When Toppy returned to the room in the rear of the blacksmith-shop he
found Campbell waiting impatiently.
"Eh, lad, but you're the slow one!" greeted the gruff old Scot as Toppy
entered. "You're set a record in this camp; no man yet has been able to
consume so much time getting a pair of blankets from the wannigan. Dump
'em in yon bunk in the corner and set the table. I'll have supper in a
wink and a half."
Toppy obediently tossed his blankets into the bunk indicated and turned
to help to the best of his ability. The place now was lighted generously
by two large reflector-lamps hung on the walls, and Toppy had his first
good view of the room that was to be his home.
He was surprised at its neatness and comfort. It was a large room,
though a little low under the roof, as rooms have a habit of being in
the North. In the farthest corner were two bunks, the sleeping-quarters.
Across the room from this, a corner was filled with well filled
bookshelves, a table with a reading-lamp, and two easy chairs, giving
the air of a tiny library. In the corner farthest from this was the
cook-stove, and in the fourth corner stood an oilcloth-covered table
with a shelf filled with dishes hung above it. Though the rough edges of
hewn logs shown here and there through the plaster of the walls, the
room was as spick and span as if under the charge of a finicky
housewife. Old Campbell himself, bending over the cook stove, was as
astonishing in his own way as the room. He had removed all trace of the
day's smithing and fairly shone with cleanliness. His snow-white hair
was carefully combed back from his wide forehead, his bushy
chin-whiskers likewise showed signs of water and comb, and he was garbed
from throat to ankles in a white cook's apron. He was cheerfully humming
a dirge-like tune, and so occupied was he with his cookery that he
scarcely so much as glanced at Toppy.
"Now then, lad; are you ready?" he asked presently.
"All ready, I guess," said Toppy, giving a final look at the table.
"You've forgot the bread," said Campbell, also looking. "You'll find it
in yon tin box on the shelf. Lively, now." And before Toppy had dished
out a loaf from the bread-box the old man had a huge platter of steak
and twin bowls of potatoes and turnips steaming on the table.
"We will now say grace," said Campbell, seating himself after removing
the big apron, and Toppy sat silent and amazed as the old man bowed his
head and in his deep voice solemnly uttered thanks for the meal before
him.
"Now then," he said briskly, raising his head and reaching for a fork as
he ended, "fall to."
The meal was eaten without any more conversation than was necessary.
When it was over, the blacksmith pushed his chair leisurely back from
the table and looked across at Toppy with a quizzical smile.
"Well, lad," he rumbled, "what would ye say was the next thing to be
done by oursel's?"
"Wash the dishes," said Toppy promptly, taking his cue from the
conspicuous cleanliness of the room.
"Aye," said Campbell, nodding. "And as I cook the meal----"
"I'm elected dish-washer," laughed Toppy, springing up and taking a
large dish-pan from the wall. He had often done his share of
kitchen-work on hunting-trips, and soon he had the few dishes washed and
dried and back on the shelf again. Campbell watched critically.
"Well enough," he said with an approving jerk of his head when the task
was completed. "Your conscience should be easier now, lad; you've done
something to pay for the meal you've eaten, which I'll warrant is
something you've not often done."
"No," laughed Toppy, "it just happens that I haven't had to."
"'Haven't had to!'" snorted Campbell in disgust. "Is that all the
justification you have? Where's your pride? Are you a helpless infant
that you're not ashamed to let other people stuff food into your mouth
without doing anything for it? I suppose you've got money. And where
came your money from? Your father? Your mother? No matter. Whoever it
came from, they're the people who've been feeding you, but by the great
smoked herring! If you stay wi' David Campbell you'll have a change,
lad. Aye, you'll learn what it is to earn your bread in the sweat of
your brow. And you'll bless the day you come here--no matter what the
reason that made you come, and which I do not want to hear."
Toppy bowed courteously.
"I've got no come-back to that line of conversation, Mr. Campbell," he
said good-naturedly. "Whenever anybody accuses me of being a bum with
money I throw up my hands and plead guilty; you can't get an argument
out of me with a corkscrew."
Old Campbell's grim face cracked in a genial smile as he rose and led
the way to the corner containing the bookshelves.
"We will now step into the library," he chuckled. "Sit ye down."
He pushed one of the easy chairs toward Toppy, and from a cupboard under
the reading-table drew a bottle of Scotch whisky of a celebrated brand.
Toppy's whole being suddenly cried out for a drink as his eyes fell on
the familiar four stars.
"Say when, lad," said Campbell, pouring into a generous glass. "Well?"
He looked at Toppy in surprise as the glass filled up. Something had
smitten Toppy like a blow between the eyes----"How can nice boys like you
throw themselves away?" And the pity of the girl as she had said it was
large before him.
"Thanks," said Toppy, seating himself, "but I'm on the wagon."
The old smith looked up at him shrewdly from the corners of his eyes.
"Oh, aye!" he grunted. "I see. Well, by the puffs under your eyes ye
have overdone it; and for fleeing the temptations of the world I know of
no better place ye could go to than this. For it's certain neither
temptations nor luxuries will be found in Hell Camp while the
Snow-Burner's boss."
"Now you interest me," said Toppy grimly. "The Snow-Burner--Hell-Camp
Reivers--Mr. Reivers--the boss. What kind of a human being is he, if he is
human?"
Campbell carefully mixed his whisky with hot water.
"You saw him manhandle Rosky?" he asked, seating himself opposite Toppy.
"Yes; but it wasn't manhandling; it was brute-handling, beast-handling."
"Aye," said the Scot, sipping his drink. "So think I, too. But do you
know what Reivers calls it? An enlightened man showing a human clod the
error of his ways. Oh, aye; the Indians were smart when they named him
the Snow-Burner. He does things that aren't natural."
"But who is he, or what is he? He's an educated man, obviously--'way
above what a logging-boss ought to be. What do you know about him?"
"Little enough," was the reply. "Four year ago I were smithing in Elk
Lake Camp over east of here, when Reivers came walking into camp. That
was the first any white men had seen of him around these woods, though
afterward we learned he'd lived long enough with the Indians to earn the
name of the Snow-Burner.
"It were January, and two feet of snow on the level, and fifty below.
Reivers came walking into camp, and the nearest human habitation were
forty mile away. 'Red Pat' Haney were foreman--a man-killer with the
devil's own temper; and him Reivers deeliberately set himself to arouse.
A week after his coming, this same Reivers had every man in camp looking
up to him, except Red Pat.
"And Reivers drove Pat half mad with that contemptuous smile of his, and
Pat pulled a gun; and Reivers says, 'That's what I was waiting for,' and
broke Pat's bones with his bare hands and laid him up. Then, says he,
'This camp is going on just the same as if nothing had happened, and I'm
going to be boss.' That was all there was to it; he's been a boss ever
since."
"And you don't know where he came from? Or anything else about him?"
"Oh, he's from England--an Oxford man, for that matter," said Campbell.
"He admitted that much once when we were argufying. He'll be here soon;
he comes to quarrel with me every evening."
"Why does an Oxford man want to be 'way out here bossing a
logging-camp?" grumbled Toppy.
Campbell nodded.
"Aye, I asked that of him once," he said. "'Though it's none of your
business,' says he, 'I'll tell you. I got tired of living where people
snivel about laws concerning right and wrong,' says he, 'instead of
acknowledging that there is only one law ruling life--that the strong can
master the weak.' That is Mr. Reivers' religion. He was only worshipping
his strange gods when he broke Rosky's leg, for he considers Rosky a
weaker man than himself, and therefore 'tis his duty to break him to his
own will."
"A fine religion!" snapped Toppy. "And how about his dealings with you?"
The Scot smiled grimly.
"I'm the best smith he ever had," he replied, "and I've warned him that
I'd consider it a duty under my religion to shoot him through the head
did he ever attempt to force his creed upon me." He paused and held up a
finger. "Hist, lad. That's him coming noo. He's come for his regular
evening's mouthfu' of conversation."
Toppy found himself sitting up and gripping the arms of his chair as
Reivers came swinging in. He eagerly searched the foreman's countenance
for a sign to indicate whether Tilly, the squaw, had communicated the
conversation she had heard between Toppy and Miss Pearson, but if she
had there was nothing to indicate it in Reivers' expression or manner.
His self-mastery awoke a sullen rage in Toppy. He felt himself to be a
boy beside Reivers.
"Good evening, gentlemen," greeted Reivers lightly, pulling a chair up
to the reading-table. "It is a pleasure to find intelligent society
after having spent the last hour handling the broken leg of a miserable
brute on two legs. Bah! The whisky, Scotty, please. I wonder what
miracles of misbreeding have been necessary to turn out alleged human
beings with bodies so hideous compared to what the human body should be.
Treplin, if you or I stripped beside those Hunkies the only thing we'd
have in common would be the number of our legs and arms."
He drew toward him a tumbler which Campbell had pushed over beside the
bottle and, filling the glass three-quarters full, began to drink slowly
at the powerful Scotch whisky as another man might sip at beer or light
wine. Old Campbell rocked slowly to and fro in his chair.
"'He that taketh up the sword shall perish by the sword,'" he quoted
solemnly. "No man is a god to set himself up, lord over the souls and
bodies of his fellows. They will put out your light for you one of these
days, Mr. Reivers. Have care and treat them a little more like men."
Reivers smiled a quick smile that showed a mouthful of teeth as clean
and white as a hound's.
"Let's have your opinion on the subject, Treplin," he said. "New
opinions are always interesting, and Scotty repeats the same thing over
and over again. What do you think of it? Do you think I can maintain my
rule over those hundred and fifty clods out there in the stockade as I
am ruling them, through the law of strength over weakness? Do you think
one superior mind can dominate a hundred and fifty inferior organisms?
Or do you think, with Scotty here, that the dregs can drag me down?"
Toppy shook his head. He was in no mood to debate abstract problems with
Reivers.
"Count me out until I'm a little acquainted with the situation," he
said. "I'm a stranger in a strange land. I've just dropped in--from
almost another world you might say."
In a vain attempt to escape taking sides in what was evidently an old
argument he hurriedly rattled off the story of his coming to Rail Head
and thence to Hell Camp, omitting to mention, however, that it was Miss
Pearson who was responsible for the latter part of his journey. Reivers
smote his huge fist upon the table as Toppy finished.
"That's the kind of a man for me!" he laughed. "Got tired of living the
life of his class, and just stepped out of it. No explanations; no
acknowledgement of obligations to anybody. Master of his own soul. To ----
with the niceties of civilisation! Treplin, you're a man after my own
scheme of life; I did the same thing once--only I was sober.
"But let's get back to our subject. Here's the situation: This camp is
on a natural town-site. There's water-power, ore and timber. To use the
water-power we must build a dam; to use the timber we must get it to the
saws. That takes labour, lots of it--muscle-and-bone labour. Labour is
scarce up here. It is too far from the pigsties of towns. Men would
come, work a few days, and go away. The purpose of the place would be
defeated--unless the men are kept here at work.
"That's what I do. I keep them here. To do it I keep them locked up at
night like the cattle they are. By day I have them guarded by armed
man-killers--every one of my guards is a fugitive from man's silly laws,
principally from the one which says, 'Thou shalt not kill.'
"But my best guard is Fear--by which I rule alike my guards and the poor
brutes who are necessary to my purpose. There you are: a hundred and
fifty of them, fearing and hating me, and I'm making them do as I
please. No foolishness about laws, about order, about right or wrong.
Just a hundred and fifty half-beasts and myself out here in the woods.
As a man with a trained mind, do you think I can keep it up? Or do you
think there is mental energy enough in that mess of human protoplasm to
muster up nerve enough to put out my light, as Scotty puts it? It's a
problem that furnishes interesting mental gymnastics."
He propounded the problem with absolutely no trace of personal interest.
To judge by his manner, the matter of his life or death meant nothing to
him. It was merely an interesting question on which to expend the energy
fulminating in his mind. In his light-blue eyes there seemed to gleam
the same impersonal brutality which had shown out when he so casually
crippled Rosky.
"Oh, it's an impossible proposition, Reivers!" exploded Toppy, with the
picture of the writhing Slav in his mind's eye. "You've got to consider
right and wrong when dealing with human beings. It isn't natural; Nature
won't stand it."
"Ah!" Reivers' eyes lighted up with intellectual delight. "That's an
idea! Scotty, you hear? You've been talking about my perishing by the
sword, but you haven't given any reason why. Treplin does. He says
Nature will revolt, because my system is unnatural." He threw back his
head and laughed coldly. "Rot, Treplin--silly, effeminate, bookish rot!"
he roared. "Nature has respect only for the strong. It creates the
weaker species merely to give the stronger food to remain strong on."
Old Scotty had been rocking furiously. Now he stopped suddenly and broke
out into a furious Biblical denunciation of Reivers' system. When he
stopped for breath after his first outbreak, Reivers with a few words
and a cold smile egged him on. Toppy gladly kept his mouth shut. After
an hour he yawned and arose from his chair.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll turn in," he said. "I'm too sleepy to listen
or talk."
Without looking at him Reivers drew a book from his pocket and tossed it
toward him.
"'Davis on Fractures'," he grunted. "Cram up on it to-morrow. There will
be need of your help before long. Go on, Scotty; you were saying that a
just retribution was Nature's law. Go on."
And Toppy rolled into his bunk, to lie wide awake, listening to the
argument, marvelling at the character of Reivers, and pondering over the
strange situation he had fallen into. He scarcely thought of what Harvey
Duncombe and the bunch would be thinking about his disappearance. His
thoughts were mainly occupied with wondering why, of all the women he
had seen, a slender little girl with golden hair should suddenly mean so
much to him. Nothing of the sort ever had happened to him before. It was
rather annoying. Could she ever have a good opinion of him?
Probably not. And even if she could, what about Reivers? Toppy was
firmly convinced that the speech which Reivers had made to Miss Pearson
was a false one. Reivers might have a great reputation for always
keeping his word, but Toppy, after what he had seen and heard, would no
more trust to his morals than those of a hungry bear. If Tilly, the
squaw, told Reivers what she had heard, what then? Well, in that case
they would soon know whether Reivers meant to keep his promise not to
bother Miss Pearson with his attentions. Toppy set his jaw grimly at the
thought of what might happen then. The mere thought of Reivers seemed to
make his fists clench hard.
He lay awake for a long time with Reivers' voice, coldly bantering
Campbell, constantly in his ears. When Reivers finally went away he fell
asleep. Before his closed eyes was the picture of the girl as, in the
morning, she had kicked up the snow and looked up at him with her eyes
deliciously puckered from the sun; and in his memory was the stinging
recollection that she had called him a "nice boy."