The night had fallen, black, with breaking clouds, and the moon
struggling through, as Paul set out for church. Ignorant of the city’s
streets, his instinct for direction, developed on many a northern trail,
guided him aright as he cut across the city by back streets and lanes
towards his destination.
Passing along a dark street, he saw before him a group of men, noisy,
hilarious, quarrelling. Drawing near, he discovered the group to consist
of three men assisting a fourth, apparently drunk, and blocking the
sidewalk. He was not entirely ignorant of the ways of men in liquor, and
was proceeding quietly on his way when he was hailed by the drunken man.
“Hello there, boy! Come here, boy! Come here, I want you.”
“What do you want?” replied Paul, drawing near.
“Come here, boy,” said the drunken man, with great gravity. “I want
shplain shomething. Lemme go. Want shee thish young man. Hands off. My
name’sh Dan Tussock, can’t come over me.”
“That’s all right, Dan. Come along now. Don’t go making a row,” said one
of his friends, soothingly.
“Lemme go, I tell you. Walk by myshelf. Here, boy!” He seized Paul by
the coat collar and hung, swaying.
Paul stood regarding them curiously.
“What are you looking at, young man? Did you never see a man pickled
before?” The speaker had an evil face, cunning, and with a shaggy growth
of whiskers.
“Yes, I have seen men pickled,” said Paul. “But if this gentleman wants
to speak to me I am going to hear what he has to say.”
“That’sh all ri’. Don’t take no lip from ole Sammy here. My name’sh Dan
Tussock, can’t come over me.”
“Ah, come along, Dan,” said “whiskers.” “The cops will get you.”
“Copsh? Who’sh ’fraid copsh? Copsh know Dan Tussock, Sammy.”
“Sure they do, Dan,” said another of the men, smooth of face and smooth
of manner. “We are just getting our friend here home,” he added in an
aside to Paul. “We don’t want him run in, you see.”
But Dan Tussock was very alert, although thoroughly “pickled.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “Friendsh sheeing me home. Shay, meet my friend,
Mishter—shay, what’sh your name?” to “smooth face.”
“Why you know your old chum, Dan. You know my name—Sissons.”
“Sure I do. Shis-sh—Shish-sh—what’sh your name?”
“Sissons, you know. Say, Dan, you are pretty well stewed when you can’t
say my name,” said the man, with a loud laugh.
“Meet my friend, Shish—Shish—Shis-sh— What the hell name is thish
anyway?”
“Sissons! Sissons!” said the smooth-faced fellow, sharply.
“That’sh what I say. Mr. Shis-sh—meet my friend, Mr. Shis-sh—What’s your
name, boy?”
“Paul.”
“Sure! Paul. ‘Paul who was also called Saul.’ No, not ri’. ‘Saul who was
also called Paul.’ Meet my friend Shis-sh——” But the name was too much
for Dan.
“Come on now, Dan,” said the third man, a giant of a fellow. “We are not
going to stay here all night, and if you want that drink you have to
come right away.” So saying, he threw his arm around the drunken man and
lifted him along with him. “And you, young man,” he added, turning to
Paul, “cut away from here. You are holding up the procession. Git!”
“Yes,” said “smooth face,” quietly, “you just slide. We will handle him
all right. Good night!”
“Good night!” said Paul, none too sure that all was well, but unwilling
to interfere and anxious to be on his way.
But he had not gone very many yards when loud voices from the group
arrested him and, turning about, the moon showed a struggle going on.
Immediately he ran back toward them. As he ran he saw a hand rise and
fall and then a form crumple to the sidewalk. Swiftly and silently he
was upon them. As he had expected, he found Dan Tussock down and two of
the men going through his pockets. The giant whirled on him, swung
something over his head, which, fortunately for him, Paul caught in a
paralysing blow upon his arm. A half-arm upper cut caught the giant
fairly under the chin, the head snapped sharply back and he pitched
backward off the sidewalk and there lay. With an oath “whiskers” rushed
at Paul, but tripping over the drunken man he too fell headlong.
“Come on, I’ve got it,” shouted “smooth face,” dashing off. But Paul
with his unharmed arm caught him round the neck, shouting for help at
the same time to a cab which was driving past, and slipping his hand
into the man’s inside pocket grasped what he found there.
At the approach of the cabman, “smooth face” tore himself free and made
off, followed by “whiskers,” and, in a minute or so, by the giant who
had risen, painfully and dazed, to his feet. Paul, bending over Dan
Tussock, found him still insensible, and the moon, breaking through,
showed his face pallid as that of a dead man.
“Dead?” asked the cabby.
“No, his heart is beating. Strange! No blood, no wound,” said Paul.
“Black-jack!” grunted the cabby. “Does the trick very neat, without
blood or broken bones. Friend of yours?”
“No, not exactly. But we will bring him along.”
Together they lifted the unconscious man into the cab and set off for
Paul’s boarding house. By the time they had arrived there, Tussock was
able to speak and to help himself to a certain extent. They reached
Paul’s room with difficulty and against the protests of the landlady,
who declared that she “kept a respectable house and didn’t want no
toughs round here.”
“Toughs?” cried the cabby indignantly. He had just pocketed his fare
from Paul. “What you givin’ us? Don’t you know a gentleman when you see
him? This chap has had an accident.” Then, in an aside, he added, “He’s
all right, and he’ll make it all right with you too, old girl, if you
play up properly.”
Impelled by the suggestion, the landlady did what experience had taught
her was necessary, and soon Paul had Dan Tussock deposited in his own
bed, where he lay snoring heavily till morning.
He wakened late and sat up, asking in a loud voice and with an indignant
oath, “Where am I? What house is this?”
“You are in my room, and I hope feeling better,” said Paul.
“Better? I have got a head and a throat burning like hell fire. Who are
you, young fellow, and how did I get into your room?”
Then Paul told him the tale of his last night’s adventure, Tussock
staring at him with dull red eyes.
“And you brought me here, eh? What made you jump into this thing?”
“Well, I couldn’t see a helpless man beaten up by ruffians, could I?”
“And so you jumped in to help a stranger? Well, Dan Tussock doesn’t
forget a friend, you will find. Where did _you_ sleep?” he added.
Paul pointed to his blankets on the floor.
“Gave me your bed, eh?”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Paul lightly. “I’ve often slept in worse
places.”
“What’s your name?”
“Paul Gaspard.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well,” said Paul, “it’s a little difficult to explain. I came to study
to be an engineer and eventually to make twenty-five thousand dollars.
Now, however, I chiefly want a job to pay my board.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars? You don’t want much, do you? What do you
want it for?”
To his own astonishment Paul found himself taking this rough, uncouth
man into his confidence and telling him as much of his story as seemed
necessary.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars, eh?” repeated Dan Tussock. “Well, men
have made more than that in a few weeks in this country. How much have
you got now?”
“On Saturday night,” replied Paul, with a humorous smile, “I had two
hundred and fifty dollars or so, as I approached the city. Unfortunately
I fell asleep on the train——” He paused.
“And now?”
Paul put his hand into his pocket and brought out some silver.
“That is all,” he said. “But my board is paid for a week. So you see I
must have a job.”
“Jumpin’ Judas! You are a cool one!” said Tussock. “Well, we’ll see
about that.” He made an attempt to rise but speedily collapsed, pale and
panting for breath. “My God! What is the matter with me?”
“Black-jack, the cabman said,” replied Paul. “Lie still for a while.
Tell me what you want and I shall get it for you.”
“Lie still! Say! What day is this?”
“This is Monday.”
“Monday! What time?” Again he attempted to rise, swung his feet over the
bedside, hung there for a few moments, and again collapsed.
“There, you see. You must lie still,” said Paul.
“Boy! Boy!” Tussock gasped faintly. “What time is it? In God’s name,
what time is it?”
“Ten thirty.”
“Bring me my pocket book. Quick! Quick!” With trembling fingers he
turned out its contents, bills, soiled papers, newspaper cuttings. “How
much money do you make?”
“Six hundred and fifty dollars,” said Paul after he had counted.
“Six hundred and fifty? Oh, curse them! They rolled me for five hundred.
Got to find that someway. Who will lend it to me? Forbes might do it,
but I don’t know. Must find some way.”
“Here is another pocket book,” said Paul, “which I pulled from the man’s
pocket.”
“Let me see!” shouted Tussock. “Jumpin’ Jeroosha! What’s this? Four
hundred, five hundred, six hundred! Saved, by the celestial climbing
cats! Saved!” He lay back, gasping. “Paul, Paul, listen to me,” he said,
grabbing Paul by the hand. “You got to get to the office of Gunning &
Strong—get the names, Gunning and Strong—Gunning is the man to ask
for—Gunning & Strong, lawyers. Got to pay them before eleven thirty one
thousand dollars to hold a big deal. Chance of a lifetime! Chance for a
fortune! My third chance, and my last chance! Got to get that to them
before eleven thirty. Pay it! Get a receipt! Go! Go! Run like ten
thousand devils were huntin’ you. Don’t talk to me!” he cried, pushing
Paul off from him.
“I don’t know where these men are.”
“You don’t know the town? Lord above!”
“Draw me a map,” said Paul. “I can follow a trail.”
With fingers that shook Tussock tore a leaf from a note book and drew a
map showing the shortest route to the office of Gunning & Strong.
“There! Follow that. Run! And come back quick. Go! Get out of this!” he
fairly yelled.
Impelled by his impetuosity, Paul rushed from the room, and in half an
hour was back, receipt in hand, and with him a man whom Tussock greeted
in enthusiastic welcome.
“Hello, Con, you blasted old whale! Say, did you get that thing done?”
“Nip and tuck, Dan!” replied the man. “This young fellow held them to
it. Mighty smart, too. Got the deal cinched all right. But what has been
biting you? What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter? What’s always the matter? What’s been the matter for
twenty years? I am a fool, a golly-woggled, horn-shackled, blankety
blank fool. That’s all. Nothing more. And this young fellow pulled me
out of a hell hole last night, put me to bed, kissed me good night, and
now is nursing me back to health. That is what I want, Con—a nurse, a
keeper. I ain’t safe. I ought to be on a string, like a blankety blank
poodle dog, muzzled and on a string! Say, boy!” he said, turning to
Paul, “give me your hand. You’re a man, straight grained and white to
the core. You want a job, eh?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t want one any longer. You’ve got one now. You are hired with
Dan Tussock, at one hundred and fifty per! And, by the eternal jumpin’
crickets! two hundred, if you keep me from making a gosh blamed fool of
myself. Two hundred a month, do you hear? Start at one hundred and
fifty, as time-keeper, book-keeper, anything you like! You show him the
ropes tomorrow morning, eh, Con? We need ’im.”
“Yes,” replied Con, “we need someone, sure thing. We need him bad, you
know that, Dan.”
“Know it?” replied Dan. “Con, you hear me, I am on my last chance. Three
out, all out, with me. This young fellow is sound timber, white pine, no
knots, no chicks, straight grain. I know ’im. I’m makin’ ’im my keeper.
By Jingo! I will make him my treasurer. I won’t draw no money without
his signature, so help me, great Jehoshaphat! We will start him at one
hundred and fifty per, and two hundred if he makes good on the job of
keeping me straight, with an increase every quarter. I am on the biggest
thing I ever struck in my lifetime, and this time I’m going to make
good. But I sure want a keeper. And he looks to me like one. Good-bye,
Con. Get the men out on that Heights job and push it like all possessed.
I’ll be there some time, when Paul here gets me on my feet. That’s his
job.” Tussock broke into an explosive shout of laughter. “You’ll earn
your money, boy.”
“I’m not hired yet, Mr. Tussock,” said Paul quietly.
“What? Don’t you want a job?”
“Yes, I want a _job_. Time-keeper? Yes. Book-keeper? Yes. Man-keeper?
No.”
“Why not? Somehow I just know you can keep me straight.”
“No,” said Paul sharply. “How can I keep you straight? No man can keep
another man straight.”
“Look here, young fellow, I mean this.” Tussock’s voice was very solemn.
“I have made and lost two fortunes. I have a chance now of a third. But
what’s the use? When I get a roll in my pants, these blood-suckers smell
it like a rat does cheese. Oh, I don’t blame them, it ain’t their fault,
it’s my own. And sometimes I think it ain’t no use tryin’.” He rolled
over, with his face to the wall. “I feel like it’s no good. I might as
well quit. When I am on a big job I’m all right; when I’m through, with
my money in my pocket, I am a fool.”
The helplessness in his voice touched the boy’s heart. “I can keep your
money for you,” he said, “if you give me the authority. But——”
“Then what are you kickin’ about?” Tussock turned once more toward Paul.
“If you keep my money, if you make me an allowance, if I can pay no
money except on your order, they can’t roll me, can they?”
“All that I can do, Mr. Tussock,” said Paul.
“Will you?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Give me your hand,” Tussock shouted. “Con, I’m going to win this time.
We are all going to win. Now get out, and get to work! I’m going to
sleep.”
That same night, as Paul was passing up to his room after tea, he again
met Dalton, who greeted him gruffly.
“Come in, Gaspard,” he said. “I want to talk to you.” Together they
entered Dalton’s room. “I say, I want to apologise to you,” said Dalton.
“I was crazy last night and acted like an insolent fool.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Paul lightly. Then, as if struck by a
sudden thought, “I say, you are a lawyer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, a kind of lawyer. With Gunning & Strong. I saw you through the
window at our place today.”
“I want to ask you something.” And Paul proceeded to tell him of the
arrangement which he had entered into with Dan Tussock that morning.
“Can some paper be drawn up,” he asked, “to give me control of his
money? I don’t care much for the job, but somehow I feel as if I want to
help him. He seems a good chap.”
Dalton was extremely pessimistic about the whole matter. It was easy
enough to draw up an instrument giving Paul control of Tussock’s money,
but no man could be kept straight by anyone but himself. “I have tried
it for five years, and I tell you it’s no good. The money part can be
arranged, but it’s not a question of money. It’s a question of habit, of
inclination, of will power.”
“Come up and see him,” urged Paul.
“No. I’ve no desire to see another wreck.”
“Come. I would like you to draw up this agreement.”
Reluctantly Dalton went with him. It was indeed a strange meeting. The
three men spent the night exchanging their life stories and discussing
the future.
Paul led the way, giving them as much as he thought necessary of the
story of his life.
Dan Tussock followed. An orphan at an early age, he had been brought up
in the school of hard knocks and hard work. He had made his own way
since he was twelve years of age. He had developed a power of
organisation and leadership among men, he had become a money maker, but
uneducated and ignorant of the ways of the business world he had been a
mark for sharps and sharks and, most of all, with no human ties and
responsibilities to steady him, he had been the victim of his own
passions, and now at fifty years of age he was a failure.
Dalton’s story was different, but with a like ending. Born of a good
Ontario family, after a distinguished university course he had become a
student in theology. Gifted with brilliant social parts, a mis-step led
him to abandon his theological studies and become a student in law.
Again he registered a brilliant success, but again he became a victim of
his social qualities. Five years ago he had found it necessary to sever
his connection with the firm in Toronto in which he had held a junior
partnership and had come to the West, resolved to make a new bid for
success in the new country. He had obtained a junior position in the law
firm of Gunning & Strong, and for a time did well, but discouragement
and loneliness sapped the strength of his resistance, and for the past
three years he had been steadily deteriorating until he had become a
mere office clerk, “a sort of glorified office boy,” as he himself said,
“and headed for hell. In want of a keeper too, begad!” he said, with a
bitter laugh. “Better take me on too, Gaspard.”
His words suggested an idea to Dan Tussock. “Right you are, boy!” he
cried, sitting upright in bed. “A keeper it is that you want. Let us
make a partnership of it. I’ve got my hand on one of the biggest things
ever swung on this coast. As I told you, I can organise the work and see
it through, but sure as fate I go to pieces when the job is done.
Dalton, you’re pretty much in the same fix. You hate your work, there’s
nothing in it for you, and you’re going to the devil. Here’s Paul,
wanting to make twenty-five thousand and needing a start. I can show him
twenty-five thousand dollars, and more, if he ties up to me. What do you
say? Let’s make a partnership of it.” And with growing enthusiasm he
proceeded to expound his scheme. He had just completed a job out of
which he had made several thousand dollars, he had that day made his
first payment on a purchase of another tract of wild land which he
proposed to clear up and sell as city lots. There was big money in it,
if properly handled. The city was growing, building sites were badly
needed; he knew he could swing the work and push it through, but on the
business end he was always falling down. “And worse than that, with
money in my pocket I need a keeper. Dalton, you are a lawyer, and I
guess you know your job. You look to me like a worker. Can’t do anything
with a lazy man, but you’re not lazy. What you want is something worth
while to keep you climbing. You’re a fool like me. You need a keeper
like me. Here’s Paul, wanting a job. We’ll give him the job.”
Dalton sat gloomily smoking. “You’re right, Tussock,” he said. “I need a
keeper.” He put his face in his hands and groaned. “I’m a fool. I am
worse than a fool, I’m a dead failure.”
“See here, Dalton,” said Tussock. “I’m an older man than you. I’ve seen
fifty years of life. I never had a friend that didn’t help me down. I’m
not saying it wasn’t my own fault, but every friend I have had has
helped me down. Dalton, what about you?”
Dalton sat thinking, smoking savagely.
“A friend?” he said slowly. “There was my mother. But she died. And—” he
paused a moment “—there was one other. But I threw her down. Oh, hell
and blazes!” he broke forth with a fierceness that startled both his
hearers. “What are you talking to me about? Friends? Yes. They were all
going the same way, and they all helped me down. No—I helped them down.
We went down together. Oh, hell and damnation! Damn all friends! Damn
life! Take your damn partnership! It’s all a piece of cursed foolery.
I’m through. I’m sick, I’m done with it. I’m going to hell alone.” He
rose, kicked back his chair and made for the door.
“Hold on, Dalton,” shouted Tussock. “Come back here. Give me one chance
more. Don’t be so darned selfish. Give me a chance. I want you. We want
the same things—something to work at, something worth working for, and,
yes, more than anything else, a friend to climb up with. We both want a
keeper, Dalton. And here’s Paul, young, clean, fit, and a fighter, and,
by the eternal jumpin’ cats! I believe a friend to tie to.”
“Sit down, Dalton,” said Paul quietly. “I need your help in something. I
want to ask you something.” His quiet words brought Dalton back again to
his chair.
“Spit it out!” he said.
Paul pulled out his Bible, turned the leaves over and handed Dalton the
book. “Read that to us,” he said, his finger upon one of the great
psalms of Hebrew literature.
“‘He will not suffer thy foot to be moved. He that keepeth thee will not
slumber. The Lord is thy keeper. The Lord shall keep thee from all evil.
He shall keep thy soul. The Lord shall keep thy going out and thy coming
in, from this time forth and forever more.’”
“Tell me, Dalton,” said Paul, leaning forward, his hands on his knees,
his face set in eager and intense anxiety. “You have studied this. Is
the Bible true, Dalton? Do you believe it is true? Wait a minute! I was
sure till yesterday morning, till I heard a preacher in this city say it
might not be.”
With deadly earnestness he told of his yesterday morning’s experience.
He was like a man pleading for his very life, indeed something more than
life was at stake. In simple, almost childlike words, he told the story
of his boyhood’s faith, of how he had come to feel about God, to see Him
in the clouds, and to feel that He was near and that He was good. He
told the men listening to him with very grave and solemn faces of his
mother’s faith and how it had brought her comfort and strength and
peace. He told of his father’s failure, and then of his return to faith.
He gave a vivid account of his six years in the Chippewayan country, and
how the thought of God had always been with him and how the conviction
that God was caring for him and showing him the way had kept his heart
up and his courage from failing.
“Till yesterday morning,” he said, his voice vibrating with the
intensity of his passion, “every word in that Bible was true to me. But
that minister said the story of Adam and Eve, of Noah, of Joseph, of
Moses, _might_ be true. I could have torn him out of the pulpit and
smashed in his face. But he is a scholar and he is a preacher. Dalton,
you have studied these things—tell me, is that true?” The boy pointed
with a shaking finger at the book in Dalton’s hand.
Dalton sat silent. He recalled his own discussions, as a student, with
the young professor setting forth his theories of Biblical criticism. He
remembered how he too had sweated when this brilliant teacher of his had
cast doubt upon the historicity of parts of the Bible. And he understood
to some degree at least the intensity of the emotions in this boy’s
heart. The words of scornful disbelief that were ready on his lips died
there. The boy’s face, the honest, clear, blue-grey eyes, the pain in
them, the anxiety, the doubt, held back Dalton’s glib disclaimer of
faith. He temporised.
“Is what true?” he said.
“Is the Bible true? The story of Adam and Eve, of Joseph, of David and
Goliath—that Psalm, is that true?” Again Paul laid a shaking finger upon
the words that had just been read.
“Gaspard,” said Dalton, “don’t be a darned fool. What has that psalm got
to do with Adam and Eve, and Noah, and the rest of those old boys? Don’t
you know how your Bible is made up? That’s not one book. That’s a
library of sixty-six books bound in one volume, written by I don’t know
how many authors, who lived I don’t know how many centuries apart—did
know once, but I’ve forgotten. The early parts of the Bible came down to
us as fragments of literature preserved by the Hebrew people, literature
of all kinds, folk lore, songs, political addresses, great poems,
letters, theological discussions, differing in character, content,
quality and worth. If you ask me, Do I believe the Bible is true? I
would have to say, Yes and no. I’m not going to give you a lecture on
Biblical criticism just now, but I want to say this, you don’t need to
believe that the man who wrote the story of Adam and Eve was writing
history, in order to believe that the psalm I have just read is true.
Don’t you go chucking your faith in the Bible till you have studied a
lot more about it. And as to that psalm, your mother believed it, didn’t
she?”
“She did,” said Paul, under his breath. “Yes, she did.”
“And she lived by it, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did.”
“That ought to be good enough for you. There are millions more like her
in the world today, and they’re all the best people.”
Then silence for some moments, Paul’s face carrying deep lines of
anxiety and doubt and dread. To him it seemed as if the foundations of
life were rocking under his feet. Intently Dalton studied his face, then
in a kindlier tone said:
“Gaspard, listen to me. I am no religious man, but I have studied these
things a bit. That book of yours is a unique book. Some fools insist on
going to it for geology, history and that sort of thing. My professor
said to me once a thing that helped me when I was in the sweat box of
unbelief and all that. He said something like this:
“This is the book of God and man. The heart of it is a noble and worthy
conception of the unseen God—that is its contribution to human thought
and life. It is a Revelation of God, a revelation steadily growing in
clarity till it finds perfect expression in Jesus the Christ.’
“Oh confound it, Gaspard! God knows there are problems scientific,
ethical, philosophical and religious that no man can solve. Get hold of
the great simple fundamental fact of God revealed and mediated in the
Christ, and let the other things in the meantime go hang. Our faith is
the _Christian_ faith, we are no bally Mohammedans. It is, as my
professor used to say, Christocentric—Christ centered faith—chew on that
and don’t worry.”
Again there was silence for some moments, and then Paul, leaning
forward, said in a voice hardly above a whisper, “Dalton, do you believe
that psalm is true?” With an oath Dalton sprang to his feet. “Look here,
I’m not in the confessional. But,” he shouted, “I do believe it. In
spite of hell, in spite of the devil, I do believe it. And when I give
that up I’ll blow my brains out.”
“Then,” said Paul, sitting back in his chair, with a deep sigh of
relief, “there’s the Keeper you need, Dalton.”