THE following evening Roderick called at the Major’s home, and found a
visitor there, a stranger yet very well known to him by reputation. This
was no other than the Reverend Stephen Grannon, the travelling
parson, of whose fame as a doer of good deeds at the cost of complete
self-sacrifice and self-denial, Roderick had often heard.
“Delighted to see you, Roderick,” said the Major. “Come right in.
You know, of course, the most noted man in the camp—the man with the
saddle bags. What? Never met yet? Well, it is a great pleasure to me to
make you two acquainted.”
After cordial greetings had been exchanged Major Hampton continued:
“We have just been discussing some of the great problems of humanity.
Pardon me, my dear friend, but I wish to say to Mr. Warfield that if I
were called upon today to name the greatest humanitarian with whom I am
acquainted I certainly should say—the Reverend Stephen Grannon.”
“You do me too much honor,” interposed the parson hastily. “You
compliment me far too highly.” Major Hampton went on as if the
Reverend Stephen Grannon had made no interruption: “The school of
humanitarianism is small in number, but the combined results of their
labors directed through the channels of service in the behalf of
humanity bear the stamp of greatness. The sincere lover of his fellows
recognizes that the poor of this world have borne and are still bearing
the burdens of the race. The poor have built all the monuments along
the world’s highway of civilization. They have produced all the wealth
from the hills and from the soil The poor of the world have endured the
hardships of conquering the wilds and erecting outposts on the border
of civilization. Indeed they conquer everything except the fetters that
bind them and hold them as an asset of great corporate power that is
heartless and soulless and indifferent to the privations and sufferings
of the individual.”
The Reverend Stephen Grannon gave it as his view that the mission of
a humanitarian was not to hinder the world’s progress, nor even to
prejudice anyone against the fortune gathering of the rich, but rather
to dispell the darkness of injustice and assist the great army of the
impoverished to a better understanding of their rights as well as their
powers to conquer the evils that have throughout the ages crept into and
clung to our civilization.
“Poverty,” he remarked, “is the cause of much misery and often the
impelling motive to immorality and crime in many forms. Men often sell
and barter their votes and birthrights in this free country to bribe
givers—wily politicians—while our girls are not infrequently lured
into selling their very souls for ribbons and the gaudiness and shams of
the world.”
“What is the cure?” asked Roderick, greatly interested.
“The cure,” responded the preacher, “is the regeneration of
mankind through the leavening and uplifting power of the principles
taught by the humble humanitarian of Galilee, the great prince of
righteousness.”
“Yes,” chimed in Major Hampton, “the Reverend Stephen Grannon has
given you the solution for the problem. Add to this a higher education.
The more highly educated the individual,” continued the Major, “the
greater the crime if they break the law.”
“But,” said Roderick, “this is a free country and we have free
schools. Why do not the poor have a better education?”
Reverend Grannon turned quickly to Roderick and replied: “You come
with me to the twenty-odd mining camps, Mr. Warfield, surrounding this
town of Encampment—come with me up in the hills where there are no
schools—see the little children growing up in carelessness because of
the impossibility on the part of their fathers and mothers to provide
them with school privileges. In the school room the teacher becomes the
overseer not alone of their studies but of their morals as well. Let
me take you down in the mines,” he continued, speaking with great
earnestness, “and see the boys from twelve years to twenty-one years
working day after day, many of them never having had school privileges
and therefore unable to read or write.”
He paused for just a moment, then resumed: “It brings to my mind what
a very wise man once wrote. It was King Solomon, and among many other
splendid truths he said: ‘The rich man’s wealth is his strong city;
the destruction of the poor is their poverty.’”
“Roderick,” said the Major as he lit his meerschaum and blew the
smoke towards the ceiling, “my heart is very light tonight, for I have
arranged with the assistance of the Reverend Stephen Grannon to help
relieve this lamentable situation in those mining camps up in the
mountains away from school privileges. I have recently taken the
matter up with the county commissioners and have agreed to build twenty
schoolhouses. Each schoolhouse will consist of two rooms. One will be
for the smaller children during the day and also to serve as a night
school for the young men and young women who are employed in manual
labor during working hours. The other room is a library sufficiently
large and spacious to accommodate the young men of each mining
community and thus keep them away from saloons, brothels, and prize ring
attractions. One hour each evening will be taken up by a reader and a
regular course of entertaining books will be read aloud in a serial way.
The books in the library will be loaned out on tickets and the usual
library rules observed.”
“Splendid,” said Roderick, “that sounds practical to me.”
“It is practical,” said the Reverend Stephen Grannon, “and thanks
to Major Buell Hampton this plan which I have cherished for so many
years will soon be put into effect.”
Looking at his watch he turned to the Major and said: “By the way,
Major, I have a couple of poor families to visit tonight. I have
promised them, and they will be disappointed if I do not come.” He
arose as he said this.
“My good friend,” replied Buell Hampton, “I am sorry you cannot
remain longer with us, but I would not keep you from your duties.”
The Reverend Stephen Grannon put on his top coat, as the evenings were
growing chilly, and after shaking hands took his departure.
When he was gone and the door closed, Major Hampton turned to Roderick
and holding up one hand said reverently: “Of such is the kingdom of
heaven. In all my lifetime, Roderick, I have never known another such
splendid character. I have closely observed his work ever since I came
to this camp. Perhaps in his entire lifetime he has not collected fifty
dollars in money. He says he does not want money.”
“But he must have money to live on.”
“Above all money considerations,” said the Major, looking into the
darkened corner of his living room, “he wants to save souls here
on this earth so that he will have more jewels in his crown over
yonder—these are his own words. There is not a family in the
surrounding country that he is not acquainted with. If there is sickness
he is the first one there. Where the greatest poverty abounds you will
find him. He goes out and solicits alms for those in distress, but keeps
nothing for himself excepting the frailest living. Go through the valley
or up in the mountain gorges or still farther up in the mining camps
where the snow never melts from the shady side of the log cabins, and
you will find this noble character, Reverend Stephen Grannon, doing his
good work for the poor—ministering to their wants and endeavoring
to lift humanity into higher walks, physically, morally, and
spiritually.”
“I am glad you have told me all this,” replied Roderick. “It
increases my already high opinion of the parson.”
“He is a veritable shepherd among the people,” continued Major
Hampton. “Reverend Grannon is the true flockmaster of Wyoming. The
people are frequently unruly, boisterous, intemperate and immoral, yet
he treats them with greatest consideration and seeks to persuade and
lead them away from their sins and transgressions. Yes, he is a great
flockmaster—he is well named The Flockmaster.”
Both were silent for a few moments. Then the Major, as if suddenly
remembering something, looked up and said: “He tells me Scotty Meisch
is getting along fine over in the Dillon Doublejack printing office.”
“I am glad to hear that,” exclaimed Roderick. “It is good to
have saved at least one lad from going the way of those outlaws of
Jack Creek. I have never forgotten that ghastly midnight scene—the
massacred sheep and the burning herders’ wagons.”
“Well, what can you expect?” asked the Major. “When the social
waters are poisoned at the fountain head, the whole course of the stream
becomes pernicious. In this state of Wyoming the standard of political
decency is not high. The people have no real leaders to look up to. The
United States Senator, F. E. Greed, sets a pernicious example to the
rising generation. He violates laws in scores of instances because of
his greed and grafting proclivities, and his bribed supporters go
on year after year supporting him. What the state needs is a leader.
High-minded leaders are priceless. Their thoughts and their deeds are
the richest legacy to a state or a community. Great leaders are beacon
lights kindled upon the mountain peaks of the centuries, illuminating
the mental and moral atmosphere of civilization. The history of the
world—of a nation, of a state and of a community—is the story of
their epochal deeds, while man’s advancement is only the lengthened
shadow of their moral, spiritual and temporal examples. Leaders come up
from the crowd, from among the poor and the lowly. They are immediately
recognized by the great mass of the people and invariably crowned,
although sometimes it is a crown of thorns that they are compelled to
wear and endure for upholding priceless principles in their endeavor to
lead humanity to a higher plane. However,” concluded the Major,
“the world is growing better. The nimble-fingered, tilltapping,
porch-climbing derelicts in politics and commercialism are becoming
unpopular. The reprehensible methods in all avenues of life are being
condemned instead of condoned—the goats are being cast out from among
the sheep.”
“You interest me very much, Major,” said Roderick. “Your ideals
are so high, your aims so decent and right, that it is a pleasure to
hear you talk. I am a firm believer,” Roderick went on, “in the
justice of the doctrine that all men are created free and equal.”
“It is a sad commentary,” replied Major Hampton, “in this land
where liberty is cherished and our Government corner-stoned upon the
theory that all men are free and equal, that even the soberest of us are
compelled, my dear Roderick, to regard such affirmations as blasphemous.
To illustrate: An employee in one of the big manufacturing combinations
committed a burglary—almost petty larceny in its smallness—another
case of Jean Valjean stealing bread for his children—and yet he was
tried before an alleged court of justice and sent to the penitentiary
for ten years. The head of the same institution pillaged multiplied
millions from the poor in unjust and lawless extortions. When he was
caught red-handed in his lawbreaking, instead of sharing a prison cell
with the poor man our courts indulgently permitted this great highwayman
six months’ time in which to reorganize and have legalized his methods
of stealing.”
“Such rank injustice,” exclaimed Roderick, “makes my blood tingle
with indignation. It is surely high time a determined crusade was led
against the privileged classes.”
The Major made no reply but after a little, looking up from the open
grate and turning to Roderick, he asked him if he was aware that the
next day was the annual meeting of the stockholders of the Encampment
Mine and Smelting Company.
“Oh, is it?” said Roderick. “Some time ago I noticed something in
the newspapers about the meeting, but as it was of no particular moment
to me I had forgotten it.”
“Yes,” said Major Hampton, “and I guess I will now tell you that I
have been holding a secret from you.”
“That so?” exclaimed Roderick questioningly.
“You will remember,” the Major went on, “that I left you in Denver
after we made the big ore shipment and that I was away for three or four
weeks. Well, I went to New York, employed two or three big brokers down
on Wall Street, and commenced buying Encampment Mine and Smelter
Company stock on the exchange. Working jointly with a new friend I have
discovered, a professional man of finance yet a true friend of humanity,
I have absolute control of the stock today.”
“You have?” exclaimed Roderick. “You own a control of the stock in
this great smelter and the Ferris-Haggerty mine?”
“Yes, the whole enterprise is virtually in our ownership. Well,
something is going to happen tomorrow at the stockholders’ meeting
which I fear will not be pleasant to certain individuals. But duty
compels me to pursue a course I have mapped out. My chosen work in life
is to serve the poor, yet in trying to fulfill this mission I harbor no
resentful thoughts against the rich as a class nor do I intend for them
any unfair treatment.”
“If the people only knew,” remarked Roderick, softly, “you are
without doubt one of the richest men in this part of the country and yet
you so honestly prefer the simple life.”
“There are two kinds of rich people,” continued the Major. “One
class is arrogant and unfeeling; they hoard money by fair means or foul
for money’s sake and for the power it brings. The other class use
their wealth not to oppress but to relieve the worthy poor. Personally,
Warfield, I do not regard the money which accident has made mine as
being in any sense a personal possession. Rather do I hold it as a trust
fund. Of course I am grateful. The money enlarges my opportunity to do
things for my fellows that I wish to do.”
The Major paused a moment, then resumed: “Do you remember, Roderick,
when I first told you, Jim Rankin and the others about my hidden mine
that I said there were six men in the world whom I held in highest
esteem?”
“I remember well,” assented Roderick.
“Well, five of you were present then—Tom Sun, Boney Earnest,
and Grant Jones, with yourself and Jim. For the absent sixth one I
specifically reserved a share in my prosperity, although at the time
I withheld his name. Now you know it He is the one entitled to most
consideration among us all—the Reverend Stephen Grannon.”
“Of course he is,” concurred Roderick, with hearty conviction. “He
can do more good in the world than all the rest of us together, yourself
excepted, Major.”
“At present, perhaps,” said Buell Hampton. “But let his shining
example be an incentive to you all—to us all. Well, in a confidential
way, I will tell you, Roderick, that when in New York I also purchased a
large block of bonds that yields an income of something like $20,000 per
year. This income I have legally turned over with proper writings to the
Reverend Stephen Grannon, and already I think you will discover a vast
improvement in the mining camps and throughout the valleys among the
poor. For Stephen Grannon is a godly man and a true humanitarian.”
“My word, but that’s great—that’s grand!” murmured Roderick
with deep enthusiasm. And he gazed at Buell Hampton’s noble soul-lit
face admiringly.
The Major rose to his feet—his usual method of intimating that he
wished to be alone. Roderick grasped his hand, and would have spoken
further, but Buell Hampton interrupted him.
“Say no more, my dear boy. I am glad that you have been interested
in what I had to say tonight. The veil was lifted and you saw me as I
am—anxious to be of benefit to my fellows. I shall indeed be proud if
you find these doctrines not merely acceptable to yourself, but in some
degree at least stimulative in your acts toward the worthy poor and
lowly as the years come and go.”
As Roderick walked slowly along the street deep in thought over Buell
Hampton’s words, he came suddenly upon W. B. Grady and several well
dressed strangers at a street corner. The visitors, he surmised, were
eastern directors of the big smelting company who had come to Encampment
for the stockholders’ meeting on the morrow.