A delighted, choking chuckle it was. Any missionary who had worked in
his Presbytery would recognize the Convener in the dark by that chuckle.
It began, if one were quick to observe, with a wrinkling about the
corners of the sharp blue eyes, then became audible in a succession of
small explosions that seemed to have their origin in the region of the
esophagus and to threaten the larynx with disruption, until relief was
found in a wide-throated peal that subsided in a second series of small
explosions and gradually rumbled off into silence somewhere in the
region of the diaphragm, leaving only the wrinkles about the corners
of the blue eyes as a kind of warning that the whole process might be
repeated upon sufficient provocation. “Yes, we got him ordained,” he
repeated when the chuckle had passed. “I was glad of your explanatory
note about him. It guided us in our arrangements for examination.”
“What happened?” inquired the Superintendent, leaning forward. He dearly
loved a yarn, and he sorely hated to lose any of the more humorous
incidents of missionary life, not only for the joy they brought him,
but also because they furnished him with ammunition for his Eastern
campaigns.
“Well, it was funny,” said the Convener, his lips twitching and his eyes
wrinkling, “though at one time it looked like an Assembly case with
all seven of us up before the bar. You know McPherson, our latest
importation in the way of ordained men? Somehow he had got wind of
Boyle's trouble with the Presbytery in the East. McPherson is a fine
fellow and doing good work.”
“Yes,” assented the Superintendent, “he's a fine fellow, but his
conscience gives him a hard time now and then and works over time for
other People.”
“Well,” continued the Convener, “McPherson came to me about the matter
in very considerable anxiety. I put him off, consulted with McTavish and
Murray, and we decided that Boyle was too good a man to lose, and as to
his heresy, it was not hurting Windermere as far as we could learn. So
it happened”--here the Convener pulled himself up short to suppress the
chuckle that threatened--“it happened that just as the examination
was beginning McPherson was called out, and before he had returned the
trials for license and ordination had been sustained. I think on the
whole McPherson was relieved, but there were some funny moments after he
came back into court.”
“Heresy-hunting doesn't flourish in the West,” said the Superintendent.
“There's no time for it. Some of the Eastern Presbyteries have too many
men with more time on their hands than sense in their heads.”
“Certainly there was no time lost in this case,” replied the Convener.
“We knew Boyle's scholarship was right. We knew his heart was sound. We
knew he was doing good work for us and we knew we wanted him. We were
not anxious to know anything else.”
“What we want for the West,” said the Superintendent, his voice
vibrating in a deeper tone, “is men who have the spirit of the Gospel
with the power to preach it and the love of their fellowmen, with tact
to bring it to bear upon them. A little heresy, more or less, won't hurt
them. Orthodoxy is my doxy, heterodoxy the other fellow's.”
“In Boyle's case, I believe he was helped by his touch of heresy. It
gave him a kind of brotherly feeling with all heretics. It was that more
than anything else that broke up the Freethinkers' Club.”
“Ah,” said the Superintendent, bending eagerly forward, again on the
scent, “I didn't hear that.”
“Yes,” said the Convener, “Fink told me about it. Boyle went to
their meetings. He found them revelling in cheap scepticism of the
Ingersollian type. He took the attitude of a man seeking after a working
theory of life, and that attitude he stuck to--his real attitude, mind
you. He encouraged them to talk, combated none of their positions and,
as Hank said, 'coaxed them out into deep water and had them froggin' for
their lives. He was the biggest Freethinker in the bunch.' They invited
him to give a series of lectures. He did so, and that settled the
Freethinkers' Club. He never blamed them for doubting anything, and I
believe that's right.” The Convener was a bit of a heretic himself and,
consequently, carried a tender heart toward them. “Let a man doubt till
he finds his faith. And that was Boyle's line. He let them doubt, but he
insisted that they should have something positive to live by.”
“Our friend Hank,” said the Superintendent, “would be delighted.”
“Delighted? I should say so. But Hank 'joins trembling with his mirth,'
for Boyle got after him with the same demands.”
The Superintendent was filled with delighted pride in his missionary.
“That's the kind of man we want. He ought to do well in your railroad
field.”
“Yes,” replied the Convener hesitatingly. “You think he ought to go?
Windermere will be furious. I wouldn't care to go in there after Boyle
is removed.”
“It is hard on Windermere, but Windermere mustn't be selfish. That
railroad work is most pressing, and only a man like Boyle will do. There
will be from three to five thousand men in there this winter
between Macleod and Kuskinook. We dare not neglect them. I have had
correspondence with Fahey, the General Manager for the Crow's Nest line,
and he is not unfriendly, though he would prefer us to send in medical
missionaries. But that work he and his contractors ought to look after.”
“There is a terrible state of things in the eastern division, I fear,
from all reports,” replied the Convener. “By the way, there is a young
English doctor working on that eastern division from the MaCleod end
who is making a great stir. Bailey is his name, I believe. He began as a
navvy, but finding a lot of fellows sick, and the doctor a poor drunken
fellow, Bailey, it appears, stood it as long as he could, then finally
threw him out of the camp and installed himself in his place. The
contractor backed him up and he has revolutionized the medical work in
that direction. Murray told me the most wonderful tales about him. He
must be a remarkable man. Gambles heavily, but hates whiskey and won't
have it near the camp. You ought to look him up when you go in.”
“I will. These camp doctors are a poor lot and the railroad people ought
to feel disgraced in employing them. They draw their fifty cents per man
a month, but their practice is shameful. It is a delicate matter, but I
shall take this up with Fahey when I see him. He is a rough diamond, but
he is fair and he won't stand any nonsense.”
“And you think Boyle ought to go in?”
“Yes. On the whole, I think Boyle must go. These are a fine body of
men and must be looked after. A weaker man would make a mess of things.
Boyle is the man for the work. How did he seem? Cheerful?”
“No, I shouldn't call him so. But he is vastly better than when he came
to us. He was low in health, I think, and his face haunted me for weeks.
He strikes me as a man with a tragedy in his life.”
The Superintendent said nothing. He had, in large degree, the rare
gift of silence. Even with his trusted lieutenants he would break no
confidence. But before he slept that night he wrote two letters, and
after he had sealed and stamped them he placed them, with a pile already
written, on the table and sat back in his chair indulging himself in a
few moments of reverie. He saw the orderly, well-kept kitchen in the Old
Stone Mill and, bending over his letter a woman, dark-faced and stern,
her wavy, black hair heavily streaked with white, for during the past
years the sword had pierced her heart. He saw the light break upon her
tragic Highland face as she read of her boy and his well doing. With
glad heart she had given him up, and now, with humble joy, she would
read that her offering had been accepted.
The other letter brought to him the Macdougalls' drawing-room with all
its beautiful appointments and the face of a young girl pleading for her
friend. He still could see the quivering lips and hear the words of her
invincible faith, “I know that if he got at his own work again it would
save him.” He could still feel the grateful, timid pressure of her
fingers as he had pledged her his word that her desire should be
fulfilled. He had kept his word and her faith had not been put to shame.
XVI
THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH
“Be aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould Nick
himself ye're dodgin'.”
Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan
camps, admonished his half-broken bronchos.
“Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this hill
alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now. The saints be praised! that's
over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, kick me fut. Hivin be
praised! He's there yit,” said Tommy to himself. “We're on the dump
now, Scotty, an' we won't be long, me bhoy, till we see the lights av
Swipey's saloon. Git along there, will ye!”
The bronchos after their fifteen-mile drive along the unspeakable bush
roads, finding the smooth surface of the railway grade beneath their
feet, set off at a good lope. It was now quite dark. The snow was
driving bitterly in Tommy's face, but that stout little Irishman cared
nothing for himself. His concern was for the man lying under the buffalo
robes in the sleigh. Mile after mile the bronchos kept up their tireless
lope, encouraged by the cheery admonitions and the cracking whip of
their driver.
“Begob, but it's cowld enough to freeze the tail aff a brass monkey.
I'll jist be afther givin' the lad a taste.”
He tied the reins to the seat, gave his bronchos a parting lash, took a
flask from his pocket, and got down on his knees beside the sick man.
“Here, Scotty,” he said coaxingly, “take another taste. It'll put life
into ye.” The sick man tried to swallow once, twice, choked hard, then
shook his head. “Now, God be merciful! an' can't ye swally at all? An'
the good stuff it is, too! Thry once more, Scotty darlin'. Ye'll need
it an' we're not far aff now.” Once more the sick man made a desperate
effort. He got a little of the whiskey down, then turned away his
head. The tender-hearted little Irishman covered him over carefully and
climbed into his seat. “He couldn't swally it,” he said to himself in an
awed voice, putting the flask to his own lips, “Begorra, an' it's near
the Kingdom he must be!” To Tommy it appeared an infallible sign of
approaching dissolution that a man should reject the contents of his
flask. He gave himself to the business of getting out of the bronchos
all the speed they had. “Come on, now, me bhoys!” he shouted through
the gale, “what are ye lookin' at? Sure, there's nothin' purtier than
yerselves can be seen in the dark. Hut, there! Kick, wud ye? Take that,
thin, an' larn manners! Now ye're beginin' to move! Hooray!”
So with voice and lash Tommy continued to urge his team till they came
out into a clearing at the far end of which twinkled the lights of the
new railroad town being built about Maclennan's camp No. 1.
“Hivin be praised! we're there at last. Begob, it's mesilf that thought
ye'd moved to the ind of nowhere. We're here, Scotty, me man. In ten
howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the docthor puttin' life
into ye wid a spoon. Are ye there, Scotty?” But there was no movement
in response. “Howly Mary! Give us a little more speed!” He stood up over
his team, lashing and yelling till the tired beasts were going at
full gallop. As he drew near the camp the sound of singing came on the
driving wind. “Now the divil fly away wid the whiskey! It's pay day an'
the camp's loose. God send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at
hand!”
Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the
various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp building,
the bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the
glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the “red
lights,” the curse and shame of railroad, lumber, and mining camps in
British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their baleful lure through
the snowy night.
At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first
saloon and before they were well stopped burst open the door, crying
out, “Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!” Swipey, the
saloon-keeper, came himself to the door.
“What have you there, Tommy?” he asked.
“It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there,
Scotty?” There was no answer. “The saints be good to us! Are ye alive
at all?” He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he
found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. “Where's yer doctor?”
“Haven't seen him raound,” said Swipey. “Have you, Shorty?”
“Yes,” replied the man called Shorty. “He's in there with the boys.”
Tommy swore a great oath. “Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty
suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!”
“He's not that way,” replied Swipey, “our doctor.”
“Not much he ain't!” cried Shorty. “But he's into the biggest game with
'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp.”
“Fer the love av Hivin git him!” cried Tommy. “The man is dyin'. Here,
min, let's git him in.”
“There's no place here for a sick man,” said the saloon-keeper.
“What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!”
“Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time.” An angry
murmur ran through the men about the door. “Take him up to the
bunk-house,” said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths.
“What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man?
How do you know what he's got?”
“What differ does it make what he's got?” retorted Tommy. “Blank yer
dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money
ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?” he
cried, appealing to the crowd. “Ye can't let him die on the street!”
Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar
of the “Frank” saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men
with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of “Black Jack” for
which he held the pot. Opposite him sat “Mexico,” the type of a Western
professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair
of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair
of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from
his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the
last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had
a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made
but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way
to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time
to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death,
colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set
and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full
of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it.
“The doctor's wanted!” shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not
a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor
remained unmoved.
“There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2,” continued Shorty.
“Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!” growled out “Mexico,” who
had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but
who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn.
“He's out here in the snow,” continued Shorty, “an' he's chokin' to
death, an' we don't know what to do with him.”
The doctor looked up from his hand. “Put him in somewhere. I'll be along
soon.”
“They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to
death.”
The doctor turned down his cards. “What do you say? Choking to death?”
He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to
assert itself.
“Yes,” continued Shorty. “There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't
swallow. An' we can't git him in.”
The doctor pushed back his chair. “Here, men,” he said, “I'm going to
quit.”
A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal.
“You can't quit now!” growled “Mexico” fiercely, like a dog that is
about to lose a bone. “You've got to give us a chance.”
“Well, here's your chance then,” cried the doctor. “Let's stop this
tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred apiece.
I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a
dollar, and quit. Come on.”
The greatness of the opportunity staggered them.
Then they flung themselves upon it. “It's a go!” “Come on!” “Give us
your cards!” Quickly the cards were dealt. One by one the men made
up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in breathless
excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp so reckless a stake.
“Now, then, show down,” growled “Mexico.”
The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their
hands. He had won. With an oath “Mexico” made a grab for the pile,
reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the
doctor was first, and before anyone could move or speak “Mexico” was
lying in the corner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair.
“Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game,” said
the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and pushing them
down into his pocket. “Where's your sick man?”
“This way, doctor,” said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh. The
doctor passed him on a run.
“What does this mean?” he cried. “Why haven't you got him inside
somewhere?”
“That's what I say, docthor,” answered Tommy, “but the bloody haythen
wudn't let him in.”
“How's this, Swipey?” said the doctor sternly, turning to the
saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door.
“He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?”
“I'll take that responsibility,” replied the doctor. “In he goes. Here,
take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now.”
Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to
do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door.
“Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be quick
about it.”
Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. “It must be warm, eh? Want a
bath in it next, I suppose.”
“This will do,” said the doctor when they reached the room. “Now, clear
out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty.” Without hurry, but
with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed
between heated blankets. “Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his
throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I come back.”
He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm
to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two
hot-water bottles.
“We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full
of hot water for me.”
“What is it, Doctor?” cried Shorty anxiously.
“Go quick!” The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty
knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. With swift,
deft movements the doctor went about his work.
“Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the antitoxin.
It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed
infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor
chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way.” Again he
filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second
injection. “There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a
man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty,
don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here
within an hour.” Shorty turned to go. “Wait. Do you know this man's
name?”
“I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old country, I
think.”
“All right. Now, go and get the teamster.”
The doctor turned to his struggle with death. “There is no chance, no
chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!” he muttered, as he
strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to get
his breath.
After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction
of seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by that time he had
given up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase
his rage to see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he
could, the heart was failing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was
simply a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man
opened his eyes and looked about. The doctor turned up the light and
leaned over him, trying to make out the words which poor Scotty was
making such painful efforts to utter. But no words could he hear.
Finally the dying man pointed to the chair on which his clothes lay.
“You want something out of your pocket?” inquired the doctor. The eyes
gave assent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he found in the
pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes that had
followed every movement expressed satisfaction.
“Do you want me to read it?”
It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing
gratitude for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well doing,
love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's
fortitude to keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never
moved from his face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor
put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble.
The fingers closed upon it and with difficulty carried it to the man's
bosom. For a moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but only
for a moment. Once more they rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face.
“Something else in your pocket?”
The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came
to a large worn pocketbook.
“This?”
With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket
he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes
of the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in his
hand and carried it painfully to his lips. Once more the eyes began to
question.
“You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your eyes.”
The eyes remained wide open. “No? You want me to do something for you?
To write?” At once the eyes closed. “I shall write to your mother and
send all your things and tell them about you.” A smile spread over the
face and the eyes closed as if content. In a few minutes, however, they
opened wide again. In vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning. The
lips began to move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word
“Thank.”
“Thank who? The teamster?”
The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers.
“Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you,” said the
doctor. “Anything else?”
The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon
the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning,
till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more,
putting his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words,
“Mother--home,” and again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling.
“You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?” And once more
a glad smile lit up the distorted face.
For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, through
the thin partition, came the sounds of oaths and laughter and drunken
song. The doctor cursed them all below his breath and turned toward the
door. A spasm of coughing brought him back to his patient's side. After
the spasm had passed the sick man lay still, his eyes closed, and his
breath becoming shorter every moment. Once again the eyes made their
appeal, and the doctor hastened to seek their meaning. Listening
intently, he heard the word, “Pray.” The doctor's pale face flushed
quickly and as quickly paled again. He shook his head, saying, “I'm
no good at that.” Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, and
again the doctor caught the words, “Jesus, tender--.” It had been the
doctor's child prayer, too. But for years no prayer had passed his lips.
He could not bring himself to do it. It would be sheer mockery. But the
eyes were fixed upon his face beseeching, waiting for him to begin.
“All right,” said the doctor through his set teeth, “I'll do it.”
And above the ribald sounds that broke in from below on the solemn
silence, the doctor's voice, low but very clear, rose in the verses of
that ancient child's prayer, “Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” At the
third verse,
“Let my sins be all forgiven,
Bless the friends I love so well,
Take me when I die to heaven,
Happy there with Thee to dwell.”
there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh as of great content,
and then all was still. Ere the prayer had been uttered the answer
had come, “Happy there with Thee to dwell.” Poor Scotty! Out from the
sickness and the pain, from the wretchedness and the sin, he had been
taken to the place where the blessed dwell and whence they go no more
out forever.