Beneath the Surface
Across the mouth of Big Creek stream a long double boom cradled the large
"R & P" drive. The last log had shot safely down the crooked brook and
rested calmly by the side of its companions. There were thousands of them
there, scarred and battered by rock and flood; worthy veterans were they,
this hardy army of the forest, reposing now after their fierce, mad
charge.
The work of the drivers was done, and the last peevy had been tossed with
a resounding thud among its companions. A score of men were they who for
months had been confined to the lonely life of the woods, and who for days
had often been face to face with death. Naturally their eyes turned
towards the river some distance away. There on its bank nestled the little
town, and there, too, stood the Flood Gate Tavern, the most notorious
place in the whole countryside. How often during the winter evenings had
they talked of the many wild scenes which had been enacted there, and of
the wages of months squandered in a night. Though they talked about the
place and cursed it, yet, like moths singed by the candle's flame, they
had returned spring after spring to the Hood Gate Tavern to spend the
wages needed at home. Their money, too, was awaiting them there in the
Company's office. But now they hesitated. Never before had such a thing
been known. Formerly there was a rush to the town when the last log had
come in.
It was evening as the men stood there, and the sun was hanging low far in
the west. The yearning for the tavern was strong--it called, it appealed
to them. But another power was holding these rugged drivers in check.
Their hearts had been much stirred these last few days, although not one
acknowledged it. A little helpless, suffering child was unconsciously
restraining the brute nature within them. He was holding them in leash,
binding them by strange, invisible cords. In silence they ate their supper
in the rafting house near by.
"Boys," said Jake Purdy as the men sat outside smoking. "I'm goin' down
town to see if there's any mail. Any of ye comin'?"
It was all that was needed, and at once every man responded. Down the road
they marched, their great boots making a heavy thud as they moved along.
Into the post office they tramped, and stood around while the few letters
were doled out. For Jake, there was one, written by a child's trembling
hand. Eagerly he opened it, and, as he read, his face underwent a
remarkable change. The rugged lines softened, and when he turned to the
men waiting for him, there was no gruffness in his voice.
"'Spose we git our money, lads, an' hike back," he remarked.
"Ay, ay," was the response, but in several hearts there was a keen longing
to remain.
Right in front of the Company's office stood the Flood Gate Tavern. The
proprietor had been expecting the drivers and was well stocked up. He saw
them coming into town and watched them enter the office for their money.
"They'll be here soon, Joe," he said to his assistant, "an' mind ye don't
let an opportunity slip. Them bottles must go tonight. I know there'll be
lively times about here. Them d--n temperance workers are dead set agin
us, an' it looks as if they'd make trouble. But we'll win out tonight, and
they can go to ----. Say, here they come. Now for the time--an' money. Oh,
they're jist achin' to give me their wages. They won't forgit old Ned,
that's sure. Ha, ha!" and the saloon-keeper rubbed his hands with glee.
The drivers were outside the office now, and were casting furtive glances
across the way. Big Jake saw the looks and knew the longing which dwelt in
their hearts. He drew forth his pipe, stuck his little finger deliberately
into the bowl to see how much tobacco it contained.
"Boys," he began, "have yez anything on fer the night?"
"No," came the somewhat surly response, "unless we go over there."
"Don't go," said Jake. "We've spent too much there in past years. Let's
save our money fer them wot needs it at home. Let me tell ye somethin'.
Comin' down the road from the boom to-night I felt like seven devils. I
was jist longin' to git into that saloon an' have a big drink. But as luck
'ud have it I went into the post office first, an' found this here letter.
An' who is it from, d'ye think? From me own little sick lassie at home.
Look at the writin', boys. Ain't it fine? An' what a letter it is. She
says she's waitin' fer me, an' counts the days until I come. Listen to
these words: 'Don't go near the saloon, papa. Come straight home, an'
bring the money to pay fer the farm. I pray fer you every day, papa, an' I
pray fer all the men on the drive, and fer that poor little boy who got
hurt.' Ain't them great words, boys?"
"Ay, ay," came the reply, and into several hearts throbbed a desire to be
stronger men, and a few brushed their sleeves across their eyes.
"But that ain't all," Jake continued. "She says that little boy wot got
hurt belongs to an old man--a parson--an' his beautiful daughter, who have
been good to her. They didn't know where the little boy was, but when they
found out they was all upsot, an' left in a hurry, but stopped in to say
good-bye to my little Doris. That was two days ago, and they must be up
there at Big Sam's now. Boys, let me tell ye this: Anyone who is good to
my little sick lass is good to me, an' Jake Purdy isn't a man to fergit;
yez know that. Now I have a suggestion to make. Instead of spendin' our
hard-earned money with that old wretch, Ned, let's go up in a body to the
house an' inquire fer the sick lad. We can't do nuthin', I know, but mebbe
it'll please the old man an' his daughter to know that we ain't fergotten
the brave little boy. An' come to think further it's no mor'n our duty.
That lad saved one of us from death, an' the one that was saved, saved me.
Boys, ye can do as yez like, but I'm goin' anyway."
There was no hesitation now among these men. With one accord they turned
their backs upon the village, and struck along the road leading out into
the country. Old Ned, the saloon-keeper, watched them in amazement. Never
before had they done such a thing. What would become of all the whisky in
those bottles standing on the shelves?
"The idiots!" he yelled. "What's the matter with 'em?"
Bareheaded he rushed out into the street and lifted up his voice.
"Hi! hi!" he shouted.
The drivers paused and looked around.
"Wait!" panted Ned running up to where they were standing.
"What's wrong, old man?" questioned one.
"Wrong! What's wrong with you? Why are ye leavin' without droppin' in to
see me? Surely ye ain't goin' to go away without a friendly call?"
"Look here, Ned," replied Jake, acting as spokesman for the others, "we've
made too many friendly calls at your place fer our own good. This year
we're goin' to cut it out. So go home an' don't interfere."
Had the saloon-keeper been less excited he would have noticed the warning
note in Jake's voice, and the sombre looks of the rest. They were in no
mood for interruption at the present time. But Ned was blind to all this.
"Ye fools!" he roared, stamping on the ground in his rage. "Will ye let
all that good stuff spile down yonder? Surely ye ain't gone an' jined the
temperance gang, an' took the pledge?"
Fiercely Jake turned upon him.
"Ned," and his voice was laden with meaning, "will ye go home an' leave us
alone?"
"No, h----if I will, unless ye all come back with me."
Jake's eyes turned suddenly to the right. They rested upon a pond of dirty
water several feet deep lying there. Like a flash he reached out and
caught the saloon-keeper in both hands, lifted him clear of the ground,
carried him wriggling and cursing to the edge, and tossed him in like a
ball. With a splash and a yell Ned went under, came up puffing and
blowing, and dashing the water from his eyes and ears. A shout of derision
went up from the drivers.
"Go home now, Ned," they cried. "You've soaked us fer years with yer
stuff, an' you've got soaked now. Good-bye."
With that they continued on their way, leaving the victim to scramble out
of the pond and make his way home, beaten and crestfallen.
Along the road the drivers marched, then up the hill leading to Big Sam's
abode. It was dim twilight as they stood before the house. The evening was
balmy, and the front door stood partly open. For a minute they hesitated,
and a whispered conversation ensued.
"You go in, Jake. You've got a tongue fer sich things," suggested his
companions.
But before a reply could be made there floated out upon the air a sweet
voice singing an old familiar hymn. Instinctively every driver pulled off
his rough hat, and bowed his shaggy head. It was a woman's voice they
heard, low and tender. There was a pleading note in the singer's
voice--the cry of a soul for help in trouble.
Little did Nellie realize as she sat by Dan's side this evening, and sang,
that she had such attentive listeners. The past two days had been a time
of much anxiety. When first she and her father had arrived, Dan did not
know them. He was lying upon the bed, his little curly head resting upon
the pillow as white as his own white face. Would he ever come out of that
stupor? they asked each other time and time again as they sat and watched
him. Often he talked, calling aloud for help, and pleading for someone to
hurry. Now it was of Tony and again Nellie and Parson John. Occasionally
he mentioned his father, and asked why he was so long in coming. The
doctor stood by the bedside with an anxious face.
"Do you think he will recover?" Nellie asked.
"I can't say," was the reply. "He has been badly injured. But we should
know soon one way or the other. This condition can't go on much longer."
It was hard for Nellie to persuade her father to take any rest. He would
insist upon sitting by the bed, and holding Dan's hand.
"Poor, dear boy," he murmured. "Why did you do it? Why did you run such a
risk for my sake?"
Once coming quietly into the room Nellie saw her father kneeling by the
bedside. His lips were moving in silent prayer. In his heart a deep love
had been formed for this little wounded lad. For months past the two had
been much together, and the bond of affection had been strongly formed. At
length Nellie had persuaded her father to take some rest. He had cast one
long, searching look upon the boy's face, and then silently left the room.
For some time Nellie sat by Dan's side watching his fitful breathing. One
little hand lay outside the quilt. Would it ever work for her again? she
wondered. It was a brown hand--the same hand which had reached over and
drawn Tony from death. As she sat there the door was quietly pushed open,
and Marion stood before her. Her eyes looked towards the bed with a
questioning appeal. In her right hand she clutched a little rose. It was
the first time she had been in the sick room, and on this evening while
her mother was busy she had softly stolen away.
"Give dis to ittle sick boy," she said. "He like pitty woses."
"Come here, dear," Nellie replied, and as the child approached she took
the flower, and placed the stem in Dan's doubled-up hand. She did it
merely to please Marion, but it thrilled her own heart to behold the
little maiden's sweet offering lying in that poor, nerveless fist. "God
bless you, darling," she said, drawing Marion to her. "You love the sick
boy, don't you?"
"Me love him," came the response, "an' me lore oo. Will Dod make him
better?"
"God will do what is best, dearie. You will pray for him, won't you?"
"Me pray for him every night. Will oo sing to Dod to make him better?"
"Why do you wish me to sing?"
"When I'm sick my mamma sings to Dod. I fink He hears better dat way, an'
I det better. Will oo sing?"
"If you wish me to, I will."
"Let me det in oor lap den," and Marion, climbing up, made herself
perfectly at home.
Nellie was not in a singing mood this evening, but the child's words had
touched her. She thought they were alone--just two, to hear. Verse after
verses she sang, and as she reached the chorus of the last verse she gave
a start of surprise, suddenly ceased, and looked towards the door. A
number of men's voices had taken up the chorus, and they were singing, not
loud, but as softly as possible:
"Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast,
There by His love o'ershadowed
Sweetly my soul shall rest."
Nellie had put Marion down now, had risen to her feet, and crossed the
room to the door. Almost unconsciously the drivers had joined in that
chorus. They had forgotten how it would startle the sweet singer, and when
they saw Nellie standing in the doorway they were much abashed. They felt
like a group of schoolboys caught in some act of mischief, and they longed
to get away.
As Nellie looked upon them, a bright smile illumined her face. She
surmised the purpose of their visit, and it pleased her.
"Thank you for that chorus," she said, hardly knowing what else to say. "I
didn't know you were here."
"Pardon us, miss," Jake replied, stepping forward. "It wasn't fair of us
to be standin' here listenin'. But we couldn't help it. An' when ye sang
that old hymn it jist melted us down. We come to inquire about the boy.
Mebbe ye'd tell us how he's gettin' along."
"There's no change as yet, that we can see," Nellie replied. "But the
doctor says it must come soon one way or the other. Would you like to see
him? If you come in one at a time, I don't think it will do any harm."
Without a word Jake followed her into the room, and stood with his hat in
his hand looking down upon the bed.
"Poor little chap," he whispered. "Ain't it a pity?"
Hardly had he ceased speaking when Dan suddenly opened his eyes and looked
about him in a dazed manner.
"Where--where's my rose?" he cried.
Nellie was by his side in an instant.
"Here, Dan," and she lifted up the flower so he could see it. "Hush now,
don't speak."
Dan gave a sigh of relief. He looked wearily around, then his eyes slowly
closed, and he passed into a gentle sleep. A step was heard in the room,
and the doctor stood by the bed.
"When did the change take place?" he asked.
"Just now," Nellie replied in a low voice.
"It is well. The crisis is past. He must have perfect quietness. We'll
pull him through now, for sure."
Jake waited to hear no more. He stole from the house, and motioned to his
companions. Silently they moved away and strode back to the camp. They
were rough men outwardly, this score of river drivers, but a glimpse had
been seen beneath the surface. Their hearts had been stirred as never
before, and they were not ashamed.