The square, bare front room of the Baxter Station Hotel--so called
because there was no other house in the place to dispute the
title--was filled with men. Some of them were putting up at the hotel
while they worked at the new branch line, and some of them had dropped
in to exchange news and banter while waiting for the mail train.
Gabe Foley, the proprietor, was playing at checkers with one of the
railroad men, but was not too deeply absorbed in the game to take in
all that was said around him. The air was dim with tobacco smoke, and
the brilliant, scarlet geraniums which Mrs. Foley kept in the bay
window looked oddly out of place. Gabe knew all those present except
one man--a stranger who had landed at Baxter Station from the
afternoon freight. Foley's hotel did not boast of a register, and the
stranger did not volunteer any information regarding his name or
business. He had put in the afternoon and early evening strolling
about the village and talking to the men on the branch line. Now he
had come in and ensconced himself in the corner behind the stove,
where he preserved a complete silence.
He had a rather rough face and was flashily dressed. Altogether, Gabe
hardly liked his looks, put as long as a man paid his bill and did not
stir up a row Gabe Foley did not interfere with him.
Three or four farmers from "out Greenvale way" were drawn up by the
stove, discussing the cheese factory sales and various Greenvale
happenings. The stranger appeared to be listening to them intently,
although he took no part in their conversation.
Presently he brought his tilted chair down with a sharp thud. Gabe
Foley had paused in his manipulation of a king to hurl a question at
the Greenvale men.
"Is it true that old man Strong is to be turned out next week?"
"True enough," answered William Jeffers. "Joe Moore is going to
foreclose. Stephen Strong has got three years behind with the interest
and Moore is out of patience. It seems hard on old Stephen, but Moore
ain't the man to hesitate for that. He'll have his own out of it."
"What will the Strongs do?" asked Gabe.
"That's the question everyone in Greenvale is asking. Lizzie Strong
has always been a delicate little girl, but maybe she'll manage to
scare up a living. Old Stephen is to be the most pitied. I don't see
anything for him but the poorhouse."
"How did Stephen Strong come to get into such a tight place?" the
stranger asked suddenly. "When I was in these parts a good many years
ago he was considered a well-to-do man."
"Well, so he was," replied William Jeffers. "But he began to get in
debt when his wife took sick. He spent no end of money on doctors and
medicines for her. And then he seemed to have a streak of bad luck
besides--crops failed and cows died and all that sort of thing. He's
been going behind ever since. He kind of lost heart when his wife
died. And now Moore is going to foreclose. It's my opinion poor old
Stephen won't live any time if he's turned out of his home."
"Do you know what the mortgage comes to?"
"Near three thousand, counting overdue interest."
"Well, I'm sorry for old Stephen," said Gabe, returning to his game.
"If anybody deserves a peaceful old age he does. He's helped more
people than you could count, and he was the best Christian in
Greenvale, or out of it."
"He was too good," said a Greenvale man crustily. "He just let himself
be imposed upon all his life. There's dozens of people owes him and
he's never asked for a cent from them. And he's always had some
shiftless critter or other hanging round and devouring his substance."
"D'ye mind that Ben Butler who used to be in Greenvale twenty years
ago?" asked a third man. "If ever there was an imp of Satan 'twas
him--old Ezra Butler's son from the valley. Old Stephen kept him for
three or four years and was as good to him as if he'd been his own
son."
"Most people out our way do mind Ben Butler," returned William Jeffers
grimly, "even if he ain't been heard tell of for twenty years. He
wasn't the kind you could forget in a hurry. Where'd he go? Out to the
Kootenay, wasn't it?"
"Somewhere there. He was a reg'lar young villain--up to every kind of
mischief. Old Stephen caught him stealing his oats one time and 'stead
of giving him a taste of jail for it, as he ought to have done, he
just took him right into his family and kept him there for three
years. I used to tell him he'd be sorry for it, but he always
persisted that Ben wasn't bad at heart and would come out all right
some day. No matter what the young varmint did old Stephen would make
excuses for him--'his ma was dead,' or he 'hadn't had no bringing-up.'
I was thankful when he did finally clear out without doing some
penitentiary work."
"If poor old Stephen hadn't been so open-handed to every unfortunate
critter he came across," said Gabe, "he'd have had more for himself
today."
The whistle of the mail train cut short the discussion of Stephen
Strong's case. In a minute the room was vacant, except for the
stranger. When left to himself he also rose and walked out. Turning
away from the station, he struck briskly into the Greenvale road.
About three miles from the station he halted before a house built close
to the road. It was old-fashioned, but large and comfortable-looking,
with big barns in the rear and an orchard on the left slope. The house
itself was in the shadow of the firs, but the yard lay out in the
moonlight and the strange visitor did not elect to cross it. Instead,
he turned aside into the shadow of the trees around the garden and,
leaning against the old rail fence, gave himself up to contemplation of
some kind.
There was a light in the kitchen. The window-blind was not down and he
had a fairly good view of the room. The only visible occupant was a
grey-haired old man sitting by the table, reading from a large open
volume before him. The stranger whistled softly.
"That's old Stephen--reading the Bible same as ever, by all that's
holy! He hasn't changed much except that he's got mighty grey. He must
be close on to seventy. It's a shame to turn an old man like him out
of house and home. But Joe Moore always was a genuine skinflint."
He drew himself softly up and sat on the fence. He saw old Stephen
Strong close his book, place his spectacles on it, and kneel down by
his chair. The old man remained on his knees for some time and then,
taking up his candle, left the kitchen. The man on the fence still sat
there. Truth to tell, he was chuckling to himself as he recalled all
the mischief he had done in the old days--the doubtful jokes, tricks,
and escapades he had gone through with.
He could not help remembering at the same time how patient old Stephen
Strong had always been with him. He recalled the time he had been
caught stealing the oats. How frightened and sullen he had been! And
how gently the old man had talked to him and pointed out the sin of
which he had been guilty!
He had never stolen again, but in other respects he had not mended his
ways much. Behind old Stephen's back he laughed at him and his
"preaching." But Stephen Strong had never lost faith in him. He had
always asserted mildly that "Ben would come out all right by and by."
Ben Butler remembered this too, as he sat on the fence.
He had "always liked old Stephen," he told himself. He was sorry he
had fallen on such evil times.
"Preaching and praying don't seem to have brought him out clear after
all," he said with a chuckle that quickly died away. Somehow, even in
his worst days, Ben Butler had never felt easy when he mocked old
Stephen. "Three thousand dollars! I could do it but I reckon I'd be a
blamed fool. I ain't a-going to do it. Three thousand ain't picked up
every day, even in the Kootenay--'specially by chaps like me."
He patted his pocket knowingly. Fifteen years previously he had gone
to the Kootenay district with visions of making a fortune that were
quickly dispelled by reality. He had squandered his wages as soon as
paid, and it was only of late years that he had "pulled up a bit," as
he expressed it, and saved his three thousand dollars.
He had brought the money home with him, having some vague notion of
buying a farm and "settling down to do the respectable." But he had
already given up the idea. This country was too blamed quiet for him,
he said. He would go back to the Kootenay, and he knew what he would
do with his money. Jake Perkins and Wade Brown, two "pals" of his,
were running a flourishing grocery and saloon combined. They would be
glad of another partner with some cash. It would suit him to a T.
"I'll clear out tomorrow," he mused as he walked back. "As long as I
stay here old Stephen will haunt me, sure as fate. Wonder what he was
praying for tonight. He always used to say the Lord would provide, but
He don't appear to have done it. Well, I ain't His deputy."
The next afternoon Ben Butler went over to Greenvale and called at
Stephen Strong's. He found only the old man at home. Old Stephen did
not recognize him at first, but made him heartily welcome when he did.
"Ben, I do declare! Ben Butler! How are you? How are you? Sit down,
Ben--here, take this chair. Where on earth did you come from?"
"Baxter just now--Kootenay on the large scale," answered Ben. "Thought
I'd come over and see you again. Didn't expect you'd remember me at
all."
"Remember you! Why, of course I do. I haven't ever forgot you, Ben.
Many's the time I've wondered where you was and how you was getting
on. And you tell me you've been in the Kootenay! Well, well, you have
seen a good bit more of the world than I ever have. You've changed a
lot, Ben. You ain't a boy no longer. D'ye mind all the pranks you used
to play?"
Ben laughed sheepishly.
"I reckon I do. But it ain't myself I come here to talk about--not
much to say if I did. It's just been up and down with me. How are you
yourself, sir? They were telling me over at Baxter that you were kind
of in trouble."
The old man's face clouded over; all the sparkle went out of his kind
blue eyes.
"Yes, Ben, yes," he said, with a heavy sigh. "I've kind of gone
downhill, that's a fact. The old farm has to go, Ben--I'm sorry for
that--I'd have liked to have ended my days here, but it's not to be. I
don't want to complain. The Lord does all things well. I haven't a
doubt but that it all fits into His wise purposes--not a doubt, Ben,
although it may be kind of hard to see it."
Ben was always skittish of "pious talk." He veered around adroitly.
"I dunno as the Lord has had much to do with this, sir. Seems to me as
if 'twas the other one as was running it, with Joe Moore for deputy.
The main thing, as I look at it, is to get a cinch on him. How much
does the mortgage amount to, sir?"
"About three thousand dollars, interest and all."
Old Stephen's voice trembled. The future looked very dark to him in
his old age.
Ben put his hand inside his coat and brought out a brand-new, plump
pocketbook. He opened it, laid it on his knee, and counted out a
number of crisp notes.
"Here, sir," he said, pushing them along the table. "I reckon that'll
keep you out of Joe Moore's clutches. There's three thousand there if
I ain't made a mistake. That'll set you clear, won't it?"
"Ben!" Old Stephen's voice trembled with amazement. "Ben, I can't take
it. It wouldn't be fair--or right. I could never pay you back."
Ben slipped the rubber band around his wallet and replaced it airily.
"I don't want it paid back, sir. It's a little gift, so to speak, just
to let you know I ain't ungrateful for all you did for me. If it
hadn't been for you I might have been in the penitentiary by now. As
for the money, it may seem a pile to you, but we don't think anything
more of a thousand or so in the Kootenay than you Greenvale folks do
of a fiver--not a bit more. We do things on a big scale out there."
"But, Ben, are you sure you can afford it--that you won't miss it?"
"Pop sure. Don't you worry, I'm all right."
"Bless you--bless you!" The tears were running down old Stephen's face
as he gathered up the money with a shaking hand. "I always knew you
would do well, Ben--always said it. I knew you'd a good heart. I just
can't realize this yet--it seems too good to be true. The old place
saved--I can die in peace. Of course, I'll pay you back some of it
anyhow if I'm spared a while longer. Bless you, Ben."
Ben would not stay long after that. He said he had to leave on the
4:30 train. He was relieved when he got away from the old man's thanks
and questions. Ben did not find it easy to answer some of the latter.
When he was out of sight of the house he sat on a fence and counted up
his remaining funds.
"Just enough to take me back to the Kootenay--and then begin over
again, I s'pose. But 'twas worth the money to see the old fellow's
face. He'd thank the Lord and me, he said. How Jake and Wade'd roar to
hear them two names in partnership! But I'm going to pull up a bit
after this, see if I don't, just to justify the old man's faith in me.
'Twould be too bad to disappoint him if he's believed for so long that
I was going to turn out all right yet."
When the 4:30 train went out Ben Butler stood on the rear platform.
Gabe Foley watched him abstractedly as he receded.
"Blamed if I know who that fellow was," he remarked to a crony. "He
never told his name, but seems to me I've seen him before. He has a
kind of hang-dog look, I think. But he paid up square and it is none
of my business."