THE WHITE FEATHER.
In one of the newer towns of the Canadian Northwest, far enough away
from the usual paths of travel to give it an atmosphere of mystery,
as well as romance, there is—or was, for things have changed in that
town in the last few years—a hotel which made a feature of its cabaret
performances, and in summer considered its gardens and the water
frontage on a really beautiful lake, its greatest attractions.
The place was known as the Savoy, and the hotel part of it was rather
better than is generally found in the northern lumber regions.
It was on a summer night, when it was comfortable to sit out of doors,
that a vaudeville entertainment was in progress on the lawn stage of
the Savoy.
A monologue had just been delivered by a middle-aged comedian, in
evening clothes, who had been a singer in bygone times, but, finding
his voice gone, had been wise enough to “frame up” a “talking turn.”
The audience liked him, calling him “good old Joe Stokes,” many of the
men inviting him to join them in a glass of beer at their tables, when
he came out from the sacred precincts “back stage.”
This is a custom in many of the free-and-easy places of amusement in
the West and Northwest, in small communities, and Joe Stokes accepted
the invitations in the good-natured spirit in which they were tendered.
There was a large gathering, including men from the mines, from the
lumber woods, and from the other industries existing for twenty miles
around, including a sprinkling of workers on the railroad, with some
tourists, who were there because they wanted to be.
It was this latter class that offered a round of encouraging handclaps
to a delicate-looking young girl, dressed simply in white, with a white
ribbon in her long, dark hair, who came slowly into view and faced the
footlights.
“What’s comin’ off?” growled a rough-looking man near the stage. “Where
did this kid blow in from?”
“Guess she belongs to a Sunday school, and got in here by mistake,”
guffawed another of the same type. “Why didn’t old Joe Stokes give us
an extra encore? This girl turn is goin’ to be punk, an’ I know it.”
The girl was evidently frightened, as if not accustomed to singing in
public. She may not have heard exactly what these men were saying. But
she had caught the note of unfriendliness, and she turned appealingly
to the quarter whence had come the applause of the tourists.
There were, perhaps, a dozen men and women, who belonged to the tourist
party, sitting apart from most of the other persons in the audience,
and they gave the young girl another round of handclapping, accompanied
by the rattling of glasses on the table.
The orchestra, consisting of two violins, a cornet, and piano, half
hidden in foliage disposed in front of the stage, seemed to be
uncertain what to play. The leader, his violin in his left hand,
reached over the footlights and took a few sheets of music from the
girl.
“What do you think o’ that?” chuckled old Joe Stokes. “She didn’t know
enough to give her music to the leader before she come on! She didn’t
have no rehearsal, neither. I should have seen her if she had, and I
never clapped my lamps on her before.”
There was a well-built young man, with a cap pulled over his eyes,
sitting by himself at a table near that at which the two tough-looking
citizens who had commented on the girl sprawled.
The young man had on the high-laced boots commonly worn in country
places—East, as well as West—and his sack coat looked as if he were not
at all careful of his clothes, for there were marks of clay, sand and
mud on them, as well as indications that he had come in contact with
the bark of trees, more or less roughly.
Men who knew the type would say he was a “lumberjack.”
He kept his eyes on the girl, but not obtrusively. It was evident that
he was interested in her, but was careful not to annoy her by letting
her see that he was looking in her direction.
During the time the musicians were arranging their music on the stands,
she stood there, a slim little slip of a thing, trembling visibly, but
determined to go bravely through what she had to do.
“What do you s’pose she’s goin’ to spiel?” grunted one of the roughs to
his companion.
“Search me! ‘Nearer my God, to Thee!’ maybe.”
Both laughed coarsely. For a flash of a second, the young fellow who
looked like a lumberman, and who had been regarding the girl on the
stage, turned his keen eyes on the two jeering men. Then he turned his
back on them, as if they were not worth steady consideration.
The opening bars of the plaintive old Scottish song, “Robin Adair,”
were played by the orchestra. The melody was familiar to them—as it is
to most professional musicians—and they played it well.
“Thunder!” growled one of the toughs. “Is she goin’ to give us a hymn?
If she is, it will be ‘good night’ for hers!”
There were noisy laughs from many in the audience, for liquor had been
flowing, and the men were not themselves. At least, it is to be hoped
so, for the honor of that part of the Dominion.
The singer flushed, but she took up the song when the prelude was
finished, rendering it with a delicacy and pathos that would have
stirred even that rough assemblage had it not been for the ridicule a
few of the hardest men saw fit to express.
Before she had finished the first verse there was a storm of hisses and
catcalls, and the girl’s voice was drowned. One could see that she was
still singing by watching her lips, but it was impossible for her to be
heard through the growing din.
Suddenly, a big man, dressed much as was the young man who had been
observing the girl in silence, got up and strode toward the stage. Here
he turned and faced the audience, six feet four inches of brawn and
muscle.
Many of those in the inclosure recognized him. He was a foreman up in
the lumber woods, and he could strike a blow that would knock an ox
senseless when he had a good swing. His name was Mackenzie Douglas.
“Stop that, will ye?” he roared.
As he spoke, he picked up one of the small tables by its twisted wire
leg and flourished it over his head.
“Anither bit o’ noise, an’ I’ll be amang ye, splittin’ heads wi’ this
wee bit o’ table! Ye all know me, an’ ye ken I’ll do what I say! This
young leddy is singin’ a bonny Scottish song, an’ I want to hear it.
Sing oot, my lassie! Sing oot! I’ll e’en keep order for ye.”
Mackenzie Douglas had a sour look, and no one was inclined at that
moment to fly in his face. The young man before mentioned smiled
quietly.
The singer began her song again. Her voice was nothing remarkable.
It was not powerful, but it had been trained, so that she sang true.
Besides, the melody was one that could not be listened to long without
being more or less affected by it.
This time she made an impression which assured her the sympathy of the
better element in her audience. The old ballad, with its haunting air,
went home to many a calloused heart, and it might have been seen that a
tear sprang out upon a bronzed cheek here and there.
But there was still a disturbing group near the front, with the two
ruffians who had started the fuss before, ready to drive the girl from
the stage if they could. They were angry at Douglas’ interference, and
they felt that they must “call his bluff,” as one expressed it, in a
low tone, to the other.
As the girl finished, a storm of applause broke out, but through the
handclapping, thumping, and cheering could be heard loud hisses. It has
often been noticed that even one sharp hiss in a large assemblage will
be heard through the most insistent applause.
The young man looked quickly in the direction of the two roughs. Even
as he did so, one of them picked up the stub of a cigar from the table
in front of him and hurled it at the singer. It struck her white dress,
leaving a black mark.
She shrank back, terrified and wondering. It looked as if she could not
understand such an outrage.
There were shouts of anger and protest from a dozen men. But it was
Mackenzie Douglas who took an active part in the row that broke out so
fiercely.
In a flash, he was again at the front of the stage, glaring about him.
“Who threw that?” he demanded, in a voice of thunder. “Point him out
to me! Whaur is the skulkin’ cur that would do a thing like that to
a young lassie who is too good to wipe her shoes on most of us? If I
don’t find the mon that done it, I’ll come forward an’ lick a dozen of
ye till I find the richt one!”
The bigger of the two men who had been making the demonstration against
the singer let out a loud, defiant laugh.
“I done it, if you want to know!” he bellowed. “Now, what are yer goin’
to do about it?”
“Oh, it’s you, Dan Mosely, is it?” replied the Scot, more angry than
ever. “I might ha’ known it was some one like you!”
That was all Mackenzie Douglas said just then. The young fellow who had
been watching took a hand. He pushed aside half a dozen men who were in
his way, chairs and all, knocked over a table, and was upon the fellow
Douglas had called Dan Mosely with both of his sinewy hands.
Taking Dan by the collar, he swung him out of his chair and hurled him
at full length upon the floor, with a couple of chairs on top of him.
The uproar was terrific. Many men, who had held back from the row at
first, were only too anxious to get into it, now that this quiet young
fellow had blazed the way.
But Dan Mosely wasn’t beaten yet. The knockdown had sobered him to some
degree, and he was blistering with rage. Shoving the tables and chairs
aside, he managed to reach his feet.
“Where is that dub?” he roared. “Show him to me!”
He aimed a tremendous blow at the young man’s face. But a clever duck
of the head prevented its doing any harm.
“Hello, Bob Gordon!” shouted Mackenzie Douglas to the young man.
“You’re there, are ye? Ye did a gude thing in layin’ out this galoot.”
He seized Dan Mosely behind as he spoke, for the fellow was trying to
strike Bob Gordon down from behind with a chair.
“No, ye don’t, Dan!” cried Douglas. “This is goin’ to be a fair
stand-up fight. We’ll hae it by the rules. Tak’ aff yer coats, both of
ye, an’ let’s see who’s best man. Ye hae twenty pounds the best of it,
Dan, but I’m thinkin’ Bob can lick ye in spite of it. Come on, Bob!”
But, to the intense astonishment of Mackenzie Douglas, as well as of
everybody else who had been watching the fracas, Bob Gordon turned away.
“I won’t fight him,” said Gordon, in a low voice.
“What?” howled Douglas. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to fight!”
“But what for? This Dan Mosely tried to hit ye, an’ you knocked him
down just now. There was the lassie, too. Ye’ll hae to fight for her
sake.”
“I won’t fight,” replied Bob Gordon steadily.
For a few moments it seemed as if Mackenzie Douglas could not
comprehend. His mouth fell open, and he stared at Bob Gordon as if he
were some strange animal, that he never had seen before.
Dan Mosely laughed raucously. His companion, who had helped him in
annoying the girl on the stage, joined in his coarse mirth.
“He knows better than to tackle me!” snarled Dan Mosely. “I’d break him
in two in the first round.”
“Bob Gordon, lad, what does it mean?”
The big Scot appealed to Gordon almost piteously. He could not make
out why Gordon was backing down. He had never come across a case of
this kind before, where a full-grown man, young and active, backed out
of a combat that it was his actual duty to enter. It was too much for
Douglas.
“I’ll tell yer what it means,” shouted Dan Mosely derisively. “He’s
afraid! That’s all there is to it. He’s a cur, an’ he don’t dare to put
up his hands agin’ me!”
Douglas looked searchingly at Gordon, and his great hands twitched, as
if he longed to get into battle himself.
“Is that so, Gordon? Do ye mean t’ tell me that ye’re afraid?”
“Yes, Douglas,” returned the young man, after a pause, during which it
could be seen he was fighting with himself. “I’m—_I’m afraid_!”
Mackenzie Douglas was silent for a second. Then, after raising his hand
on high, as if calling Heaven to witness the awful disgrace, he pointed
a long finger at Bob Gordon, saying, in a tone of denunciation and
scorn:
“Hoot awa’! You—you—coward!”