would know the reason why."
But Shock knew of no reason, and he only replied, "Bill was very kind to me, and I am glad to know of the change in him."
"Yes," continued the Superintendent, "and I spent some time at the Fort meeting with some of the people, but upon inquiries I am more puzzled than ever to find a reason for the withdrawal of our services, and I am still in the dark about it."
Shock's face flushed a deep red.
"I am afraid," he said, in a shamed and hesitating manner, "that I was not the right man for the place. I think I rather failed at the Fort."
"I saw Macfarren," continued the Superintendent, ignoring Shock's remark. "He tried to explain, but seemed to find it difficult." The Superintendent omitted to say that he had heard from Father Mike what might have explained in a measure Macfarren's opposition. But Shock remained silent.
"Well," continued the Superintendent, "now that I am here, what do you wish me to do?"
"First," said Shock, "come over to my house. Come to the manse. Carroll will not mind."
The Superintendent put his papers together, and Shock, shouldering his valise and coat, led the way to the manse.
As they entered the big room the Superintendent paused to observe its proportions, noted the library shelves full of books, the organ in the corner, the pictures adorning the walls, and without much comment passed on upstairs to Shock's own room. But he did not fail to detect a note of pride in Shock's voice as he gave him welcome.
"Come in, come in and sit down. I hope you will be comfortable. It is rather rough."
"Rough, sir," exclaimed the Superintendent. "It is palatial. It is truly magnificent. I was quite unprepared for anything like this. Now tell me how was this accomplished?"
"Oh," said Shock, diffidently, "they all helped, and here it is."
"That is all, eh?"
And that was all Shock would tell. The rest of the story, however, the Superintendent heard from others. And so, throughout his whole visit the Superintendent found it impossible to get his missionary to tell of his own labours, and were it not that he carried an observant and experienced eye, and had a skilful and subtle inquisitorial method, he might have come and gone knowing little of the long, weary days and weeks of toil that lay behind the things that stood accomplished in that field.
It was the same at the Pass. There stood the hospital equipped, almost free from debt, and working in harmony with the camps and the miners. There, too, was the club room and the library.
"And how was all this brought about?" inquired the Superintendent.
"Oh, The Don and the doctor took hold, and the men all helped."
The Superintendent said nothing, but his eyes were alight with a kindly smile as they rested on his big missionary, and he took his arm in a very close grip as they walked from shack to shack.
All this time Shock was pouring into his Superintendent's ear tales of the men who lived in the mountains beyond the Pass. He spoke of their hardships, their sufferings, their temptations, their terrible vices and their steady degradation.
"And have you visited them?" inquired the Superintendent.
He had not been able to visit them as much as he would have liked, but he had obtained information from many of the miners and lumbermen as to their whereabouts, and as to the conditions under which they lived and wrought. Shock was talking to a man of like mind. The Superintendent's eye, like that of his missionary, was ever upon the horizon, and his desires ran far ahead of his vision.
It was from The Don that the Superintendent learned of all Shock's work in the past, and of all that had been done to counteract the terrible evils that were the ruin of the lumbermen and miners. Won by the Superintendent's sympathy, The Don unburdened his heart and told him his own story of how, in his hour of misery and despair, Shock had stood his friend and saved him from shame and ruin.
"Yes, sir," The Don concluded, "more than I shall ever be able to repay he has done for me, and," he added humbly, "if I have any hope for the future, that too I owe to him."
"You have cause to thank God for your friend, sir," said the Superintendent, "and he has no reason to be ashamed of his friend. You are doing noble work, sir, in this place, noble work."
A visit to the nearest lumber camp and mines, a public meeting in the hospital, and the Superintendent's work at the Pass for the time was done.
As he was leaving the building The Don called him into his private room.
"I wish to introduce you to our nurse," he said. "We think a great deal of her, and we owe much to her," and he left them together.
"I asked to see you," said Nellie, "because I want your advice and help. They need to have more nurses here than one, and no one will come while I am here."
The Superintendent gazed at her, trying to make her out. She tried to proceed with her tale but failed, and, abandoning all reserve, told him with many tears the story of her sin and shame.
"And now," she said, "for the sake of the hospital and the doctor I must go away, and I want to find a place where I can begin again."
As the Superintendent heard her story his eyes began to glisten under his shaggy brows.
"My dear child," he said at length, "you have had a hard life, but the Saviour has been good to you. Come with me, and I will see what can be done. When can you come?"
"When the doctor says," she replied.
"Very well," said the Superintendent, "I shall arrange it with him," and that was the beginning of a new life for poor Nellie.
The last meeting of the Superintendent's visit was at Loon Lake, after the Sunday evening service. The big room was crowded with people gathered from the country far and near, from the Fort to the Pass, to hear the great man. And he was worth while hearing that day. His imagination kindled by his recent sight of the terrible struggle that men were making toward cleanness, and toward heaven and God, and the vision he had had through the eyes of his missionary of the regions beyond, caused his speech to glow and burn.
For an hour and more they listened with hearts attent, while he spoke to them of their West, its resources, its possibilities, and laid upon them their responsibility as those who were determining its future for the multitudes that were to follow. His appeal for men and women to give themselves to the service of God and of their country, left them thrilling with visions, hopes and longings.
In the meeting that always followed the evening service, the people kept crowding about him, refusing to disperse. Then the Superintendent began again.
"Your minister has been telling me much about the men in the mountains. He seems to have these men upon his heart."
"Sure," said Ike. "He's a regular prospector, he is."
"So I have heard, so I have heard," said the Superintendent, smiling, "and so I should judge from what I have seen. Now, what are you going to do about it?"
They all grew quiet.
"You know about these men, no one else does. Are you going to let them go to destruction without an attempt to prevent it?"
The silence deepened.
"Now, listen to me. This will cost money. How much can you give to send a man to look them up? Two hundred and fifty dollars?"
"Count me," said Ike.
"Me, too," echoed Perault. "And me, and me," on all sides. In ten minutes the thing was arranged.
"Now, there is something else," said the Superintendent, and his voice grew deep and solemn. "Can you spare me your man?"
"No, sir!" said the Kid, promptly.
"Not much!" echoed Perault, and in this feeling all emphatically agreed.
"Do you know where we can get such a man?" said the Superintendent, "such a prospector?"
There was no answer. "I do not either. Now, what are you going to do?"
Then Sinclair spoke up.
"Do you mean, Doctor, to remove Mr. Macgregor from us? That would seem to be very hard upon this field."
"Well, perhaps not; but can you spare him for six months, at least?"
For some minutes no one made reply. Then Ike spoke.
"Well, I surmise we got a good deal from our Prospector. In fact, what we aint got from him don't count much. And I rather opine that we can't be mean about this. It's a little like pullin' hair, but I reckon we'd better give him up."
"Thank you, sir," said the Superintendent, who had learned much from Ike throughout the day. "Your words are the best commentary I have ever heard upon a saying of our Lord's, that has inspired men to all unselfish living, 'Freely ye have received, freely give.'"