"Your left hand knows what your right hand doeth--every time,--at least
it's so in St. Marys. You're too big to get under a bushel basket.
Every one saw that you were dabbling in real estate for years, and made
a good clean up, but you seemed so darned ashamed of it that no one
cared to discuss it with you. And all the time you were our prize
package disbeliever. What's the use? It's your own affair, but why
don't you make a lightning change like the man in the circus last week?
Your friends would welcome it. You're not the man we used to know."
"If it's my own affair," came back Manson with growing resentment, "why
not leave it at that? Did you never make any money out of a thing you
didn't believe in?"
"Yes," said Filmer slowly, "I have, but after that I believed in it,
and said so. It was only fair to the fellow behind it."
Manson went stolidly back to his square stone office, where he took out
his broker's statement for the previous month and stared at it
silently. Already he knew the figures by heart. Another two point
rise in Consolidated stock and he would realize his net profit of one
hundred thousand dollars. He ran over his own scribbled figures on the
back of the statement, as he had gone over them many times before.
They were quite right. For weeks past his selling order had been in,
been acknowledged, and now at any moment the thing might be done. It
might even have already been done. The blood rushed to his head at the
thought. How many other chief constables, he wondered, had amassed
fortunes from behind their forbidding gray stone walls? Then he
thought of his wife and children, and his eyes softened, while the
broker's statement in his big hand trembled ever so slightly. He
smiled at that, and it came to his mind that perhaps statements in
other men's hands sometimes trembled at the thought of their wives and
children and the fortunes that--and here Manson felt vaguely
uncomfortable and, getting up, slowly locked his desk.
Just at that moment, Filmer, who had returned to his office, was
sitting staring at a half-section of steel rail that lay in his hand.
It was smooth and highly polished, a thin slice of the very first
product of Clark's last and greatest undertaking. He experienced a
quite extraordinary sensation at feeling the thing, and it snatched his
mind back seven years till again in the Town Hall he heard a magnetic
voice assuring the citizens that the town lacked just three
essentials--experience, money and imagination, and that the speaker
would supply them all. It was a far cry from that evening to the deep
drone of the rail mill, and Filmer, detaching himself from the picture
in which he formed a part, began now to perceive its dramatic vitality.
Were Clark taken out the whole thing seemed to fall to pieces.
And up at the See House, the bishop was examining just such another
section of rail, while the gold of his episcopal ring shone beside the
gray of steel. To him it meant many things, but chiefly it was
prophetic of that which would soon put an end to the detachment and
loneliness of the scattered communities to which he ministered.
Holding the thing thus, his heart went out to Clark, and he yearned
with a great longing over the spirit of this man who so reveled in the
joy of creation. His eyes wandered to the Evangeline. She lay at
anchor just off shore. A thin film of smoke slid from her funnel, and
he could see the Indian pilot swabbing down her smooth teak decks.
Then, in sudden impulse, he smiled and, laying the rail section on top
of a half finished sermon, wrote a short note, and, calling his man
servant, instructed him to wait for an answer.
A little later the note reached Clark in his office, where he sat
motionless under the sway of a slight reaction. At the moment he did
not want to work. He was continuously conscious of ribbons of red hot
rails that streamed like fluted snakes from under the gigantic rolls,
and they seemed to be boring their way into his brain. He had shipped
thousands of tons to the railway company and there were thousands more
to go. In a week or so he would get a formal acceptance of his
product, and then-- He stretched himself a little wearily and pressed
his eyes till a red and compelling blur brought its transient solace.
And just then his secretary came in with the bishop's note.
Dear Mr. Clark:
I am off this afternoon for a five day cruise of visits amongst the
islands of Lake Huron. Won't you come with me? I know it would be
good for me and think it might give you what I'm sure is a much needed
rest. My Mercury, I mean the hired man, awaits your answer.
Yours faithfully,
JAMES, ALGOMA.
P. S. I never attempt to proselytize my guests.
For a moment he puzzled over the signature, and finally made out that
it was the bishop's Christian name followed by that of his diocese, for
this was the first letter he had received from the prelate. Then he
felt a sudden throb of impulse. He had a natural liking for the bishop
and this, with his insatiable appetite for new experiences, prompted an
acceptance. He touched the bell, and his secretary reappeared.
"I am going away for five days," he paused, adding with a smile--"on
missionary work. I haven't any idea where we are going and don't want
to be disturbed. I'll be back before we receive the results of the
United Railway Company's tests. That's all."
It was mid-afternoon when the Evangeline, gliding smoothly over the
polished surface of the bay, drew in towards the Consolidated dock, and
Clark, watching from the shadow of a mountain of bales of pulp
assembled for shipment, saw the Indian pilot amidship at the wheel and
the bishop, in a big, coarse, straw hat, standing in the slim bow, a
coil of rope in his hands and a broad smile on his big sunburnt face.
"Catch!" The bight of the rope whistled through the air and struck
smartly at his guest's feet.
The latter laughed, picked it up and made fast. It struck him suddenly
that it was curious the bishop should be throwing him a rope. Then he
reflected that it was the bishop and not himself who needed help.
The former was very gay, his kindly face alight with amusement and
anticipation. Presently came a throb from the engine room, and the
Evangeline sheered off down the river, past the new St. Marys where
staring red brick buildings shouldered up out of the old time houses,
past the See Mouse, while a flag fluttered jerkily down from the tall
mast at whose top it flew when the bishop was at home, past the
American side, where Clark's big power house stretched its gray length
at the edge of the river, and on till they came to the long point that
closes the upper reach, and just then both men turned and looked up
stream at the vanishing bulk of the huge structures beside the rapids,
and the flat line of tremulous foam that marked the rapids themselves.
The voice of them was, at this distance, mute.
The yacht glided on and still neither spoke, Clark was full of the
thought that, for the second time in seven years, he had deliberately
left his work. Four hours ago the thing would have seemed grotesque,
but glancing at the bishop's broad back, he realized that here was a
friendly interceptor to whom he had been wise to yield. The miles slid
smoothly by, and still neither talked. Each was busy with the
contented reflection that in the other he had found one who possessed
the gift of understanding silence.
The Evangeline rested that evening not far from where Clark had
anchored so recently. He sat motionless, breathing in the welcome
benison of the spot, till the Indian pilot put out port and starboard
lamps whose soft red and green shone steadily into the gathering dusk.
"Is there a mission here?" asked the visitor presently.
"No, but there's the best bass fishing in Lake Huron," grunted the
bishop placidly, already busy with rods and bait. "The mission is ten
miles on. Now we're going to catch our breakfast--there's an excellent
spot just opposite that big cedar."
Clark had not fished much, but he loved it, like most men of intellect,
and discovered that he had been steered straight into the best fishing
he had ever known. They were small mouthed bass, deep of belly and
high of back, and they fought in the brown water over the twitching
minnows that dangled from the Evangeline bow and stern.
"I'm glad you came." The bishop smoothed down the spines of a big
three pounder ere he gripped it.
"Best thing I ever did. Fishing is a clerical pursuit, isn't it?"
The bishop nodded without turning his head. "Yes, but it's not always
for money. We have to bait our hooks according to the season of men's
minds. By the way, some of my best friends are in your country."
"Yes?"
"Had a church in Chicago for ten years,--there at the time of the great
fire--it stopped a few blocks from my house. I had to marry a devoted
couple a day or two later and the wedding fee was a bunch of candles.
Glad to get them; whole city in darkness and it seemed suitable that
the parson's house should reflect light. You remind me of one of my
friends at that time."
"Why and how?" said Clark. He knew so little of himself as appearing
in other people's minds.
"This man was a big Chicago importer--look out, you've got another
bass--and he was in New York at the time of the fire--heard his
warehouses were threatened and bought trainloads of stuff and rushed it
through. It arrived while the other stuff was still smoking, and he
made much more than he-- My dear sir, that's the best fish of the
evening, let me look at him."
Clark laid the twitching body of a bass on the teak deck, while the big
man came aft, trailing his bait and slowly reeling up his line. As the
minnow glimmered in towards the yacht's black side, there came a heavy
plunge, the bishop's rod bent double, and the line sang off his reel.
He was a famous fisherman, and Clark watched him admiringly. To every
ounce of pliant bamboo on his six ounce rod there was, down in the
brown water, a pound of savagely fighting weight. Deeper went the big
fish and further, but ever the taut line yielded by fractions, and the
nearly doubled rod kept up a steady insidious strain. As the bass
dashed back, the bishop recovered his nearly spent line while his lips
pressed tight and the light of battle shone in his large eyes. For a
quarter of an hour the fight lasted, till the great fish floundered
once or twice with heavy weariness on the surface, and the angler
worked him toward the yacht. Then a bare brown arm shot a landing net
underneath his horny shoulder and, with a dexterous twist, the Indian
pilot landed him on the deck in a thumping tangle of line, leader and
net.
"And that," said the bishop with a deep sigh of content, "will do.
We've got supper and breakfast as well."
The night deepened, and in the little saloon host and guest sat down to
a supper of fried fish, blueberries and cream. The small, red curtains
were drawn, and over the tiny fireplace a binnacle lamp glowed softly.
Forward in the bows, the Scotch engineer and the Indian pilot sat
conversing in deliberate monosyllables, and in the east a horned moon
floated just clear of the ragged tops of encircling pine trees. Clark
ate slowly and felt the burden slipping from his shoulders. It was a
strange sensation. Across the narrow table towered the bishop, the
genius of the place. He was still reminiscent of American experiences
and talked as talks a man who is comfortably sure of himself and his
companion.
"I don't believe I have any very close personal friends," said Clark
presently. "I've moved about too quickly to make them. One meets
people in the way of work, and so far as my own employees are
concerned, I see them chiefly through their work. I can't let the
personal element intrude."
The bishop smiled, remembering something similar he had said himself.
"Well, I must say I'm particularly drawn to Americans. Perhaps it's
because they suit the Irish, but I seem to find in them a certain
intellectual generosity one recognizes at once and appreciates. There
aren't so many fences to climb over. And, besides, they appear to
understand my cloth."
"Yes?" Clark looked up, keenly interested. He had not thought much
about the clerical profession.
"It's quite true. They realize that a parson is a man of like
predilections and impulses and weaknesses with themselves, and that a
cassock does not stifle the natural and healthy ambitions of the male
mammal. Nothing is more trying for the cleric than to be put aside as
though he were some emasculated ascetic who was unattracted by merely
natural things."
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Very few people have, except the cleric; and he thinks of it a good
deal. There is even the tendency to believe that the parson, because
he is a spiritually minded man, is incapable of horse sense in
practical and public affairs. By the way, don't you smoke?"